The Heather-Moon
things and creatures of all descriptions in front of the motor's big
bright nose at that particular moment. I'd never realized until then
what a crowded, busy place Carlisle is; because it seems that you have a
different set of emotions and impressions especially for use in
motor-cars, and you _have_ to use them there, whether you like or not. I
suppose they lay quiescent in people for thousands of years, between the
epoch of exciting prehistoric beasts and automobiles; but now they come
into play often enough to make up for lost time. Not that I was afraid
in the car, even at first: only it did seem as if all the things that
moved on the face of the earth were aiming directly at us, to say
nothing of what we ourselves were doing to them. Luckily for me, I
trusted Mr. Somerled; and perhaps Mrs. James hadn't quite arrived at
that blissful state, or else she was naturally more timid, for she held
on so fast to the arm of the seat that she tore a glove, and had a
strained expression about her eyes and nostrils, though she beamed in a
painstaking way whenever she caught me looking at her.
"Who is that pretty blond lady and the handsome dark young man you just
bowed to?" she asked, when we had passed the gray car that was like a
bad copy of ours.
I told her that the man was Mr. Basil Norman and the lady was Mrs. West,
who had quarrelled with Mr. Somerled yesterday for some reason he
wouldn't explain, but probably because she couldn't be bothered with me.
"Poor thing, she looked ready to cry!" sighed Mrs. James. "By this time,
I dare say, she's sorry for what she did, and praying for a chance to
make up."
It would be Christian to pray for it too; but if making up means having
her in this car, I should have to pound the prayer into my heart like a
nail.
There was no luggage in the other car, so I guessed that they were
trying it, to see whether they might like to hire it for their trip.
And, in spite of Mr. Norman being so kind and different from his sister,
I couldn't help hoping that they might begin with another part of
Scotland from ours.
I kept on thinking of them as we wound through the traffic, though dear
Mrs. James continued to talk in an approving way, suited to my
intelligence, about Carlisle, and what a wonderful place it was, and how
proud we ought to be of it. How wide and well-built the new streets
were, and how interesting the old ones! How good for the complexion were
the winds that blew from the great moorland spaces beyond the town! I
hadn't thought much about all that myself, but certainly Carlisle is
romantic as a city, because in history you see how it has always been a
solid bulwark of the English, against which tides of invasion dashed
themselves in vain--a sort of watch-tower, whence England gazed out
across the border where danger lay in wait. I can't help turning my mind
to the romantic side of things, though it may be silly; but, after all,
it's just as real as the other side. Both are _there_, and you can
choose which you like to have for your own, as I said to Mr. Somerled.
By and by we came to the Cathedral. I had to confess that I'd never been
in, but I didn't mention Grandma's prejudice against cathedrals. I'd
never pined to see the inside as I should if the outside were tall and
graceful and gray, instead of dumpy and red--an ochre-red colour which
is interesting only when the sun shines on it, or when wet and sparkling
with rain, in the midst of its lovely old trees. I almost gasped with
joy and surprise, however, when we entered, for the interior is
wonderful. It is as if the builders had had in mind an allegory about a
plain body and a glorious soul.
Who would have thought that Mr. Somerled would remember so much history
of this northern country, after living, since he grew up, in America,
and making fame and fortune there? Mrs. James thinks that he even talks
like an American. She is a good judge, because more than half the
customers of her curiosity shop are Americans, and they chat with her
about all sorts of things. She reads her husband's history books, in
order to give him an agreeable surprise when he comes back, and the
knowledge she picks up is money in her pocket, because she can pour out
floods of information upon inquiring tourists. When she's kindly told
them all about the Romans in general and the Augustan Legion in
particular, and the Museum, and William Rufus's Castle; about the
Cathedral having been robbed of most of its nave to rebuild the city
walls in 1644, and Sir Walter Scott being married to his pretty French
bride there (or rather in St. Mary's Church, which was tacked on to it
in those days), and so on, Americans, and even canny Scots, can't sneak
out of her shop without buying something.
I loved the immense simplicity of that Norman nave, with its huge
crumpled arches crushed into curving waves by the long-ago collapse of
the foundations and the strain of centuries on the masonry. It was a
startling contrast to go from the Norman part into the choir, all a mass
of carving and decoration, with its vast east window of jewel-like
thirteenth-century glass, which Mr. Somerled pronounced finer even than
the windows of York and Gloucester cathedrals.
It seems that, although he hasn't been in Scotland since he left
seventeen years ago (vowing never to return until something or other
happened), he has been in England several times meanwhile, and travelled
all over Europe. He pretended that he wasn't at all excited about
crossing the border after these many years' exile, but when I cried out
that I couldn't believe him so commonplace and dull, he opened his eyes
wide, as surprised as if I'd boxed his ears. Mrs. James whispered that I
had been rude; and when I stopped to think, I realized how unlike Mrs.
West I had been. She is so gracious and complimentary to Mr. Somerled,
never saying anything she thinks he might dislike. But he heard Mrs.
James's whisper and said, "You must let her alone, please, my Lady
Chaperon, because I have a sort of idea she is going to dig me up by the
roots, and hang me up to air, and altogether do me a lot of good in the
end."
They both knew much more about the Cathedral than I did, but even I knew
something, because there was a book of father's which I had read. So,
when they'd explained that the beautiful pink columns and the painted
oak screens looked new because Cromwell's men whitewashed everything
when they stabled horses in the Cathedral, and the white wasn't scraped
off till comparatively lately, long after the Cathedral was a prison in
1745, I told them something they hadn't learned, or had forgotten. I was
proud to have a story about Bruce coming to Carlisle to take his oath of
allegiance, before the great repentance, and hating the Cathedral ever
afterward.
Even the Castle doesn't look as splendid from outside as it really is.
It's like an enormous box, a good deal battered and patched, containing
a kingdom's treasures. But of course I didn't know about the treasures
until I had been in.
I had set my heart on seeing the place, because, as I said to Mr.
Somerled, I may never come back to Carlisle once I begin to live with
mother and go about with her. It was a blow to be told at the entrance
gate where the public enters (and where there ought to be a moat, but
isn't) that the Castle was closed for repairs. Even a grown-up man like
Mr. Somerled, who has seen everything, looked disappointed; but I
suppose he couldn't fight his way in against the power of England; and
we should have turned ignominiously away if it hadn't been for Mrs.
James. "You are surely not aware," said she in the aristocratic,
long-worded way she has when she thinks of living up to the doctor (and
when she isn't in earshot of Grandma) "of the distinguished identity of
this gentleman. This"--with a wave of her tiny hand--"is the great
portrait painter, Somerled. I will not introduce him as 'Mr.,' for he is
as far above that designation as Shakespeare."
The poor wretch who had refused us was flabbergasted. "Excuse me a
minute, mum!" he muttered, and darted off to return with a young officer
before "the Great Somerled" had time to remonstrate. But, instead of
devoting undivided attention to the celebrity who must be appeased, the
officer looked at me, and we recognized each other. His face changed,
and I know mine did, because my cheeks felt as if some one had pinched
them. No wonder, because this had been my ideal for almost a year,
before I saw the photographs in shop windows of Robert Loraine, and I
had dreamed several times that I was engaged to him, with a gorgeous
diamond ring, and afterward that I was his widow in one of those sweet
Marie Stuart caps. It almost seemed as if he might see the cap in my
eyes, so I hurried to look down, and appear as calm as if I had never
met him in the street when out walking with Heppie. Once I dropped my
handkerchief, like ladies in books (only I did it on purpose, which they
never do if heroines, not villainesses), and he ran after us and picked
it up. That was, of course, the only time he ever spoke; but, though I
have cared not only for Robert Loraine but Henry Ainley since, I should
have known his voice anywhere. It was disappointing not to thrill; but
to be honest, I must admit that the voice sounded meaningless now,
compared with that of the Knight. Nevertheless, he was saying kind
things, offering to be our guide over the Castle and show us curiosities
that the "ordinary public" is not allowed to see.
Just as Mr. Somerled was thanking the officer (I soon found out that he
was a lieutenant, named Donald Douglas) I heard other voices behind me.
"Good gracious!" I had just time to think, "it's Mrs. West and Mr.
Norman," when they came round a screen of masonry, and were upon us. As
soon as they saw who we were they stopped, Mrs. West pale, with the same
martyred expression, which grew sweeter and sadder every instant. Mr.
Norman shook hands with us in a cordial but embarrassed way, and the man
who had refused to let us enter at first would have headed the newcomers
off, but Mr. Douglas stopped him.
"The Castle isn't open for visitors to-day," he said, "but I am making
an exception of Mr. Somerled's party, and as you are friends of his I
shall be delighted to include you."
"You're very kind indeed; but----" Mr. Norman had to begin answering
because his sister didn't speak, and only looked, looked, looked at "her
friend Mr. Somerled." Her brother awaited a cue until the pause grew
embarrassing, and then the Knight sprang to the rescue of another lady
in distress.
"We shall be delighted too, Mrs. West," he said.
That was probably what she wanted, for she beamed on the Soldier Man
(_my_ Soldier Man), and accepted his kindness. Mr. Douglas then put
himself by my side; and Mrs. West annexed Mr. Somerled, or he annexed
her. This left Mrs. James for Mr. Norman, and they hadn't been
introduced: but they began chatting at once.
Mr. Douglas seemed quite interested when I told him he was the first
soldier I'd ever known outside a book. He asked me if I thought I should
like soldiers, and I said yes.
Into the heart of the fortress he led us: into the keep, square,
ponderous, forbidding, cool even on a hot August day, and the best part
left now of the proud old fortress.
Mrs. West had a notebook, a little purple and gold one, like a
doubled-over pansy. As Mr. Douglas (laughing at himself because he was
not experienced as a guide) rattled off all the information he could
remember about Roman foundations--a sack by the Danes; William the
Conqueror, and William Rufus, and a British fort older than the time of
the Romans--she would scribble bits down hastily. But Mr. Norman took no
notes, and when he saw her writing, he looked sad, almost guilty.