The Heather-Moon
"if the Queen had listened to Maxwell she might have lived in safety to
be an old woman!"
"True, she might have kept her head," Sir S. agreed, comfortably cutting
himself a piece of plum cake; "but if she'd taken Maxwell's advice,
instead of sailing from Port Mary, never to see Scotland again, wouldn't
the whole civilized world miss its best-loved heroine of romance? No
other woman since history began has so captured the hearts of men, and
made herself so adored through the centuries, in spite of all her
faults, or because of them. Mary Stuart and Napoleon Bonaparte are the
two figures in history of whom no one ever tires of talking or reading."
"Still, we must be sad at Dundrennan, where her last night in Scotland
was spent," Mrs. James mildly persisted, having eaten her puff while Sir
S. argued. "I wonder if Michael Scott the magician, who lived here (he
comes into the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," you know), had prophetic
visions of Queen Mary and her fate? I should think so, for he had the
secret of all sorts of spells. The people of the neighbourhood believed
that he'd locked up the plague in an underground room of the Abbey, and
for years they dared not excavate for fear the demon should leap out and
ravage the country. They used to think they could hear a rustling----"
At that instant we heard one ourselves; a distinct rustling fell upon
our ears, and made us turn round with a start. The plague we feared was
tourists; but if it had been Michael Scott's demon, with a scarlet body
and a green head, I should have liked it better than Mrs. West's pale
purple coat and motoring bonnet. I don't know how Sir S. felt about the
surprise, but that was _my_ feeling, though I was glad to see her
brother. I find him the nicest thing about Mrs. West.
"Who would have thought of running against you?" she exclaimed, as Sir
S. jumped up from the table and shook hands as cordially as if there had
never been that mysterious row. "We've come from Port Mary, where Basil
sentimentalized over the stone Queen Mary stood on to get into her ship.
We haven't the patience to make our notes before luncheon! We're _so_
hungry, and there's such a lot to write about King David--_do_ you think
he built the Abbey, or was it Fergus, Lord of Galloway?--and all this
architecture which interests Basil even when he's starving! We've
brought our own sandwiches--we won't bother you----"
Of course Sir S. and Mrs. James both protested that having them was a
pleasure, not a bother. As for me, I remembered that little girls should
be seen and not heard, so I said nothing, and ate the nicest cake for
fear Mrs. West might get it. Sir S. gave his place at the table and his
folding-chair to Mrs. West, and finished his luncheon, standing up, with
Mr. Norman. After all, Mrs. West didn't seem to be hungry. She ate
scarcely anything, and when Sir S. asked her to have some ice-cold white
wine from the refrigerator basket, she said with a soft, sad smile, "'I
drink to thee only with mine eyes.'" Then, suddenly, hers filled with
tears, so they were liquid enough for a good long drink! She looked down
again quickly, with a blush which gave her complexion a peach-like
bloom; and Sir S. made haste to question Mr. Norman about the hired car.
But I could see that he was embarrassed and distressed, and wondered
more than ever what their quarrel was about. Sir S. wouldn't listen to
me the first day, when I said it was my fault, and I oughtn't to go in
his car. I'd almost forgotten that, it seemed so long ago; but I
remembered when I saw the tears in her eyes, and heard the strained
sound in his voice. Even Mr. Norman didn't look happy. Mrs. James was
the only one not affected. She ate her luncheon with a good appetite,
which the sorrows of neither Mrs. West nor Queen Mary could take away
from her.
When we had finished, Mrs. West asked Sir S. in a gentle hesitating way
if he would mind explaining to her the beautiful Gothic doorway at the
south side of the church. It was such a chance to find a great authority
on architecture, like him, upon the very spot, for she and Basil were so
ignorant, they always feared to make mistakes in their notes. Sir S.
went like a lamb led by a chain of roses, but apparently Mr. Norman
didn't feel the same need of expert advice. He stopped with Mrs. James
and me, and helped us clear the table. When we'd packed everything up,
he offered to take the basket to the car; and, as the others hadn't come
back, I went with him, carrying the folding-chairs, which were not much
heavier than three feathers.
"Have you remembered my advice?" he inquired. "Have you begun to write?"
"Yes, a little," I said. "What about your book?"
He shrugged his shoulders, looking melancholy.
"Won't the plot come right?" I asked.
"No. Nothing comes right."
"What a pity!"
"Yes, it's a pity. But I can't help it."
"Can't Mrs. West help?"
"She's not in the mood. Not that it's all her fault. Probably it's just
as much mine. We're getting on each other's nerves--and that's new to
us. There won't be a book. There can't be a book as things are."
"Yet you're going on with your trip?"
"Oh, yes, we're going on with our trip. Aline wouldn't give that up."
"If it hadn't been for me," I said, "it would have been all right for
you both. I feel a _beast_! I've spoiled everything."
"You're a witch, and you've bewitched us. Yes! That's what you have
done."
"Thanks for your polite way of putting it," said I. "'Witch' is a nicer
epithet than 'beast.' I wish--I almost wish--I'd never seen any of you!"
"I don't," said he. "And I don't believe Somerled does. To go back to
the time when we didn't know that the witch-child existed would be going
back from electricity to candles."
"You have a pretty way of poking fun at me," I laughed. "But I suppose
you mean I've given you all a shock. Well, you'll soon be rid of me.
Three days more, and the end! But I do wish I knew how to mend matters
and make you and your sister happy again, at once."
"I could tell you how," he said quickly.
"Do, then! You've just time, if you hurry up before the others come."
He looked round, and there were Mrs. James and Mrs. West walking toward
us with Sir S. They were very near.
He hesitated, and his face grew red. "Will you promise not to be angry?"
he almost whispered.
"I promise! Tell me."
"If you want to make everything come right for everybody in a minute,
you must turn your attention entirely to me."
"What good would that do?" I asked stupidly.
"It would do me all the good in the world, because, as I told you,
you've bewitched me. It would do my sister good because--well, because
she's particularly anxious for you to like me. And it would do Somerled
good because--it might teach him his own mind--bring him to his senses."
"I don't understand one word you're talking about!" I broke out.
"It doesn't so much matter what you understand as what you do. Dear
little Miss MacDonald, will you try and be very, very kind to me,
for--everybody's sake?"
"Of course," said I. "But you must call me Barrie."
"Thank you! That's one step. Will you call me Basil?"
"If you like," I answered. "Basil and Barrie! Don't they sound nice
together?"
Just then the others came up and heard what I said, which made me feel
foolish, as they'd missed the first part. But Mrs. West beamed at me. I
had been thinking that Basil Norman was the sort of man I should love to
have for a brother, but Mrs. West as a sister I could _not_ stand!
"Basil and Barrie _look_ nice together too, don't they, Mr. Somerled?"
she remarked.
"Very," said he dryly. And the next thing I knew was that she was
sitting beside him on the front seat, and I was tucked in beside Mrs.
James, with Basil Norman opposite. Their motor, it seemed, was not
behaving well, and Aline was nervous, so Sir S. had suggested, as we
were all going on to Ayr, that they should come with us for the rest of
the day.
I felt rather dazed about everything, and I'm afraid made a hash of the
scenery in my mind, until I had calmed down. I remember that we swept
through Kirkcudbright, which was named for St. Cuthbert because his
bones were once in the church. They were taking them on somewhere else,
but I don't know why. Basil told us all about it; but it sounded so odd
to hear him talking instructively of saints and Covenanters and martyrs,
and "the torch of religion being first lighted in Galloway," after he
had been begging me in a very different voice to "be nice to him," that
it muddled up my intelligence. I liked the town because it was pretty,
with graceful spires and lovely, ivied ruins; but I didn't care much
about the saints, or even about the last Lord Selkirk, for whom they put
up a Celtic cross in the Kirkcudbright market place; and I couldn't be
bothered pronouncing Kirkcudbright correctly. Of course it's done in the
last way you think it possibly could be, like all other Scottish names!
I brightened up a little at the story of Paul Jones at St. Mary's Isle,
because pirates are always nice, and he was classic. Besides, it was
amusing of him to fail to kidnap Lord Selkirk and steal a silver teapot
instead. To please Benjamin Franklin he gave the teapot back, so he
didn't get much out of that adventure!
I remember too that there were hills on the way to Gatehouse of Fleet,
hills which turned their backs and reared on their hind legs as we saw
them in the distance; but always they knelt meekly in front of the Gray
Dragon, as if he beat them to their knees. They were not so
accommodating to the hired car which followed. Something was the matter
with its internal economy. It grunted and groaned and emitted
evil-smelling fumes because it couldn't digest its petrol. Basil named
the creature Old Blunderbore, but said he would not dare to call it so
before its chauffeur-owner, who glared behind his goggles when it was
blamed for anything.
Gatehouse of Fleet looked, according to Basil, like places in Holland,
because sailing ships were apparently moving through fields, and masts
mixing themselves up with tree branches. Suddenly we had plunged into
Scott country, sandwiched in with Crockett, for Gatehouse is the
"Kippletingan" of "Guy Mannering." There was a sweet, sad smell of the
sea; and I heard Mrs. West ask Sir S. if it didn't remind him of "that
last night on the ship, when we told each other things?"
About this time, I think it must have been, we began to see so many old
castles dotted about the landscape that at last we almost ceased to
notice them. It must have been nice living in one of those box-like
fortress castles in old days, when all your friends had them too; so
jolly and self-contained. And, as a matter of course, when you built one
you had a few dungeons put in, just as one has plenty of bathrooms now
in a big house. If you were of a dramatic turn of mind, you placed your
dungeons mostly under your dining-hall, so you could hear the starving
prisoners groan while you feasted comfortably. We passed several dear
little towns, too, which I should like to have for toys, to keep in
boxes when not playing with them. On most of the houses were charming
chimney-pots of different colours, exactly like immense chessmen, set
out ready for a game. All the men in these towns looked almost ill with
intelligence. Most of the girls were very pretty, with little coquettish
features contradicted by saintly expressions, and even the dogs appeared
well educated and intellectual.
At Newton-Stewart a change came over the houses, but not the people or
animals. I felt that the smallest child would know more about books than
I did; and there was hardly a nondescript face to be seen. All could be
classified in historic Scottish types. But the whitewashed, thatched