The Heather-Moon
She went through this little ceremony in a charming way, yet as if she
expected the young men to be delighted; and I too thought they would
burst into exclamations of joy at meeting celebrities. But not a word
did any of the four say about the books, or their great luck in meeting
the authors. Perhaps they were too shy, though they didn't seem shy in
other ways. They just mumbled in a kind of chorus. "Very pleased to know
you both" (which Mr. Norman told me afterward is an American formula, on
being introduced); and when they'd bowed to the brother and sister and
Mrs. James (though she hadn't been mentioned) all four grouped round me.
This was natural, I suppose, because we were more or less of an age.
"Is this your daughter, Mrs. West?" asked Jack Morrison. "And may we
children talk to her?"
For a minute that pretty, sweet-faced woman looked exactly like a cat.
She did, really. It almost gave me a shock! I thought, "She must have
_been_ a cat in another state of existence, and hasn't quite got over
it." Not that cats aren't nice in their way; but when ladies in
fascinating frocks, with hair beautifully dressed, suddenly develop a
striking family likeness to Persian pussies robbed of milk, it does have
a quaint effect on the nerves.
"Miss MacDonald is _not_ my daughter," said Mrs. West, laughing wildly.
"I'm not _quite_ old enough yet to have a daughter of her age, and she's
not such a child as she looks. But _do_ talk to her, by all means. I'm
sure she'll be very pleased."
"Then your name _is_ MacDonald?" Jack Morrison exclaimed. "We were
saying at dinner how much you look like Mrs. Bal MacDonald, the
beautiful actress. Is she any relation?"
"Yes, she is," I answered. And I would have gone on to tell him and his
friends that she was my mother, but I saw Sir S. and Mrs. West and Basil
looking as if they wanted to get away, so I dared not go into
particulars.
"Do tell us about it," said all the American boys together, when I
paused to take breath and think. I should have loved to stop and talk
about mother, but magnetic thrills of disapproval from my guardians
crackled through me. "If you're in Edinburgh next week maybe you'll find
out," I said consolingly. "But now I must go."
I bowed nicely, and they bowed still more nicely, trying to look
wistful, as if they didn't want me to hurry away.
We went to a private sitting-room Sir S. had taken, so I suppose he had
invited Basil and Mrs. West; and I thought they would speak of the
American boys, but nobody even referred to their existence. This made me
feel somehow as if I were being snubbed. I don't know why, for nobody
was unkind.
Afterward, when Mrs. James and I went to our adjoining bedrooms, I asked
her if I had done anything I ought not to have done.
"No, my dear child," said she, smoothing my hair, which I'd begun to
unplait. "Nothing except----" and she hesitated.
"Except what? Tell me the worst."
"There isn't any worst. You did nothing that Mrs. West and I wouldn't
like to do, if we could. I won't go into particulars, if you don't mind,
because it wouldn't be good for you if I did, and might make you
self-conscious--a great misfortune that would spoil what some of us like
best in you. But you needn't worry."
"Mrs. West looked as if she longed to scratch my eyes out. She needn't
have been so _very_ vexed at my being taken for her daughter. I'm not a
scarecrow, or a village idiot."
Mrs. James laughed, a well-trained little laugh she has, which seems
taught to go on so far and no farther--like the tune I once heard a
bullfinch sing in a shop.
"My dear, you're too young and unworldly to understand these things,"
she said. "A pretty woman, a celebrity like Mrs. West, isn't pleased
when she expects all the attention of young gentlemen for herself, to
find that she goes for nothing, and all they want is to talk to some one
else. And then, at her age, to be taken for a grown-up girl's mother! I
couldn't help being sorry for her myself. I know what it is to want to
keep young."
"But you're thinking of Doctor James," said I. "And she's a _widow_.
Besides, she's always calling me a child, and telling me to play dolls."
"Well, that isn't to say that she wants all the men there are to play
dolls with you," chuckled Mrs. James.
"These were boys, compared to her. She must be _thirty_."
"Maybe she's more, if the truth were known. But why should it be known?
Even when we're thirty and--er--a little over--we like to be admired by
boys as well as others. It makes us feel we haven't got _beyond_ things.
Still, she needn't grudge you those lads. She's got the great Somerled."
"Yes, I suppose she has," I admitted grudgingly.
I went to bed feeling as if elephants had walked over me for years.
* * * * *
Next morning Sir S. seemed to take it for granted that Basil would look
after Mrs. James and me. He certainly put on rather a "kind uncle" air
with me, but the more he did so, the less and less I felt as if he were
my uncle, and the more and more I wanted to have him for my knight--mine
all alone, without so much as a link of his chain armour for any one
else.
It is strange, as I've thought often before already, how one can get to
feel in such a way about a person one has known only a few days. But you
see, _I've known Sir S. in a motor-car_. I do believe that makes a
difference. Motor-cars vibrate, and you vibrate in them faster than you
do when not in motor-cars; so your feelings travel much faster than they
would in any other way. _That_ must be the scientific explanation of
what I feel for Sir S.
Here we were in Ayr, whither we'd come to think about Burns and nobody
else (unless, perhaps, Wallace) and this was to be the beginning of a
special little tour, following all along the line of Burns's pathway in
life, from his birth in the town of Ayr, to his death in the town of
Dumfries. We'd hurried through Dumfries almost with our eyes shut, on
purpose not to see where he died, before he was born, so to speak; and I
had thought all this inspiration on the part of Sir S. I fancied that he
had planned it partly for my sake, because of my being just out of the
glass retort. But now he abandoned me to another; and seeing him
entirely absorbed in Mrs. West kept me from dwelling on Burns as much as
I ought. If you are to concentrate your mind on historical characters or
poets, you must clear your brain out to make room for them, whereas mine
was stuffed full of fancies about myself and other people, none of whom
are historical at all yet--except, perhaps, the great Somerled.
Neither could Basil think exclusively of Burns, as we walked together
through the pleasant town of Ayr, after our early breakfast. He was
absent-minded once or twice, and when I said, "A penny for your
thoughts!" he answered that they were of the book he would like to write
but couldn't.
"The men I want to write about are boiling with primitive passions,"
said he, laughing, "and that won't do for a 'motor-novel.' Not that
people who travel in motor-cars aren't mostly boiling with primitive
passions for one cause or another, every minute. But the critics won't
have it. According to them, characters can experience grand emotions
only when they are keeping still, not when they're being hurled about
the country. The proper place for primitive emotions is in small fishing
villages, or, better still, on Devonshire moors, or, best of all, in the
illimitable desert. So you see the men I have in my mind wouldn't go
down with the critics, because unfortunately they happen to be in a
motor-car."
Talking of men in motor-cars, at that moment an enormous red car, going
very fast, changed its mind suddenly, stopped short in twice its own
length, and out jumped four men. They were the Americans of last night,
and by this time I had mixed up their names (except Jack Morrison's,
because he was so good-looking, with square blue eyes), but they
labelled themselves over again very neatly for me. The freckled one was
Dick Farquhar; the one with a moustache like the shadow of a coming
event, Charlie Grant; the one with the scar on his forehead, Sam
Menzies; but they had funny nicknames for each other. Afterward Basil
said they made him feel as if his name ought to be Methuselah.
The boys had been going to Burns's birthplace in their motor-car, but
they asked if they might walk round the town with us, and take to their
auto later. I looked appealingly at Basil, for they were such fun, so he
said, "Yes, of course"; and they were very polite, and called him "sir,"
as they had Mr. Somerled the night before. But each time they used the
word, Basil looked as if he were swallowing bad medicine, and yet as
though he were inclined to laugh. Presently, however, he went ahead with
Mrs. James, following his sister and Sir S., and left me to the four
boys. We laughed at everything. I'm afraid it wasn't at all the spirit
to go hero-worshipping; and none of them knew anything about "The Twa
Brigs" of Burns's poem. I should have liked to call Basil and ask him,
but they said they should feel it would be money in their pockets never
to have been born if I "shunted" them like that, so we laughed a great
deal more and went on wallowing in ignorance. They seemed to take it for
granted that I would rather be with them than with the others, and they
paid me all sorts of funny compliments. They vowed that they had
resolved to change their whole trip because of me, and wherever I was
going they would go too; so, just for fun, I would tell them nothing
except that it was to be Edinburgh on Monday. Cross-question as they
might, I would say no more than that they must find out my hotel, and
how I was related to "Mrs. Bal" (as they all called her) for themselves,
if they were to find out at all.
They knew little more about Wallace than Burns. When we stopped in front
of the monument in the High Street, coming back from the Auld Brig, Jack
Morrison began grandly with "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," but he
could get no farther, and stopped to ask helplessly, "Where _did_ he
bleed, anyhow? Was it here, and if not, why did they put up the
monument?"
Even I knew that Wallace was born in Ayr; and when I impudently inquired
what they came to Europe to see, if they cared more about football than
history, they all answered that they came to see pretty girls. "And, by
Jove, we're doing it!" added Charlie Grant.
"Can't you find pretty girls at home?" I sneered.
"We have found 'em. We're looking for new types now," said Jack. "So's
the great Somerled, isn't he? He told my Cousin Marguerite that he was
going a long journey in search of a model with the right shade of hair,
which was hard on her, poor girl, as she's spent a pot o' money on hers.
But Somerled's a sardonic sort of chap, don't you think? They say his
money's spoilt him. He hardly ever paints nowadays. Too busy grubbing
for millions. I've heard that you have to go on your knees to get him to
do a portrait--and if he graciously consents, you can't tell but he'll
bring out all that's most evil in your soul on to your face, like a
rash. You never know what'll happen with him--except his fee. Nothing
less than ten thousand dollars, if you get off cheap."
"I don't think he's that kind of a man at _all_," said I, "Why, just to
prove to you that he isn't, he's offered to paint me for nothing!"
They all roared at this, and wouldn't explain why. I didn't like them
much, for five minutes; but after that I couldn't help forgiving them
again.
We took the Gray Dragon for Alloway and for Burns's birthplace, but the
boys jumped into their car and kept close behind us. Hardly had we got
into the tiny thatched house--once a mere "clay biggin"--where Burns was