The Heather-Moon
Basil seemed very happy, and kind, and _understanding_, somehow, as if
he saw that something was not quite right with me, and he wanted to
console me as well as he could.
Sir S. had managed very clearly about not letting us stop to look at the
town of Burns's death until we'd seen the place of his birth and traced
out the path of his life-story; but he couldn't contrive the same kind
of trip for Sir Walter Scott's country without going over the whole road
twice. Besides, he wanted us to see Melrose by moonlight, and said it
would be "incomparably better than Sweetheart Abbey." But I knew it
wouldn't be better for me, and I didn't quite forgive him for thinking
it possible, now that we had got so mixed up with irrelevant people.
We had to go to Jedburgh first, the place farthest south; then to
Dryburgh; then flashing through Melrose to Abbotsford, where Scott died
as well as lived; and then back to Melrose for the night. That was his
plan; and I still supposed that we were to go on somewhere else next
day--Sunday--not arriving in Edinburgh till Monday. But it seems that
Sir S. had made up his mind to a different programme, though he said
nothing about it then.
Things happened to the boys' car on the way to Jedburgh, though the road
was good, and only undulating. Basil said that, as a matter of fact, he
had "ill-wished" them and their auto, and as "thoughts are things," he
had created the nail on which their tire came to grief. "Somerled and I
want to be the only ones," he added mysteriously. "We'll have no
interlopers." Which would have made me think him rather a frivolous
person, after all, if he hadn't been so well up in the lore of the road,
and known so many interesting things about Jedburgh, the county town of
Roxburghshire.
"If we curse a mere nail on a white velvet road-surface nowadays," said
he, "think what the roads must have been like when Jedburgh had a royal
castle, and kings and queens were travelling about from one of their
houses to another! Think what Queen Mary must have had to endure, even
bringing things down to modern times, comparatively. She stayed in
Jedburgh town, in an old house in Queen Street--came for assizes, I
think. Then, while she was there, bored to death, she heard that
Bothwell was 'sick of a wound' at Hermitage Castle, over twenty miles
distant. In an hour she was on her palfrey and off to see him, falling
into a morass on the way. But she got back again that night, rather than
her good subjects should say she neglected their affairs. She fell ill
with fever after her exertions. What wouldn't she have given for a
motor-car? But how she would have been bumped and bruised if she'd had
one, though the roads were grand then compared to the state they'd
fallen into after the Romans marched out of Scotland. Imagine the early
kings and queens with their processions passing where we pass now; and
armies returning from battle with their prisoners; and bands of pilgrims
going to some sacred shrine; and robber hordes moving at night; and
wild-beast shows on the way from one fair to another. Can't you see the
panorama?"
I could, easily, picture after picture. But when you come to think of
it, he'd mentioned nothing as curious as motors, which we take quietly
for granted, just as our forefathers took the wild beasts and the
robbers.
We had a glimpse of Burns's "Eden scenes on crystal Jed," though only
enough to be aggravating, for Basil said there were prehistoric caves,
and scenery enough to make a journey to Scotland worth while, if one
came for nothing else. But people in motor-cars never seem to turn aside
for anything. They go toward their destination like creatures possessed.
So, although Jedburgh is supposed to be the most historic town of the
Lowlands, we hardly looked at it in our haste to see the Abbey, and to
rush on to other Abbeys--a dayful of Abbeys! Not that Jedburgh put
itself out to attract us. It had rather a grim air as a town, as if it
hadn't quite forgotten the fierce slogan of the Jedburgh men, who
shouted "Jethart's here!" as they wielded the terrible Jethart axes
invented by themselves. And one isn't allowed to go inside Queen Mary's
house to see the tapestry her ladies worked.
I wished to think no abbey so beautiful as Sweetheart Abbey, which was
my first, and seen on the first night of the heather moon; but I had to
tell myself that Jedburgh was lovelier, in its garden on the river-bank.
Dreaming of its own reflection, its hollow, window-eyes could see, deep
down under a glass, all its own history and legends preserved forever as
in a crystal casket; the story of saintly King David who built it, and
of the French friars who left their own Abbey at Beauvais to people it;
better still, of the wedding with the spectre guest--the marriage of
little French Jolette to Alexander, the last of the Celtic kings.
Perhaps, too, the window-eyes peering into the crystal could see the
figure of Sir Walter Scott, seeking and finding inspiration in the
Abbey's old tales.
Basil, who told me the stories, read in a book that "Jedburgh is
completer than Kelso or Dryburgh, and simpler and more harmonious than
Melrose," so when the four boys appeared at last in Dryburgh Abbey,
having calmly missed out Jedburgh and Kelso to save time, I used the
criticism as if it were original, with great effect; for by that time
_we_ had made a side dash to see lovely Kelso, where Sir Walter went to
the Grammar School, and met Ballantyne, who long afterward published his
novels and brought about his bankruptcy. I heard also, read out from the
same book, that the stone of Dryburgh was taken from the quarry that
built Melrose, and that the name Dryburgh meant "Druid." Even the boys,
I think, could hardly help feeling the mysterious, haunting charm of the
place, which was as strange and secret as if the dark yew trees and
Lebanon cedars guarding the ruins were enchanted Druid priests. There
was a Druid urn, too, which looked as if it knew all the secrets of the
ages, and had held sacrificial blood.
I could imagine Sir Walter Scott coming to Dryburgh again and again, and
loving the hidden spot so well that he wanted to sleep his last sleep
there. Such a peaceful sleep it must be with the Tweed singing out of
sight, and yews old as legend to play lullabies upon their own
harp-strings when the wind touches their dark, rustling sleeves.
The song of the Tweed at Abbotsford was the song of Inspiration,
changing to the song of Fulfilment in the master's passing hour. Now, at
Dryburgh, the river veils itself like a mourner, and its song is the
Sleep Music which has in it the secret of death and of life beyond. I
stood for a minute alone in front of the tomb where Sir Walter's body
lies with those he loved best, in the place he loved best, and
transparent green shadows like the spirits of shadow hid me from the
sunlight. While I shut my eyes, I could understand the message of the
song. And I knew that if my knight had been with me it would have come
to him in the same way, because we are both of the land where the old,
old secrets of wind and waves and rock are in the blood of the people,
and sung by their bards. It is perhaps the mysterious kinship of far-off
ancestry which draws me to him, and tells me that we two belong
together--that others stand outside as strangers.
Just then I felt that it would have been worth the bother of being born
only for the sake of that minute, if I had no other minutes worth
living; and it seemed that some knowledge was coming back to me which
souls forget as bodies grow up to manhood or womanhood. But suddenly
Basil's voice broke the Music. "You look as if you were conjuring up the
White Lady of Avenel, who will come to any one who knows how to call
her, here at Dryburgh," he said. And I opened my eyes as if he had
jerked me back by the arm from the days of the Druids to the era of
motor-cars. And so he had--by the ear, not the arm. If Sir S. had spoken
to me then it would have been different. I begin to think he is going to
be the only Real Man in my world. But if I find that out, and he doesn't
think me the only Real Girl, what will become of me?
After we had done what Mrs. West, in her pretty little tinkling voice,
called "exhausting Dryburgh" (as if one could!) we went to Melrose, only
four miles away, to leave our luggage at a nice hotel and take rooms for
the night, before going on another mile and a half to Abbotsford. I
little thought what a surprise I should have by and by, owing to this
plan of action mapped out by Sir S.
The next thing that happened to us was seeing the many turreted house
built by the "Wizard of the North," when his wish was to found a great
Border family. He didn't realize then that he was founding a great
school of romance and that all the world would be his family in mind and
heart.
A book Basil had, said that the house was "ill-placed," but to me that
seemed a dull and unimaginative criticism. Nowadays people may think a
great deal about wide views from their windows; and if I ever build a
house with a fairy wand, that's what I shall choose to have myself. But
perhaps in Sir Walter's day the thing most sought for was a peaceful,
sheltered outlook all to yourself and your family, like a secret garden
of which only you had the key. Just such an outlook the Wizard had from
his windows; and of course what he most wished for was to bring the
singing Tweed into his secret garden, just as you coax a lovely wild
bird, if you can whistle its own notes, under the trees it loves.
Perhaps if Sir Walter had not been able to look out over his flowers and
hay-scented meadows to the friendly river, inspiration might have failed
him in his troubles. But, you see, he had that secret garden of his
soul; and when he was there it must have walled him into a region of
peace where worries could do no more than knock at the door.
Wandering over the big house with Mrs. James and Basil (the boys in the
background), I was glad, glad that Sir Walter had owned so many
treasures, and collected so many curiosities; yet I felt an undertone of
sadness even in the library (where the twenty thousand books are, given
back by those decent bodies, his creditors), a sadness like that which
must have pressed on his spirit, thinking of all the money he had paid
for his home, and the beautiful things in it--all the money he would
have to make out of his brain to clear away the debt. "When I do build
my house, I shall have a gallery like this in the library," I said,
thinking Basil was close behind me, as he had been; but instead, there
was Sir S. standing silently by. Basil had gone into the study, or
perhaps into the tiny "Speak a bit," to look at the wall-panelling taken
from Queen Mary's bed at Jedburgh.
"That's just what I was thinking about my library," Sir S. answered, as
if I had spoken to him.
"Haven't you got one yet?" I asked.
"Only an embryo library in a flat in New York--a rather nice flat. But a
flat isn't home. And you know--you ought to know--the house of my heart
is on a faraway island."
"The island of Dhrum?"
"Yes. I've just begun to realize that I never have had and never can
have a real home out of the Highlands. Would you think me an
interloper--you and the other grand MacDonalds--if I, the crofter's boy,
should develop an ambition like Sir Walter's--oh, not so worthy or
splendid, because _I'm_ neither worthy nor splendid--if I should wish to
have the great house of the MacDonalds of Dhrum, not let to me for a
term of years as it is now, but bought and paid for as my own?"
"Can the MacDonalds sell?"
"Yes, and will, if I'll pay his price. You see, he has no son, only a
daughter; and she, having failed to bring off a match or two----"
(I didn't let my eyes twinkle, or my face do that weird thing, "break