The Heather-Moon
Not that I have seen what she wrote. It was I who put the idea of
writing into her head; but, though she didn't guess it, that was only
done to give myself the right of Mentor when I still supposed we should
all start gayly off together for Edinburgh from Carlisle. I suggested
that she and I should "collaborate." Ha, ha! I believe "ha, _ha_," by
the way, is an ejaculation confined entirely to thwarted villains in
stageland; but if I am a villain, I'm not thwarted yet.
Aline's attack of temper, which upset everything, upset that scheme
among the rest; but it seems the impulse I gave, pushed Barrie on to
achieve something literary. Only, she steadily refused to let me see a
line she wrote. The sole pleasure I got out of her taking my advice was
in Somerled's face when I teased the girl about her "work." If he had
been teaching her to sketch and paint I should have felt the same.
He is afraid of himself, because she has captured his thoughts; and
afraid of her, because she's Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald's daughter. When
he sees her followed by a trail of young men, like a bright comet with a
tail it's been busily collecting in a journey through space, he asks
himself whether this is going to be Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald over
again? He wonders if he dare believe in the kindness of Barrie's smiles
for him, or whether his portion is no better than those she deals out
gayly to the rest of us. At least, this is as I judge him, though from
the first we've exchanged no confidences on the subject of "Mrs. Bal" or
Barrie her daughter.
Somerled knew Mrs. Bal in America. I never made her acquaintance, but I
saw her act in Montreal every night of her engagement there. I couldn't
keep away--yet I didn't want to meet her. I thought perhaps if I did I
should be ass enough to fall in love. That is the truth. A good many
fellows of my acquaintance, and others I'd heard of, had fallen in love,
and had been flirted with till the lady was sick and tired of them.
After that they were very sorry for themselves. I never heard anything
else against Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald, and I don't believe there's
anything worse to hear, than that she's a spoiled, flattered, selfish,
and self-centred beauty, who expects every man to fall down before her,
and generally gets what she expects.
None of us talked much to Barrie about her mother, though at first she
was continually bringing up the subject. We knew she thought of it
constantly: that beneath all her joy in escape from bondage, in
motoring, and in her adventures in beautiful, historic scenes, there was
always that undertone--"When I meet my mother." And we too felt the
strain of suspense, though in a different way--at least, Somerled and I
felt it. I could see it often in the peculiar darkening of his face when
anything happened to suggest the idea of the mother in the background.
As for Aline, I suppose it was but natural her only interest in Mrs. Bal
should be, "How will her reception of the girl affect me, if at all?"
Aline's arranging to pick up the Vannecks at Dumfries gave her the
excuse she's been longing for ever since the quarrel, to get me into
Somerled's car, though she didn't wish to seem as if she were forcing
herself upon him. Perhaps he might have found some way of shuffling out
of it, but in St. Michael's churchyard at Dumfries she asked if he
didn't think the "little romance a very pretty one?" He inquired what
she meant. She appeared amused at his denseness--"so like a man!"--and
said, "Why, what could I mean except dear Basil and little Barrie? I
didn't know _any one_ could help seeing! But don't say anything, please.
It might nip the orange-blossoms in the bud."
She told me this afterward, because I had to know if I were to "live up
to it." And I'm afraid by that time I was ready to live up to it,
whatever the consequences might be. That is enough to explain why
Somerled without hesitation invited me to migrate into his car when
Aline had filled up Blunderbore with a party of three guests. He might
even then have kept Barrie in her place beside him, or have appointed me
to it; but that wouldn't have been Somerled as I see him, saying to
himself, "Let them have each other's society, since that's what they
want. I don't know what _I_ want, or whether it's best for her or me
that I should want anything."
Right or wrong about his state of mind as I may be whatever it was, he
surrendered to me with an air of grave kindness which put on again the
several years he had thrown off in the last week. (Yes, it was only a
week that had made these changes for all of us!) Sitting with Barrie and
her good friend Mrs. James (great character, that little woman: must use
her in a book sooner or later), I knew just how passionately the girl
was looking forward to the "surprise" meeting with her mother. My nerves
were as tense as hers--even more tense, it may be, for I was like one
behind the scenes, knowing what she did not know. I felt so sure the
"surprise" was going to turn out differently from what she pictured that
I had a sense of guilt whenever I saw her smiling dreamily. I was
continually wondering what would happen, and what she would do when it
did happen. And I had the impression that Somerled constantly brooded
over the same subject, asking himself the same questions. The happier
the girl was, the sorrier we both were for her, silently, without
telling each other, and the more we wished to save her from any
suffering to come. I knew that I could read so far into Somerled's
thoughts, where they kept to the same road as mine; but I doubt if he
were conscious of any fellow-feeling with me. I was to him only the most
deeply infatuated and the most seriously in earnest of Barrie
MacDonald's rapidly accumulating string of ridiculous young men.
Sympathy and curiosity, tossed together in an indistinguishable mass,
made a confused omelette of my emotions as we spun along that lovely
wooded road past Galashiels and into Edinburgh. I wanted to witness the
first meeting of mother and daughter, yet I dreaded it. I didn't see how
I could decently contrive to be "on" in that scene, yet I felt it would
be too bad to be true that it should be enacted in my absence--almost as
monstrous as that the world should be able to get on with me out of it.
It was Somerled, of course, who settled that his Gray Dragon (Barrie's
name for the car) should arrive at Edinburgh on Sunday morning instead
of Monday. He didn't trouble himself with intricate explanations, merely
remarking that a Scotch Sunday was a bad day for travellers, apart from
their religious conventions. If they hadn't any, others had; and those
others were the very ones with power to make backsliders uncomfortable.
They could close abbeys and museums, and they could shut the doors of
inns in hungry faces at meal-times. "Besides," he finished, without a
smile, "I took over the job of guardian _pro tem_ from Barrie's
grandmother, and I'm sure Mrs. MacDonald would wish her granddaughter to
go to church on Sunday."
Barrie opened her eyes at this speech. Probably she'd never heard any
talk of theology from Somerled, and was puzzled by his sudden interest
in her spiritual decorum. I guessed that he wanted to give her the
brilliant spectacle at St. Giles as a surprise on his last day of
guardianship, but it occurred to me also that there might be other
reasons in his mind for cutting short the tour. He might be tired of me
as a guest thrust upon him. He might be sick of the American boys, and
the soldier, Barrie's latest collected specimen (the Douglas youth also
is travelling _en automobile_), or he might have reflected that it would
be well to find out in advance where Mrs. Bal meant to pass her
Edinburgh week. He must have realized that such a spoiled pet of society
was as likely to visit admiring friends as to put up at a hotel.
We left Melrose a little before eight o'clock, promising Aline and the
Vannecks (who hate getting up early) to engage rooms for them at the
Caledonian Hotel. We had forty-six miles before us, but the Gray Dragon
bolts a mile as a dog bolts an oyster, and as it was too early for many
other dragons of his kind to be on the march, Somerled did a little
discreet scorching through the lovely green and gold and purple
landscape, past Galashiels, Stow, and Heriot. This haste--which didn't
mean less speed--gave us time for a detour of a few miles to Rosslyn
Chapel, which it would have been a shame to miss.
I wish I knew more about architecture! I thought Rosslyn a gem, and
should have described it as a thing of unique perfection; but Somerled,
who knows all about such things, said no, it was far from right
artistically, though beautiful in spite of faults. My description would
briefly be: whole chapel like great carved jewel-casket for a queen;
ornamentation simply dazzling in intricacy and delicate detail;
extraordinary pale rose-flush in shadow on stone pillars, which have the
rich cream tints of carved ivory. No two alike: Spanish spirit visible
here. Reminded me of detail in Burgos Cathedral. Nice story about the
Prentice's Pillar. I looked it up when I found we were going to Rosslyn,
and told it to Barrie before Somerled had a chance to open his mouth.
Showed her the sculptured head of presumptuous man who dared finish the
column according to design of his own, while this master was
unsuspectingly studying up ideas for it in Rome. She thought the pillar
more beautiful than the "horrid master's" work, and almost cried to hear
that the prentice had died from the mallet-stroke of the jealous
avenger. Barrie with tears in her eyes is a danger to beholders. She was
particularly adorable just then, as her hair was wet with rain (our
first rain) and curled on her forehead in little tendrils. This rain, by
the way, came on worse later, and was perhaps the original, if indirect,
cause of what might be called our villainhood--Aline's and mine.
We were pretty well drenched getting from Dragon to Chapel and from
Chapel to Dragon, though the distance was nothing, but the downpour
severe. Then, we three passengers were safely housed in the closed car
while Somerled and Vedder the chauffeur had the full benefit of the
storm. They were protected by a glass screen, but the waterspouts seemed
to find them out, and Mrs. James and Barrie were so sorry for the two
men that I felt a "luxurious slave" to cringe in shelter while others
soaked.
Vedder, by the way, interests me as a type. I thought Aline and I had
used up nearly all possible types of chauffeurs, but he's a new one, and
may prove valuable in case of future need. I understand that he was
distinguished in his remote past as a prize-fighter, then as a Cockney
coachman in London. Somerled rescued him from something or
other--prison, probably, judging by the shape of his nose (think it must
have been broken and mended in absent-minded moment by amateur) and the
look he gives me occasionally from corner of eye--like vicious horse
cowed by owner and dangerous to strangers. Barrie and Mrs. James think
him such a "quiet, nice man." It is not their business to judge
character, luckily for their illusions. My opinion of Vedder--who looks
exactly like the frog footman in Tenniel's illustrations of "Alice in
Wonderland"--is that he's a smouldering volcano. He never speaks unless
absolutely necessary, then uses as few words as possible, but his
thoughts seethe in language unfit for publication except where his
worshipped master is concerned. He also, in his way, is a victim of
Barrie MacDonald. He has mentally apportioned her to Somerled, as spoil
of battle. His vicious wall-eyes regard with distrust and hatred other
male creatures who dare to contend for the prize. If he could arrange an
accident to the Dragon without injuring it (an idol only second in his