The Heather-Moon
cousin,' and very kind to me--to please him, of course. Next to
being with you, I'd rather go to Dhrum than do anything else in the
world. Perhaps it will seem to you just the right thing, because I
know how difficult it is to plan what to do with me for the rest of
my life, unless I marry Basil. And maybe you wouldn't so much mind
my not marrying him, if I had a proper place to stay for ever so
many weeks, while you looked round?
Mr. and Mrs. Vanneck haven't gone yet, but they will be starting
to-morrow morning for Dundee, and from there they will go to the
Round House. I am sorry to say I shan't miss them, as I did Mrs.
James. Cousin Duncan and Cousin Margaret (they have told me to call
them 'Cousin') don't seem Scottish at all, and so they are rather
disappointing. They live in London and don't care for Dhrum, but
they appear not to dislike the idea of visiting Mr. Somerled there.
I believe they have often in old times visited the people to whom
they let Dunelin Castle, but only when there was a very good _chef_
and a gay house-party. Cousin Margaret has a large, high nose, and
thin hair and a thin face and body. All her personality is thin and
cold, as if she couldn't care much about anything. But she does
care about women getting votes, and insists on talking politics in
the midst of lovely scenery. She looks so like her father, it is
quite funny, and their voices are exactly alike, slow and correct
and exaggeratedly English; and Scottish history bores them. They
are proud of the ancestor who ratted from Prince Charlie and fought
with Butcher Cumberland, so we have nothing in common. But any port
in a storm!
I suppose I mustn't go away in the Gray Dragon till I hear from
you? Yet surely you will say 'Yes,' as it will save you trouble,
without my being obliged to marry Basil. I am sorry for him, but he
will soon get over it, for he loves his writing better than
anything else in the world, and presently he will go back to it and
forget me. I think he likes me because I would make a new kind of
heroine for one of his novels, and I'm quite willing he should have
me for that.
I suppose if I go with Mr. Somerled Mrs. West will join Basil in a
few days, and they will continue their tour together as if nothing
had happened to interrupt it. Of course I haven't told Mr. Somerled
about Basil proposing, so when he suggested my going for a short
run with the Gray Dragon in memory of old times, he invited Basil
too. But that was before the Vannecks had looked out trains, and
decided that they couldn't get off till to-morrow. There wouldn't
be comfortable room for such a crowd even in the Gray Dragon.
Anyhow, Basil refused, saying he had writing to do--and I went with
Mr. Somerled and the cousins to the Pass of Glencoe--you know,
don't you, 'The Glen o' Weeping'?
It is only an afternoon excursion from Ballachulish, so I was sure
you wouldn't object to my deciding for myself. As for Ballachulish,
it is one of the most charming little places I've seen yet in
Scotland, although coming here as we did from Loch Maree it would
need to be beautiful indeed, not to be what you call in the theatre
an 'anticlimax.' Loch Maree lies all secret and hidden among deer
forests. Along the narrow, twisting road as you go, you hear the
rushing sound of many rivers. Nobody had ever even dreamed of
motor-cars when that road was made, so you have to travel slowly
and manoeuvre whenever you meet anything if you don't want to be
killed. Even as it was, we got mixed up with a big automobile
loaded with fish-baskets. Our flywheel was on the ground, running
helplessly round and round, screaming horribly, while both
chauffeurs abused each other. Such a funny accident, and we had
another, going up a very steep hill. We'd so little petrol that it
ran back, as your blood does if you hold up your hand, and the
motor would do nothing but groan till we found out what was the
matter. Altogether it was quite an adventure going on such a road
with such a weak, elderly car like Blunderbore: but it was worth it
all, for Loch Maree is the beautiful birthplace of baby rainbows.
As we came near, travelling a mere white seam in a carpet of purple
heather stitched together with silver streams, I saw any quantity
of unfinished rainbows, just waiting to be matched on to each other
like bits of a puzzle. They hovered over rivulets, dancing in the
sunlight; or stained with colour the rocks thickly silvered with a
brocade of lichen, or else hid suddenly in the heather which,
mingling with pale green bracken, made a straggling pattern of
amethyst and jade for miles along the way. Oh, it was all lovely;
and we stayed a night there, at an ideal inn where fishermen engage
their rooms years beforehand. A dear old waiter in the Loch Maree
hotel advised me in the kindest way never, never to speak of fresh
herring as fish, in Scotland. I wonder why? He said, would I have
fresh herrings or eggs? I said I'd have the fish. He said there was
_no fish_, but would I try the herring? That was the way the
subject came up.
We had two Highland ferries to cross, getting to Ballachulish.
Strome Ferry, which was difficult and almost dangerous because
there was a great storm of wind just then, and Dornie Ferry. I
liked those experiences better than almost anything we have done
with Blunderbore. The little ferries were so much more exciting
than a huge steam ferryboat, like that on the Tay. And in the wild,
lost country passing Clunie Inn, it poured with rain and wind, the
gale lashing us, rocking the car like a cradle. The spattering mud
made us look like hideous freckled people; and so the MacDonalds
saw me first. I hope Mr. Somerled explained I wasn't like that
really. We had so much arguing about Mrs. Payne's telegram and what
the Vannecks should do, that we had no time to wash, and I didn't
seem to care if I was never clean again. But the minute the Gray
Dragon appeared I cared _fearfully_. I took great pains with my
appearance before I started out with my new cousins, for Glencoe,
and I felt so happy that it seemed the place ought to call itself
the Glen o' Smiling instead of the Glen o' Weeping.
Of course, however, I lost that frivolous feeling when we were
there, even though it was a joy to be back with the Gray Dragon;
for the Pass of Glencoe is like the Valley of Death. It is a sad
mouth wide open, roaring to the sky for vengeance, biting at the
clouds with black, jagged teeth; a great mouth in a dead face wet
with the tears of the weeping that can never be dried. It rained
while we were there, and though rain doesn't matter to the Gray
Dragon, it made the Pass more wild and grim if possible, filling it
with gray, drifting ghosts: ghosts of the murdered clansmen; ghosts
disappearing into dark, open doorways of rock castles, or falling
on the green floor of the glen, to weep on the dim, faded purple of
the sparse heather. The river into which the weeping cataracts shed
their tears was black at first; but suddenly, though the rain did
not stop, the sun tore a hole through a cloud, and shot a huge
rainbow into the rushing water. It split into a thousand fragments,
still gleaming under the clear brown flood: and I thought it was as
if the MacDonald women, in trying to escape from the massacre, had
dropped their poor treasures--their cairngorms and garnets and
amethysts--and there the jewels had lain ever since under the
water, because no one dared fish them out. But also I thought the
key of the rainbow itself might be lying there; and that made me
happy again in spite of the sadness of the place: for Mr. Somerled
and I used to talk when we first knew each other about finding the
key of the rainbow together: and I saw by the way he looked that he
hadn't forgotten. It is a compliment when a man like that remembers
anything a girl says, don't you think?
Now, dear Barbara, I must send off this letter at once, though I
am going to telegraph at the same time, to ask if I may accept Mr.
Somerled's invitation. I tell you frankly I don't know how I shall
_bear_ it if you say no. But you won't. You are too kind and sweet,
and you do want me to be happy and find the key of the rainbow,
don't you?
Your BARRIE,
Who can hardly wait.
II
When Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald received the telegram, which reached her
the day before Barrie's letter, she showed it at once to Aline West. It
read:
"Please forgive me for not saying 'Yes' as you wish to B. N. But I
need give no more trouble for a long time, though. Mr. and Mrs.
Vanneck leaving to-morrow. Mr. Somerled has arrived here with my
cousins the MacDonalds from London and I am invited to make visit
Dunelin Castle at Dhrum. Do please let me go, unless you can have
me. They will bring me back first to see you unless that
inconvenient. Have just posted you long letter, but hope you will
wire answer to this.
"BARRIE."
"How simply fatal!" Barbara remarked, so calmly that Aline could have
boxed her ears. But, after all, it was she who cared, not Mrs. Bal. So
long as Barrie was reasonably safe and reasonably happy, and entirely
out of her way (even temporarily out of her way), Barbara did not much
mind about anything else. She had wanted to punish Somerled a little for
his indifference, past and present, to her (almost) irresistible self:
but she _had_ punished him, and it had been great fun, and she was tired
of bothering. Her sense of humour, a saving grace of hers, was tickled
by his persistence, and this unexpected coup at Ballachulish with the
MacDonalds. She could not help chuckling when she thought how Aline (it
had been mostly Aline) had maneuvered to throw that poor pretty child
into Basil's arms; and how, just as she seemed on the point of
succeeding, down swooped Somerled like a golden eagle of the mountains
to snap the prey out of his rival's mouth. Barbara would have preferred
that her daughter should marry Basil, since she must marry somebody to
be got rid of, being so _dreadfully_ in the way, poor pet! But luckily
Morgan Bennett had at last said what Barbara wanted him to say. He had
meant all along, no doubt, to say it--unless he had wavered from his
true allegiance a little on that perilous evening when he first saw
Barrie at the theatre. Barbara was safely engaged to him now; and though
she had had to tell him that "dear little sister Barrie" would probably
marry Basil Norman, she had only said "probably." She couldn't answer
for the creature--one never could for anybody.
"How _like_ Somerled!" she gurgled, as Aline sat speechless, with the
telegram in her hand. "Now we know where he's been. He went to London
and collected the MacDonald family, when all else had failed. He must be
making it well worth their while, for they hate their native wilds. But
then--London in _August_! I suppose they welcomed any change. My poor
dear, I _am_ sorry if you're fond of him, but this does look as if
Somerled were tremendously in earnest. And if he is, I don't think you
and I are capable of coping with him. We must let things shape
themselves, I'm afraid."
Aline's eyes, well again now, sent out a flash such as Basil knew.