The Heather-Moon
the design of an important building which a lot of prominent architects
had been trying for. Presently it came out that he was only a boy, a boy
who could do wonderful portraits, too, and everybody began taking notice
of him and writing enthusiastic praise in the papers. Some interviewer
falsely reported that he'd called himself a cousin of the MacDonald of
Dhrum, and disagreeable Duncan denied the relationship indignantly. He
spoke to some one of Ian's father, who had just then died, as 'an
ignorant old hay-cutter,' and the speech was repeated far and wide. You
can imagine Ian Somerled forgetting an insult to his adored father! He
dropped the name of MacDonald from that day, calling himself Somerled;
and as he was all alone in the world--his mother was dead, too, and had
never seen his success--he resolved to make a reputation in another
country. Of course that was very _young_ of him. He sees that now. He
crossed to New York in the steerage, and vowed he'd never set foot in
Scotland again, or take back his name of MacDonald, until old Duncan not
only openly claimed him as a cousin, but begged him as a personal favour
to return to Scotland."
"That must have seemed like sentencing himself to perpetual banishment,"
said Basil.
"I don't know. He appears to have had a kind of prophetic faith in his
own powers of success. And he was right in every way. Duncan began to
_grovel_ years ago."
In talking of Somerled, Aline had forgotten to listen for sounds of his
approach. She was interested in the story she was telling--more
interested than she was usually in the development of her own plots. But
luckily Basil saw to the plot-making nowadays, and she hadn't to worry.
"It's funny," she went on, "that a man who laughs at romance should be
one of the most romantic figures in the world. If you and I wrote up his
story, and took him for the hero, all the critics would say 'how
impossible!' But critics will never believe that anything highly
romantic or sensational can happen really. I don't know _what_ their own
lives must be like--or what they can think of the incidents they must
see every day in the newspapers! Somerled says the only romantic thing
he ever did was to annex the name of Somerled: but almost every phase of
his life would make a story. Take his success in America, for instance.
He wasn't eighteen when he landed as an immigrant, with nothing in his
pocket except what was left of the architectural prize. Most of that
money had gone in giving his father a few last comforts, and putting up
some wonderful, extravagant sort of monuments for both his parents,
which Ian designed himself. But he hadn't been two months in New York
when he won a still bigger prize, which came just as he was on the point
of starving! A handful of oatmeal and an apple a day _I_ should call
starvation, but he says it was grand for his health. In six years, at
twenty-four, he was not only the greatest portrait-painter in America,
but one of the most successful architects, an extraordinary combination
which has made him _unique_ in modern times. And before he was
twenty-eight came that big 'coup' of his, which he calls a 'mere
accident that might have happened to any fool'--the buying of a site for
a new town in Nevada, where he meant to build up a little city of
beautiful houses, and finding a silver mine. Of course, it _wasn't_ an
'accident.' It was the spirit of prophecy in him which has always
carried him on to success--that, and his grit and daring and enterprise
and general cleverness. Oh, Basil, if you could have heard him telling
me these things that last night on the _Olympic_--leaning back in his
deck-chair, smoking cigarette after cigarette (I was smoking too. I hate
it; but I think he likes a woman to smoke and be a man's pal), the
moonlight shining on his face, showing his eyes half shut, and talking
in his quietest way, as if he were dreaming it all over again, or
speaking to himself! I hardly breathed, till he broke off suddenly and
laughed in quite a shy sort of way, ashamed of being 'egotistical,'
though he hadn't praised himself at all. The flowery things I've said
are mine. He even apologized! I felt I'd never had so great a compliment
in my life. It seemed too good to be true that such a man should have
opened his heart to me. But when his invitation for Scotland came,
it--it set the seal of reality on the rest. Do you know, I can't help
believing he made more than he need of his business in London; that the
real truth was he wanted to stay there without us, and see how much he
missed me. Now he's coming to accept _our_ invitation, a day sooner than
he meant to at first. Something tells me the reason why. I shall know
for sure to-night, when I see him. He didn't want us to meet him at the
station. But that was perhaps because--I couldn't have gone very well
without you, and maybe----"
"I see! I'm to make myself scarce and leave you alone in the garden!"
"Not yet, dear. Only when we hear the car actually stopping at the gate.
There'll be plenty of time then. And if you don't mind----"
"Of course, I don't mind," said Basil. He felt that he was blushing
under the cover of darkness, and was thankful Aline could not see. Why
the blush, he could not have explained. Was it for his sister, because
she was managing her love affairs with a famous man in this energetic,
businesslike way, and jumping eagerly at conclusions? Or was it for
himself, because he was selfish and jealous of the new interest in
Aline's life, which would--if it ended as she hoped--take her away from
him and break their partnership?
He almost wished to accept the latter explanation. He would rather be
disappointed in himself than think meanly--oh, ever so little meanly--of
Aline.
Their partnership, begun when he was in the depths, regarding his life
as practically finished, had given him the greatest happiness he had
ever known. Memory flashed away at lightning speed over their travels
together, their adventures. Somerled's wife would not write novels. And
deep in his heart Basil knew that Aline's soul was not in the books, as
his was. He would not acknowledge this difference between them, but he
knew it was there. In old days, when Aline had written alone, she had
always chosen some subject that loomed large in public interest at the
moment, whether she herself cared about it or not, hoping to "come in on
the wave." Just because she had not really cared her scheme of work had
not given her success. So it had been with the idea of their first book
written together. Aline had wanted to plan out something to do with
motoring, about which every one was keen just then. She had proposed to
combine business with a cure for her brother; and when she had failed to
think of a "good plot on the right lines," he had made a suggestion
which flashed into his head. The joy of motoring, the wonder of travel,
both new to Basil, had intoxicated him. He wrote as one inspired, for
the sheer love of writing and telling what he had seen and felt. And the
world, catching the thrill of his joy, had shared it.
He did not say this to himself now, did not realize the truth of it, and
did not even believe that he could go on writing stories and succeeding
without Aline. Only, he knew that he loved his work for itself, and she
did not. That the light of his life would be gone without it, whereas
she would be glad to stop working and be idle as the admired wife of a
celebrity and a millionaire. In this he felt a vague injustice of fate
which depressed him--a rare state of mind for Basil Norman, to whom for
four years the world had been a happy and magically beautiful
dwelling-place.
"I hear a car now!" he exclaimed.
"It's his!" she answered. "I heard the siren when his chauffeur sounded
it going out of the garage. It's different from any others that pass
along this road. Good-bye for a little while, dear. You're so kind to
me! Wish me luck."
"I wish Somerled luck," he said, trying to laugh, as he turned and
marched quickly off toward the house.
Aline quite understood. He meant that Somerled would be lucky to get
her. That was nice of him, and like him, too, for Basil was as gallant
and chivalrous to his sister as a lover. Yet--she was sorry that he
hadn't wished her luck in so many words.
She walked toward the gate. The car had stopped.
V
Mrs. Keeling's place, lent to her much-admired authors, had a very
pretty gate. It was approached from the garden way, through an arbour
thickly hung with roses and honeysuckle. It seemed to Aline West, as she
went alone to meet Somerled, that night distilled a special perfume in
the dew-filled cups of the flowers, sweet as unspoken love. She felt
that she was on the threshold of happiness. It was the first step that
counted. If she met Somerled in the right spirit, with the right word
and the right look ... in this perfumed star-dusk and stillness, when
they had not seen each other for days ... and he knew she had been
waiting here for him, thinking of him ... and he saw that she had put on
the dress he liked so much on shipboard, the one she had worn the last
night, when he told her his life-story ... might not the thing that she
desired happen? She encouraged herself by saying, "Why not?" and
reminding herself that she was an attractive woman. Lots of men had been
in love with her--not the right ones, but that was a detail. Why not Ian
Somerled? He was a man, after all, like others.
He was at the gate already ... she almost ran.
"Hail, the conquering hero!" she cried to him, laughing.
He opened the gate. But it was not he who came in. He was opening it for
some one else--a woman, a girl, something tall and feminine, anyhow. It
was wrapped in a cloak. It had a flat pancake on its head for a hat.
What could it be, and mean? The idea darted into Aline's mind that there
had been an accident on the way here from the station; that perhaps
Somerled had nearly or quite run over this creature--or her dog--or
something.
"Hello, Mrs. West!" he answered her cheerfully. "I've got to you at
last, and I've brought a visitor for the night. I've given my guarantee
that you'll make her welcome."
The light of Aline's joy went out like a ray of moonlight swallowed up
by a marauding cloud. She did not in the least understand what had
happened, or what were the obligations to which he had committed her;
but in any case the lute she had tuned had a rift in it, a big, bad
rift, and it could make no music to-night. She felt suddenly at her
worst instead of her best, as if she had tumbled off a bank of flowers
in her prettiest frock into a bog. She longed to be cold and snappy and
disagreeable, as a wife may safely be to a husband when he has
blundered, and as she had often been to Jim in his brief day; but
Somerled was not her husband, and certainly never would be unless she
minded her "p's and q's" like a good and very clever little angel with
unmeltable butter in its smiling mouth. So she shrieked, "Hang it!" and
even worse, with her whole heart, and said with her lips, in a charming
voice, "Why, of _course_! I shall be delighted to welcome any friend of
yours, and so will Basil. I _love_ surprises."
It was a short arbour, and as they all three came out of it, Mrs. West
and Somerled and the wrapped-up thing with the pancake hat--the
chauffeur following with a suit-case--Aline's eyes made the most of the
starlight, that she might read the mystery and know the worst. The worst
was very bad. Under the stars the girl looked a radiant beauty, and so
young, so young! How was the man going to account for her? Was there
still hope?
"I told you what Mrs. West would say!" exclaimed Somerled. "This is Miss
MacDonald, a daughter of Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald."