The Heather-Moon Part 8

"Wait! I believe, as a good Scotsman, I can guess," said Somerled. "The heather moon's the moon of August, the moon when the heather's in its prime of bloom."

"Yes!" cried Barrie, joyous that it should be he, her first friend, the friend of her mother, who had solved the puzzle. "That's it: and it's the moon for falling in love. That's why the honeymoon has to come afterward." Then, seeing that Mrs. West was looking at her with a look that might mean astonishment or disapproval, she blushed. It was queer, but for a minute that pretty, quite young woman--if widows could be called _quite_ young--had an expression almost like Grandma's.

"Oh, I do hope I haven't said anything horrid?" Barrie appealed from one to another. "You see, I never dared say anything at all about love before Grandma or Heppie, but it is talked about so _much_ in books, I thought I might mention it in company. I'm sorry if I've not been maidenly, which Miss Hepburn is always telling me I'm not."

"I suspect most maidens think a good deal about love whether or no they talk of it, don't they, Norman?" said Somerled.

"How should I know?" Basil asked.

Both men were different from their everyday selves to-night. They seemed self-conscious.

"Why, it's your business to know. You write novels. Or do you leave all the love parts to your sister?"

"I suppose widows may talk as much as they like about love," said Barrie reflectively, "having had it and pa.s.sed it by."

The creature was pretending to take for granted that widows were poor, _pa.s.see_ things who had lived their lives and could have no more personal interest in heather moons or honeymoons! Mrs. West grew pale, and was angry with herself for caring. Barrie made her feel faded--a "back number." She told herself that if she could not get rid of this girl the first thing to-morrow, she should be ill.

"You must ask your mother these questions, and she'll answer them better than I can," Aline said in her pretty voice, with her gentle smile.

Already she had heard from Barrie and from Somerled something of the girl's story, and knew that through family misunderstandings mother and daughter had been separated for years. "You must be _so_ impatient to see her!" she went on.

"I am," said Barrie.

"I know Sir George Alexander a little," Aline answered. "He may take a curtain-raiser of ours; and it's occurred to me to telegraph him in the morning, as soon as the post-office opens. He'll be able to let us know where Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald's acting. We won't trust to the stage papers alone. It would be a pity to keep this child in suspense a minute longer than necessary. Don't you think it's a good plan, Mr. Somerled?"

"Very," he agreed. It was a good plan. And it _would_ be a pity to keep the child in suspense. The pretty doll must be packed up and sent away where it belonged, whereupon everything would go on as before. And the heather moon would begin to shine gold on purple, for the trip through bonny Scotland, which he had planned. He had been looking forward to the tour, not with keen enthusiasm indeed, but with interest. He had been satisfied with the companions he had chosen, and the fact that they wanted to see Scotland had given him an incentive for taking the rest cure he had been imperatively ordered, in his native land rather than elsewhere. Once, long ago, self-exiled at the age of Barrie MacDonald, he had pa.s.sionately yearned for his "ain countree," and often regretted the boyish vow he was too proud and obstinate to break. But years had pa.s.sed now since Duncan MacDonald and his daughter Margaret visited America to find themselves worth knowing only as kinsfolk of the despised peasant. Accepting the situation because of its advantages and his necessities, the old man had ignored the past and "made up" to the young millionaire artist. Ian's sense of humour had been so tickled that, to his own surprise, he had laughed and forgotten his youthful rancour. It struck him as distinctly funny that he had ever taken old Duncan's waspishness seriously enough to make vows of any sort because of it. And he saw that indirectly he owed fortune to the haughty lord of Dhrum. It had amused Somerled a good deal and pleased him a little that "his highness" (as he called the great one) should implore the "peasant brat" to become tenant of Dunelin Castle for an unlimited term of years; that Duncan should chat to newspaper men of his "distinguished relative Ian MacDonald, who had won fame under the very suitable _nom de guerre_ of Somerled"; and that "Cousin Ian" should be pressed to meet "Cousin Margaret." It was a queer world, and n.o.body in it was queerer than one's self. So Somerled had felt when, just because the miracle had happened to free him of his vow, he no longer pined to gaze upon his native Highlands. He felt at home and happy enough in America; and if being "happy enough" wasn't quite the beautiful state he had pictured as a boy, it was full of interest. He had taken Dunelin Castle off its owner's hands at a high yearly rent, in order that no rich and vulgar c.o.c.kney should become the tenant, but he had never stayed there, though once, even to have the right of entrance would have seemed a fairy dream. There were no such things as fairy dreams for him since he had thoroughly grown up, because in the process of becoming a millionaire he had ceased to believe in any kind of dreams. Friendships and sympathies he had vainly longed for in his poverty could be his for the asking or even without the asking now; and that was the reason he did not feel they were worth having. He had no use in his heart for little brothers and sisters of the rich, and in his experienced hardness he was sometimes unjust to kindly people. But he had liked the novels of Aline West and Basil Norman before he met the two popular Canadian authors on shipboard; and learning that they planned to write a "Scotch book," it had occurred to him that they might all three go about sight-seeing together. His rest cure had ceased to bore him in prospect; he had thought with some pleasure of showing Aline Dunelin Castle and the island of Dhrum. Suddenly, however, Aline's own words damped the prospect as with a douche of cold water.

She was perfectly right, too. It would be a very good plan to place the waif he had picked up as soon as possible in the care of a mother, even such an extraordinary, incredible mother as Mrs. "Bal" MacDonald: a good plan for the girl's sake, and for everybody's sake, because it was arranged to start for Scotland the day after to-morrow. Still, Barrie's impromptu ode to the heather moon had for a moment irradiated his mind with a light such as had not shone for Somerled on land or sea since he had become rich enough to afford the most expensive lighting. Then as quickly it had died down. He saw himself spinning agreeably through Scottish scenes with Mrs. West and her brother, and suddenly, treacherously, he felt that to spin agreeably was not enough to satisfy him, that it was unworthy of wondrous golden light on purple hills of high romance. He wanted something more, something altogether different, and the plans which had contented him looked dull as ditchwater in the fading glamour. He himself looked dull. Aline looked dull, and for a moment he almost disliked her sweet blue eyes, her pretty, ever gentle smile, behind which must lurk some true feeling, or she could not write those delicately charming books.

"And don't you think, too," Aline urged kindly, "that we ought to put Miss MacDonald's poor grandmother out of her misery? I might write a note to--Hillard House, I think she said?--explaining--er--what has happened, as well--as well as I could? Let me see, what _would_ be best?

Oh, I could say that by accident her granddaughter had met a guest of mine, a friend of Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald's; that she wasn't to worry, because, though her granddaughter refused to return, we would see that the child reached her mother safely, by to-morrow night if possible. I can mention Basil, and say we are the writers. If she has heard of us, that may relieve the poor lady's mind."

"Grandma hasn't heard of you, I'm sure," said Barrie, "unless you write religious books; but she won't _need_ her mind relieved. While I was with her, I think she considered it her duty to take strict care of me; but now I've gone my own way, she'll see it was predestined. It was just the same with a Dresden china teapot she inherited. She didn't approve of it because it was too gay, but she always washed it herself because it was her father's. When it broke in spite of her, she wouldn't have it mended, and told Heppie to throw the pieces away."

"Nevertheless, I must write, and send the letter to Hillard House by hand," Aline insisted. "If I didn't do that I should not be able to sleep." She spoke with fervour, for she felt that she must have two strings to her bow. If "Mother" failed, she must be able to fall back on "Grandma."

VII

Barrie meant to be up and dressed before any one else in the house, but she lay awake until long after midnight, an unprecedented thing for her, and in consequence slept late, making up her accustomed nine hours.

Usually she fell asleep at ten or soon after, and jumped briskly out of bed at seven, waked only by her eager desire for renewed life, in a perfectly new day which no one else had ever seen yet. This morning it was a repeated knocking at the door which mingled with her dreams and shook her out of them. What door could it be? Where was she? the girl wondered for a dazed instant. Then Moore appeared with a breakfast-tray.

"Mrs. West said not to wake you for early tea," she explained with a glacial coldness worthy of Hillard House. "Madam and the two gentlemen are having breakfast out of doors in the summer-house; and when you get up, miss, I advise you to draw your curtains well across the windows or you may be seen."

Barrie wished that she too were having breakfast in the summer-house, and thought it mistaken kindness on the part of Mrs. West not to have her called. But, from Aline's point of view, there was no mistake. "I have let the child sleep," she explained to Somerled and Basil. "It _is_ such a child, isn't it? And when she wakes up there may be a wire in answer to mine, which went before eight."

When ten o'clock struck and still the telegram had not arrived, Aline asked herself if she oughtn't to go and call on old Mrs. MacDonald, who had deigned to take no notice of her tactfully expressed letter. Just then, however, Somerled's chauffeur was seen hovering in the flowery distance. He had brought two stage papers which his master had sent him out to buy. Aline was not pleased that Somerled had thought it necessary to get information on his own account. She would have preferred that he should trust to her; but she tried to think that perhaps he too was secretly tired of the girl and wanted to be rid of her. While he was glancing through the first paper, Moore glided into the summer-house with a brick-coloured envelope on a silver tray. It was addressed to Aline, and she opened it quickly, glad to be ahead of Ian with news.

Then she found herself confronting an unexpected difficulty. "Mrs. B. M.

trying new play small towns; will open Edinburgh in five or six days."

With something like a gasp, Aline stopped on the brink of reading the telegram aloud. Who would have thought of this?

Her brain worked quickly. She didn't want Somerled to know that "Mrs.

Bal" was so near. He might--make some ridiculous proposal about the girl--Heaven alone knew what! Men were capable of anything. The troublesome creature must really go back to her grandmother at once.

Mrs. Bal could easily come to Carlisle and collect her--like lost luggage--if she cared to be burdened with such luggage. If only Aline could find some excuse to make Somerled put down that paper and forthwith go into the house!

"Is your telegram from Sir George?" he inquired calmly, looking up from the paper which she longed to s.n.a.t.c.h.

For half a second she hesitated, and then said, "No. It's not what I expected." This was almost true.

Basil was gazing at her with solicitude. He thought that she had turned pale. "No bad news from any one, I hope, dear?" he asked.

"It is annoying," she replied with reserve, and crumpled up the telegram. "I was stupid to let Moore go--I must send an answer. Mr.

Somerled, it would be too good of you to look for a form on the desk in the drawing-room."

"Shan't I----" began Basil.

"I must ask your advice, meanwhile, about what I'm to say," she cut him short. Somerled put down the paper on the rustic seat, got up with alacrity, and started for the house. He would be back in three or four minutes, and not one of those minutes ought to be wasted. "Don't bother with questions," she said to Basil, "but if you love me, make those theatrical papers disappear before Mr. Somerled can read them. I'm going to change my mind and follow him into the house to write my telegram.

I'll keep him a while talking. If he comes looking for his papers, I want them to be gone. I depend on you!"

Without waiting for Basil's promise, she darted away in order to intercept Somerled before he could finish his errand in the drawing-room. Of course, it would be easy for him to buy more papers, but before he could get them, Aline was hoping to have maneuvered the embarra.s.sing Miss MacDonald out of the house. She counted that Ian would be long in finding the forms, because men never could find the simplest things when told to look for them; but Somerled was an exception, and she only just caught him on the threshold. "After all, I want your advice instead of Basil's," she said. "Do sit here where we shall be quiet, and let me consult you." She patted the arm of a big chintz-covered sofa invitingly, and as she sat down Ian followed suit.

Still she did not know what on earth to say to him. She hoped for an inspiration at the last instant, as Basil had taught her to do in arranging a difficult situation between hero and heroine. She wanted to play heroine now with Somerled as hero. Oh, how much she wanted it!

She took a long breath which _must_ bring that inspiration at the end of it, if inspiration were to be of use. And it came at command, as things good or bad do come if intensely desired. But it was such a thoroughly objectionable inspiration that she hardly dared snap at it as she wished, for Aline was not malicious, and disliked malice and all uncharitableness as she disliked smearing her pink and white fingers with ink. Still, no alternative idea occurred to her, and Somerled was waiting. In desperation she had to take what offered, excusing herself to herself with every word she spoke. Yet through all she could not help thinking that she was clever, that she had marvellous presence of mind, and that she was displaying an inventive faculty which would have surprised Basil, though, of course, he must never know, because men were often as idiotically conscientious about little things as they were unscrupulous about big ones.

"The telegram that came was from Mrs. MacDonald, the child's grandmother," she heard herself explaining, not forgetting, in her mental confusion, to rub in the impression of Barrie's unfledged youth.

"I was surprised at not hearing, but this wire is an answer to my letter. The old lady goes into no particulars, but she says: 'Gravest reasons why my granddaughter should not join her mother. Hope you in person will bring her back to me.' Now, dear Mr. Somerled, the little girl is your protegee. It's for you to say what's to be done with her."

Somerled did not reply at once. He sat thinking, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, making a jingling noise with keys or silver, which in her present mood got upon Aline's nerves extraordinarily. She felt that if he did not stop jingling and begin to speak she should scream. If he asked to see the telegram, she was prepared to say that she had torn it up, as an excuse not to show it to Basil, on second thoughts the affair appearing to be Somerled's business. Somerled did not, however, make the request, and Aline was spared an extra fib, at which she was unreasonably pleased.

"Well?" she controlled herself to murmur, instead of screaming.

"I should feel a traitor to give the girl up," he said. "In fact, I can't do it unless she agrees. I promised not even to advise her that she ought to go back. She trusted me when I brought her here."

"Shall _I_ have a little talk with her?" Aline suggested, and never had her voice been so kind and sweet. Indeed, in her trembling hope, she was willing to be sweet and kind--with limitations.

Somerled thought again for a minute, jingling more horribly than ever.

Then, just at screaming-point once more for Aline, he said decidedly, "No, thank you. From what Miss MacDonald's told us, it's natural her grandmother should think there are grave objections to Mrs. Bal as a guardian; but the old lady's two generations at least behind the age.

Youth's at the prow nowadays, and--a mother's a mother, anyhow. We'll have to give Mrs. Bal a chance to do the maternal act----"

"She may be far, far away, even in America--or Australia," Aline objected. "And even if----"

"Oh, Mr. Somerled, mother's coming to Edinburgh!" cried a voice at the long window, and Barrie appeared, waving a newspaper.

The one unforeseen thing had happened. The vagabond had strayed into the summer-house and beguiled Basil. Aline knew too well what excuse he would make if accused: "Why, you didn't tell me _she_ wasn't to look at the papers!"