The Motor Maids by Rose, Shamrock and Thistle Part 29

The house had the aspect of a prison indeed from outside, with its thick gray walls, iron gratings on the windows of the lower story, and ma.s.sive front doors. And the old woman who admitted them might have been a matron of the prison, so stern and uncompromising was her expression.

She ushered them silently through a broad, dark hall with stiff, high-backed chairs ranged against the wall, to the drawing-room.

Now, Miss Campbell had an angelic disposition, but even angels, when put to the test by fatigue and hunger and also a strange and unacknowledged flutter in the region of the heart, may be a trifle irritable. If Annie Campbell was going to be as stiff as a starched shirt and formal and all that, _she_ was just going to be a little stiffer. There was a blister on her heel that minute that was agonizing to a degree, and if Annie Campbell had been any other person but a prim, Scotch spinster, she would have asked for the loan of a pair of slippers.

All these aggressive and agitated thoughts were flying through the little lady's head like small, angry clouds before the coming storm, as she led the way into one of the most charming parlors ever seen. A splendidly handsome old lady in black silk came forward with both hands outstretched. Her tall erect figure was well filled out; her features regular; her hair still showed signs of having once been red, and her brown eyes were wells of intelligent humor.

"My dear cousin," she exclaimed. "It will have been many years since we met in this room."

Billie was surprised. She had a.s.suredly been prepared for something quite different, and she wondered why Miss Helen Campbell had spoken of her cousin with so much irritation. Miss Annie Campbell was certainly the very opposite of her Cousin Helen in looks and figure, but, it must be confessed, equally as handsome. What beautiful young girls they must have been forty years ago!

"My dear Annie, don't speak of the years," exclaimed Miss Helen with much agitation. "Age is the only thing that has come to us. We are still spinsters."

Annie's beautiful brown eyes and Helen's heavenly blue ones exchanged a long, meaningful glance.

"Ah, well, Helen," said Annie, "you will be remembering the old song:

"'We twa ha' rin aboot the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wandered monie a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne.'"

"We've wandered monie a weary foot to-day, my dear," answered Miss Helen, a trifle flippantly.

"I never heard so much 'my dearing,'" thought Billie. "Will Cousin Helen never introduce us?"

"And which will be my other American cousin?" asked Miss Annie, with the evident intention of putting bygones out of her mind and being entirely polite and charming. "But I can guess without being told," she added, embracing Billie. "You're the image of your father, child. You have the same gray eyes; the same glint of gold color in the hair. You're a Campbell, indeed, and glad I am to welcome you to Edinburgh."

Miss Annie spoke with a beautiful English accent and only occasionally lapsed into Scotch dialect. There was a decided b-r-r-r to her r's at all times, however, especially when she was telling an anecdote, and she told numbers of them during that memorable visit.

While Billie introduced her friends and greetings were being exchanged, Miss Helen turned her somewhat agitated gaze about the fine old room.

The polished surfaces of the floor and mahogany tables and cabinets reflected the glow of the wood fire and the shining bra.s.s of the fender.

On a corner of the mantel was a Canton jar filled with peac.o.c.k feathers, which, with the red damask curtains at the windows and the old faded Turkey rug, gave a certain richness to the room,-the l.u.s.ter of time and careful usage.

"Not a thing changed, I see," observed Miss Helen, "not even the peac.o.c.ks' feathers in the Canton vase."

There was an accusing note in her voice when Miss Annie replied:

"We Campbells do not change, do we, Helen? Neither ourselves nor our homes," and Billie felt more and more convinced that some girlhood difference had separated the two cousins years before.

But the Scotch Miss Campbell was very hospitable and friendly, nevertheless. She led them upstairs, and in one of the vast bedrooms they washed the grime of Edinburgh smoke from their faces, and smoothed their front hair.

"Why don't you ask her for a pair of slippers to ease your feet, Cousin Helen?" Billie suggested.

"I'd rather die," replied that lady decisively.

At last, at an inexcusably late hour, they went down to luncheon and were served by the same uncompromising female who had opened the door.

Hot tea and certain rather queer, unaccustomed kinds of food warmed and cheered the five weary tourists, and presently they were all talking amiably together. It was evident that Miss Annie Campbell enjoyed the conversation of her young visitors. She asked them a hundred questions about America, and she amused them by relating some of the ghostly old legends that are cl.u.s.tered about Edinburgh as thickly as barnacles on the hull of a ship.

It was Mary Price, however, who, by some unconscious suggestion that she could not explain, presently told a story that she had read that morning in an old book, which came near to bringing the strained situation to a climax.

"Did you ever hear the tale of the two sisters who lived in the old town?" she began. "They quarreled when they were young and never spoke again. They lived for forty years in the same room up in one of those topply houses. A chalk line was drawn across the middle of the floor and there they slept and cooked and lived, each on her own side and never a word was spoken in all that time."

"And didn't they ever make up?" demanded Nancy.

"No, they died unreconciled, the book said."

"What a dreadful story," exclaimed Elinor.

"The Scotch are very unforgiving people," put in Miss Annie.

"I'm thinking their own sins are just as great as the unforgiven sins of others," finished Miss Helen.

The two spinsters glared at each other. The four young girls were quite frightened. Nancy stifled a little tremulous giggle and Billie was about to cast herself into the breach by a perfectly irrelevant remark, when the Scotch woman servant appeared at the door and announced:

"Meester David Ramsay is in the drawing-room."

Miss Helen Campbell dropped her hands at her sides helplessly.

"Annie," she said, "why didn't you tell me?"

"I wasn't sure you'd come if I had, Helen. But you will have forgiven him after all these years. He's an old man now," she continued in a pleading tone.

"Has-has he ever married?" asked Miss Helen tremulously.

"No, no, that he hasn't," answered the other spinster smiling.

A look of intense relief radiated Miss Helen's face.

"Cousin Annie," she said, "shall we rub out the chalk line and forget the past?"

"I'm muckle glad to do it, Cousin Helen," said the other.

Whereupon the two ladies kissed and with arms interlocked marched into the drawing-room.

The four girls lingered behind in the dining-room. That there had been some romance in Miss Helen's past they all well knew, and now it did look as if they had stumbled against it.

They gathered in a whispering group near the window looking into a trim, pretty garden.

"Billie, do you know the story?" demanded Nancy with uncontrollable curiosity.

"No," answered Billie, "I wish I did. And the worst of it is, we can never, never ask, because she might not like it and I wouldn't want to take any risk. Even Papa doesn't know it. She has never mentioned it to a soul."

"It must have been a love affair," put in Mary.

"Of course," added Elinor.

"Oh, Billie, couldn't you ask? I can't stand not knowing," exclaimed Nancy.

The old serving woman who was pa.s.sing quietly through the room at this juncture came over to them.