Part 8 (1/2)

”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 s.h.i.+ne 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. Friends.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+pboard; 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?