Part 16 (2/2)

I can't say that the first Scots I met--men, women, or children--looked like descendants of the robber hordes who used to make the Borderland their home; yet I paid them the compliment to believe they were such.

And you never would dream that the great-great-grandchildren of raiders could have built for themselves the mild, solid, self-respecting houses these people have dotted along the road where King Arthur pa.s.sed, and where some of the most romantic battles of history have been fought. But so it is. And there the houses are. The people have found a kind of stone to build them with, which looks like pressed roses; and there are door-stones and even gate-stones of such an incredible cleanness, that some women must devote their whole lives to their service, as nuns do to prayer.

Soon we came to the village and the post-office of Gretna Green, bristling with picture post cards. There was the expected group of whitewashed, one-story houses plastered with exciting notices: ”Old Priests' Relics,” ”Marriage Registers Kept,” and delightful things like that. So far, the scene was just what I'd imagined; but there was one feature in the picture which made me feel I must be dreaming, it was so surprising and extraordinary.

In front of the Blacksmith's Shop stood the quaintest vehicle out of a museum. It was an antique chaise such as no one in the last five generations can have seen except in an ill.u.s.trated book, or an old coloured print. Two handsome gray horses were harnessed to it, looking quite embarra.s.sed, as if they hated being made conspicuous, and hoped that they might not be recognized by their smart acquaintances. As we came gliding past, they turned away their faces, lest our motor--christened by me Gray Dragon--should regard them with contempt.

By the horses' heads stood a gorgeous, grinning man, dressed in livery such as postilions may have worn a hundred years ago. Talking to him was a blacksmith of the same remote epoch, with knee-breeches showing under a leather ap.r.o.n, a great hammer in his hand, and on his head a high, broad-brimmed beaver hat balanced on a white wig. Not far off were two men in modern clothes; and they were placing in position some kind of a photographic camera.

When they saw that we meant to stop at the Blacksmith's Shop, they brightened up, and seemed as much interested as if they had never before seen an automobile.

”They're going to take photographs of a Gretna Green wedding of ancient times, for a biograph show, evidently,” said Sir Somerled MacDonald, and quickly explained to the late prisoner of the gla.s.s retort the nature of a biograph. ”Rather a good idea that! Apparently they're waiting for their chief characters, the bride and groom.”

He was helping Mrs. James to get down from the car, and I had already jumped out, for, of course, we wanted to visit the old house, and see everything there was to see, in the place where Sh.e.l.ley (maybe!) and hundreds of other famous people have been married. But before going in, we lingered to stare at the chaise, which was rather like an immense bathtub, the kind we used at Hillard House, where Grandma would have no such new-fangled innovation as a bathroom. As we stood there, one of the men with the camera came up, hovered undecidedly, and then said, with a cough to draw attention to himself: ”Excuse me, sir, but will you pardon the liberty of my asking if you and the young lady will oblige us with a great favour?”

Sir Somerled frowned slightly, with his millionaire manner, which is not so nice as the other. ”What is the favour?” he inquired.

”Why, sir,” the man explained, ”we're in a bit of a hole. You can see we're here to reconstruct a runaway wedding for a cinema show. We represent the North British Biograph Company, and we've been to a lot of trouble and expense to get our props together. Pretty soon the father's coach will be along, and we've got all we want except the two princ.i.p.al figures. The bride and groom we engaged have failed to turn up. We can't make out what's happened, but they ain't here, and we've searched the neighbourhood without finding anything we can do with in their place.

The light's just right now, after the flurry o' rain, but by the look o'

the sky it won't last; and altogether it seems as if we'd have our trouble for our pains unless you and the young lady'd consent to help us out. If you'll allow me to say so, sir, in costume you'd be the Ideal Thing.”

For an instant Sir S. looked as haughty as a dethroned king. Then the funny side struck him, and he laughed. ”You flatter us,” he said; ”but I'm sorry we can't do what you ask. Perhaps your people will turn up, after all.”

The poor man looked bitterly disappointed, almost as if he would cry, and so did the other, who had been listening with enormously large red ears like handles on a terra-cotta urn. Both men were wet with the rain, which had fallen sharply and only just stopped as if to welcome us over the border. The one who had spoken turned sadly away, without venturing to urge his point (Sir S. isn't the sort of person strange men would take liberties with), but in retreating he threw one agonized look at me. I couldn't resist it.

”Oh, _do_ let's stand for the bride and groom!” I pleaded. And foreseeing a battle the photographer hastily retired into the background to let us fight it out. ”It would be such fun. I should love it. You know, I've always vowed to be married at Gretna Green, if at all. And this would be next best to the real thing.”

I gazed up at Sir S. as enticingly as I knew how, and there was a look in his eyes that frightened me a little. I was afraid I had made him angry; yet it wasn't a look of crossness. I could not tell what it meant, but his voice in answering sounded kind. As usual, when he has been particularly grave, he smiled that nice smile which begins in his eyes and suddenly lights up his face.

”You'd better wait for the 'real thing' and the real man,” said he. ”Be patient for a few years. You've plenty of time.”

”I may _never_ get another such good chance,” I mourned. ”You _are_ unkind! It would amuse me so much, and it wouldn't hurt you.”

”Do you think that's why I say no?” he asked. ”You think I'm afraid?”

”Yes, I do,” I insisted. ”You're too proud to do what will make you look silly--because you're the great Somerled.”

”By Jove!” he said, and his face flushed up. ”If you say much more I will do it--and hang everything!”

”I _do_ say much more!” I cried. ”_Much_ more--and hang everything.”

”Very well, then,” said he. ”Your blood be on your own head.”

”My head's red enough already!” I giggled. ”Oh, what fun! You are good, after all.”

”_Am_ I good, Mrs. James, or am I bad?” he asked, turning for the first time to her, as if he were half inclined to change his mind. But she only smiled. ”I can't see that there's any real harm,” said she. ”It does seem a pity that these poor people should have come all this way and spent all this money for nothing, don't you think so?”

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