Part 21 (1/2)
The great Somerled can of course get anything he wants to ask for if he chooses to reveal himself--anyhow, in Scotland; because already I am beginning to learn that even the smallest or humblest Scottish peasant knows all that's worth knowing, not only of the past but of the present, and has heard of all the celebrities. Maybe there might be miniature places in England, America, Germany, or France where the poor and uneducated would know nothing of Somerled the painter and millionaire.
But in Scotland, apparently, though there are many poor, there are no uneducated persons. Those to whom his being a painter would mean nothing would be interested in his money. Those who didn't care for his millions of dollars would have read about his painting: and all would value him because he belongs to Scotland.
As soon as our luggage was in our rooms and dinner ordered, Sir Somerled inquired if we were ready for the Abbey; but Mrs. James mildly asked if we would mind going without her. She had begun to realize that she was tired, and would like to rest. She could go by herself to the Abbey early in the morning before starting time. I felt that I ought to mind more than I did, but I couldn't help liking to be with Sir S. alone. It seemed like the night of our first meeting; for some one had always been with us, more or less, ever since. It was only a short stroll through the village, not enough to call a walk. A dear little lady who lives in a nice cottage close to the ruin opened the iron gate, but she did not go in with us, because it was time for her supper. She had a photograph done from one of the great Somerled's most famous pictures, and if he had been a long she could not have been more polite.
At first, the inside of the sh.e.l.l-like Abbey with the beautiful name was a disappointment. The green gra.s.s was enc.u.mbered with tasteless graves and flat modern stones which looked as if they had lain down there without permission.
We wandered about rather forlornly for a while, until we found Devorgilla's thirteenth-century tomb. Sir S. told me her history, and waked the sad old place to living interest. I seemed to see the ever-loving lady, followed by her chosen maidens carrying the heart in its ebony and silver box. And together we made up a theory, that of every event _something_ reminiscent lingers on the spot where it happened. If only our eyes were different, we should be able, wherever we went, to see filmy, mysterious pictures painted on air--fadeless, moving photographs of all the people and all the deeds which have made up the world's history.
This set us talking of our own pictures, which we are leaving behind us as we go through life; and I couldn't help thinking how he and I, in accordance with this idea, will for ever and ever go on being ”married”
at Gretna Green. I laughed at the thought, and he asked me why, so I told him.
”When you're marrying your real wife, years from now maybe, and have forgotten my existence, that scene will still be enacting itself,” I said, ”not only on the films the photograph men took, but on air films.
Doesn't it frighten you?” I asked.
”Doesn't it frighten you?” he echoed. ”Because you will marry. I never shall.”
”How do you know?” I catechized him.
”If I can't have the wife I want, I'll have none.”
”Perhaps you can have the one you want if you ask her nicely.”
”I don't intend to ask. I'm not the right one for her.”
”You might let her decide that!” I n.o.bly said, for Mrs. West may be the woman. ”I do hope, if men ever love me, they'll tell me so.”
”No fear! They will.” He laughed more loudly than I have heard him laugh.
”But the right one mayn't, if he thinks as you do.”
”He won't. He'll be thinking only of himself. But look here, my girl, be sure you _do_ take the right one when you marry; for if in my opinion you're likely to make a big mistake when the time comes, I may be tempted to put a spoke in the fellow's wheel.”
”Please do!” I laughed.
”You think I'm joking,” he said, watching me in a way he has, between narrowed lids, his eyes almost black in the twilight. ”And so I am to a certain extent. Yet I might forbid the banns, perhaps--if I chose.”
”But how?”
”Haven't you any idea?”
”Not half a one.”
”Then I won't tell. It would only worry you--for nothing. Marry in peace, when your Prince comes, and I'll send you my blessing--from far away.”
”I don't like to think of your being far away,” I said. ”Let's not talk of it. For you are my only friend--except Mrs. James. And you're so different.”
”I thank Heaven!” he said. ”And I thank her for wanting a rest. Good as she is, three would be a crowd in Sweetheart Abbey.”