_ CHAPTER XVIII. ON A SCOTCH MOOR
'Time, so complained of,
Who to no one man
Shows partiality,
Brings round to all men
Some undimm'd hours.'
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
In future days Audrey always looked back upon those seven weeks at Braemar with the same feelings with which one recalls the memory of some lake embosomed in hills, that one has seen sleeping in the sunlight, and in which only tranquil images were reflected--the branch of some drooping sapling, or some bird's wing as it skimmed across the glassy surface.
Just so one day after another glided away in smooth enjoyment and untroubled serenity, and not a discordant breath ruffled the two households.
The house that Dr. Ross had taken had originally been two good-sized cottages, and though the rooms were small, there were plenty of them; and a little careful adjustment of the scanty furniture, and a few additional nicknacks, transformed the parlour into a pleasant sitting-room. Geraldine wondered and admired when she came across, the first morning after their arrival. Audrey had arranged her own and Michael's books on the empty shelves; the little mirror, and indeed the whole mantelpiece, was festooned and half hidden with branches laden with deep crimson rowan-berries, mixed with heather and silvery-leafed honesty; a basket of the same rowan-berries occupied the centre of the round table; an Oriental scarf draped the ugly horsehair sofa, and a comfortable-looking rug was thrown over the shabby easy-chair. The fishing-tackle, butterfly-nets, pipes, and all other heterogeneous matters, were consigned to a small bare apartment, known as 'Michael's den,' and which soon became a lumber-room.
Geraldine looked at her sister's handiwork with great approval. She considered her father's household was magnificently lodged; she and her husband had taken up their quarters in a much less commodious cottage--their tiny parlour would hardly hold four people comfortably, and the ceiling was so low that Mr. Harcourt always felt as though he must knock his head against the rafters. When any of the Ross party called on them, they generally adjourned to the small sloping garden, and conversed among the raspberry-bushes.
It was delightful to see Geraldine's enjoyment of these primitive surroundings. The young mistress of Hillside seemed transformed into another person. Percival's clever contrivances, their little makeshifts, their odd picnic life, were all fruitful topics of conversation.
'And then I have him all to myself, without any tiresome boys,' she would say to her mother. 'It is just like another honeymoon.'
Geraldine's one grievance was that she was not strong enough to share her husband's excursions. She had to stay with her mother and Michael when he and Audrey and Dr. Ross took one of their long scrambling or fishing expeditions. Geraldine used to manifest a wifely impatience on these occasions that was very pretty and becoming; and she and Michael, who seemed to share her feelings, would stroll to the little bridge of an evening to meet the returning party. Somehow Michael was always the first to see them and to raise the friendly halloo, that generally sent the small black cattle scampering down the croft.
'See the conquering hero comes!' Mr. Harcourt would respond, opening his rush basket to display the silvery trout. Dr. Ross's pockets would be full of mosses and specimens and fragments of rock, and Audrey brought up the rear with both hands laden with wild-flowers and grasses.
'Have you been dull, my darling?' Mr. Harcourt would say as Geraldine walked beside him. She seemed to have eyes and ears for no one else--and was that any wonder, when he had been absent from her since early morning? 'We have had a grand day, Jerry; we have tramped I do not know how many miles--Dr. Ross says fifteen; we have been arguing about it all the way home. I am as hungry as a hunter. I feel like Esau--a bowl of red lentils would not have a chance with me. I always had a sneaking sort of liking for Esau. What have you got for supper, little woman?'
'Salmon-steaks and broiled fowl,' was Geraldine's answer--'your favourite dishes, Percy. I am so glad you are hungry.'
'Faith, that I am; the Trojan heroes were nothing to me! I will have a wash first, and get off these boots--should you know them for boots?--and then you shall see, my dear.'
And it may be doubted whether those two ever enjoyed a meal more than those salmon-steaks and broiled fowl that Jean Scott first cooked and then carried in bare-armed, setting down the dishes with a triumphant bang on the small rickety table.
'Now we will have a drop of the cratur and a pipe,' Mr. Harcourt would say. 'Wrap yourself in my rug, and we will sit in the porch, for really this cabin stifles me after the moors. What have you and your mother been talking about? Let me have the whole budget, Jerry.'
Was there a happier woman in the world than Geraldine, nestled under her husband's plaid, in the big roomy porch, and looking out at the starlight? Even practical, prosaic people have their moments of poetry, when the inner meaning of things seems suddenly revealed to them, when their outer self drops off and their vision is purged and purified; and Geraldine, listening to the tinkling beck below, and inhaling the cool fragrance of the Scotch twilight, creeps nearer to her husband and leans against his sheltering arm. What does it matter what they talked about? Mr. Harcourt had not yet forgotten the lover in the husband; perhaps he, too, felt how sweet was this dual solitude after his busy labours, and owned in manly fashion his sense of his many blessings.
'How happy those two are!' Audrey once said, a little thoughtfully.
She was sitting on the open moor, and Michael was stretched on the heather beside her, with Kester at a little distance, buried as usual in his book; Booty was amusing himself by following rather inquisitively the slow movements of a bee that was humming over the heather. The three had been spending a tranquil afternoon together, while Dr. Ross and his son-in-law had started for a certain long walk, which they declared no woman ought to attempt.
Audrey was not sorry to be left with Michael. It had been her intention from the first to devote herself to him; and dearly as she loved these rambles with her father, she was quite as happy talking to Michael. Audrey's dangerous gift of sympathy--dangerous because of its lack of moderation--always enabled her to throw herself into other people's interests; it gave her positive happiness to see Michael so tranquil and content, and carrying himself with the air of a man who knows himself to be anchored in some fair haven after stress of weather; and, indeed, these were halcyon days to Michael.
He had Audrey's constant companionship, and never had the girl been sweeter to him. The delicious moorland air, the free life, the absence of any care or worry, braced his worn nerves and filled his pulses with a sense of returning health. He felt comparatively well and strong, and woke each morning with a sense of enjoyment and well-being. Even Audrey's long absences did not trouble him over-much, for there was always the pleasure of her return. He and Kester could always amuse themselves until the time came for him and Geraldine to stroll to their trysting-place.
'Here we are, Michael!' Audrey would say, with her sudden bright smile, that seemed to light up the landscape. Somehow, he had never admired her so much as he did now in her neat tweed dress, and the deerstalker cap that sat so jauntily on her brown hair. How lightly she walked! how full of life and energy she was! No mountain-bred lass had a freer step, a more erect carriage.
When Audrey made her little speech about her sister's happiness, Michael looked up with a sort of lazy surprise in his eyes.
'Well, are not married people generally happy?' he asked. 'At least, the world gives them credit for happiness. Fancy turning bankrupt at nine or ten months!'
'Oh, there will be no bankruptcy in their case. Gage is a thoroughly contented woman. Do you know, Michael, I begin to think Percival a good fellow myself. I never saw quite so much of him before, and he is really very companionable.'
'Come, now, I have hopes of you. Then why this dubious tone in alluding to their matrimonial felicity?'
'Oh, I don't know!' with a slight blush. 'I believe it makes me a little impatient if people talk too much about it. Mother and Gage are perpetually haranguing on such subjects as this; they are always hinting, or saying out openly, that such a girl had better be married. Now, it is all very well, but there are two sides to every question, and I do think old maids have a great many privileges. No one seems to think of the delights of freedom.'
'I believe we have heard these sentiments before. Kester, my son, go on with your book; this sort of conversation is not intended for good little boys.'
'Michael, don't be absurd! I really mean what I say; it is perfectly glorious to say and do just what one likes. I mean to write a paper about it one day, and send it up to one of our leading periodicals.'
'"On the Old Maids of England," by "A Young Maid." I should like to read it; the result of three-and-twenty years' experience must be singularly beneficial to the world at large. Write it, my child, by all means; and I will correct the proof-sheets.'
'But why should not one be happy in one's own way?' persisted Audrey. 'You are older than I, Michael--I suppose a man of your age must have some experience--is it not something to be your own master, to go where you like and do what you like without being cross-questioned on your actions?'
'Oh, I will agree with you there!'
'People talk such nonsense about loneliness and all that sort of thing, as though one need be lonely in a whole world full of human creatures--as though an old maid cannot find plenty to love, and who will love her.'
'I don't know; I never tried. If I had a maiden aunt, perhaps----' murmured Michael.
'If you had, and she were a nice, kind-hearted woman, you would love her. I know it is the fashion to laugh at old maids, and make remarks on their funny little ways; but I never will find fault with them. Why, I shall be an old maid myself one day; but, all the same, I mean people to love me all my life long. What are you doing now?' rather sharply; for Michael had taken out his pocket-book and was writing the date.
'I thought I might like to remind you of this conversation one day. Is it the sixteenth or the seventeenth? Thank you, Kester--the seventeenth? There! it is written down.'
'You are very disagreeable, and I will not talk any more to you. I shall go and look for some stag's-horn moss instead;' and Audrey sprang up from her couch of heather and marched away, while Michael lay face downward, with his peaked cap drawn over his eyes, and watched her roaming over the moor.
Now, why was Audrey declaiming after this fashion? and why did she take it into her head to air all sorts of independent notions that quite shocked her mother? and why was she for ever drawing plans to herself of a life that should be solitary, and yet crowded with interests--whose keynote should be sympathy for her fellow-creatures and large-hearted work among them? and, above all, why did she want to persuade herself and Michael that this was the sort of life best fitted for her? But no one could answer these questions; so complex is the machinery of feminine nature, that perhaps Audrey herself would have been the last to be able to answer them.
But she was very happy, in spite of all these crude theories--very happy indeed; some fulness of life seemed to enrich her fine, bountiful nature, and to add to her sense of enjoyment. Sometimes, when she was sitting beside some mountain beck, in the hush of the noontide heat, when all was silent and solitary about her except the gauzy wings of insects moving above the grasses, a certain face would start up against the background of her thoughts--a pair of dark, wistful eyes would appeal to her out of the silence. That mute farewell, so suggestive, so full of pain--even the strong warm grasp with which her hand had been held--recurred to her memory. Was he still missing her, she wondered, or had Miss Frances contrived to comfort him?
Miss Frances was very seldom mentioned in Cyril's frequent letters to Kester. The boy used to bring them to Audrey to read with a glow of satisfaction on his face.
'Cyril is awfully good,' he said once; 'he never used to write to me at all; mother always had his letters. But look what a long one I have had to-day--two sheets and a half--and he has asked such a lot of questions. Please, do read it, Miss Ross; there are heaps of messages to everybody.'
Audrey was quite willing to read it. As she took the letter, she again admired the clear, bold handwriting. It was just like the writer, she thought--frank, open, and straightforward. But as she perused it, a glow of amusement passed over her face.
Mr. Blake's letters were very kind and brotherly, but were they only intended for Kester's eyes? Were all those picturesque descriptions, those clever sketches of character, those telling bits of humour, meant solely for the delectation of a boy of sixteen? And, then, the series of questions--what did they do all day when the weather was rainy, for example? did Miss Ross always join the Doctor and Mr. Harcourt on their fishing expeditions? and so on. Mr. Blake seldom mentioned her name, although there were many indirect allusions to her; but Miss Frances was scarcely ever mentioned. She was only classed in an offhand way with 'the Hackett girls' or 'the young ladies.' 'The Hackett girls went with us; the two younger ones are famous walkers,' etcetera.
Sometimes there would be an attempt to moralise.
'I am getting sick of girls,' he wrote on this occasion. 'I will give you a piece of brotherly advice, my boy: never have much to do with them. Do not misunderstand me. By girls, I mean the specimens of young ladies one meets at tennis-parties, garden-parties, and that sort of thing. They are very pretty and amusing, but they are dangerous; they seem to expect that a fellow has nothing else to do but to dangle after them and pay them compliments. Even Miss F----. But, there, I will not mention names. She is a good sort--a lively little soul; but she is always up to mischief.'
Audrey bit her lips to keep from smiling as she read this passage, for she knew Kester was watching her. It was one of the 'saft days' common in the Highlands, and, not being ducks, the two households had remained within doors. Dr. Ross and Michael were classifying butterflies and moths in the den; Mrs. Ross was in her room; and Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt--'cabined, cribbed, confined,' as Mr. Harcourt expressed it--were getting through alarming arrears of correspondence by way of passing the time. Audrey had lighted a fire in the parlour, and sat beside it snugly, and Kester was on the couch opposite her.
'I wonder if it be Miss Frances!' thought Audrey, as she replaced the letter in the envelope. '"A lively little soul, and a good sort." I don't think Mr. Blake's dislike to girls counts for much. Young men seldom write in that way unless they are bitten; and, of course, it could be no one else but Miss Frances. But it is no use arguing out the question.'
'It is a very good letter,' she said aloud. 'You are lucky to have such a correspondent. I suppose'--taking up her embroidery--'that your brother will not mind our seeing his letters?'
'Oh dear no!' returned Kester, falling innocently into the snare. 'I have told him that you always read them; and, you see, he writes just as often. Do you think Cyril is enjoying himself as much as we are, Miss Ross? Now and then it seems to me that he is a little dull. When Cyril says he is bored, I think he means it.'
Audrey evaded this question. She also had detected a vein of melancholy running through the letters. If he were so very happy in Miss Frances' society, would he wish quite so earnestly that the vacation were over, and that he was amongst his boys in the big schoolroom? Would he drop those hints that no air suited him like Rutherford air?
'I think he ought to be enjoying himself,' she said, a little severely. 'He is amongst very kind people, who evidently try to make him happy, and who treat him like one of themselves; and, then, the girls seem so good-natured. Young men do not know when they are well off. You had better tell him so, Kester.'
'Shall I say it as a message from you?'
'By no means;' and Audrey spoke very decidedly. 'I never send messages to gentlemen.' And as the boy looked rather abashed at this rebuke, she continued more gently: 'Of course you will give him our kind regards, and I daresay mother will send a message--Mr. Blake is a great favourite of hers. But it is not my business if your brother chooses to be discontented and to quarrel with his loaves and fishes.'
'I think Cyril would like to be in my place,' observed Kester, quite unaware that he was saying the wrong thing; but Audrey took no notice of this speech. 'Well, he need not envy me now,' he went on, in a dolorous voice. 'It has been a grand time--I have never been so happy in my life; but it will soon be over now. Only a fortnight more.'
'I am so glad you have been happy, Kester; and you do seem so much better,' looking at him critically.
And indeed a great change had passed over the boy. His face was less thin and sharp, and there was a tinge of healthy colour in his cheeks; his eyes, too, were less sunken and hollow, and had lost their melancholy expression. When Audrey had first seen him on that June afternoon, there had been a subdued air about him that contrasted painfully with his extreme youth; but now there was renewed life and energy in his aspect, as though some heavy pressure had been suddenly removed.
'I am ever so much better,' he returned gratefully; and it was then that Audrey noticed for the first time his likeness to his brother. He was really a nice-looking boy, and but for his want of health would have been handsome. 'When I go home'--and here a cloud passed over his face--'these weeks will seem like a dream. Fancy having to do nothing all day but enjoy one's self from morning to night!'
'Why, I am sure you and Michael work hard enough.'
'Oh, but that is the best pleasure of all!' he replied eagerly. 'I should not care for idleness. I like to feel I am making progress; and Captain Burnett says I am getting on first-rate. And then think of our study, Miss Ross!' and here Kester's face kindled with enthusiasm. 'How I shall dream of those moors, and of those great patches of purple heather, and the bees humming over the thyme, and the golden gorse, and the bracken! No wonder Cyril wants to be in my place!'
'You and Michael are great friends, are you not, Kester?'
'Oh yes!' But though Kester turned on her a beaming look of assent, he said no more. He had a boy's dislike to speak of his feelings; and Audrey respected this shy reticence, for she asked no further questions. But she knew Kester almost worshipped Michael, that a word from him influenced him more than a dozen words from any other person; even Cyril's opinion must defer to this new friend. For was not Captain Burnett a hero? did he not wear the Victoria Cross? and were not those scars the remains of glorious wounds, when he shed his blood freely for those poor sick soldiers? And this hero, this king of men, this grave, clear-eyed soldier, had thrown the aegis of his protection round him--Kester--had stooped to teach and befriend him! No wonder Kester prayed 'God bless him!' every night in his brief boyish prayers; that he grew to track his footsteps much as Booty did, and to read him--as Audrey failed to do--by the light of his honest, youthful love.
For Kester's hero was Kester's friend; and in time friends grow to understand each other. _