“WOULD I DO?”
This unexpected offer came from behind one of the trees that served as topmasts, and at the same moment there issued from that delightfully secluded retreat Ronald Macdonald, in knickerbockers and a golf-cap.
Suddenly as this apparition came, there was no lack of welcome on the children’s part. They shouted his name in glee, embraced his legs, and pulled him about like affectionate young bears. Confusion reigned for a moment, while Sir Patrick rose from her sea grave all in a mist of floating hair, from which hung impromptu garlands of pink thyme and green grasses.
“Allow me to do the honours, please, Jamie,” said Mr. Macdonald, when he could escape from the children’s clutches. “Have you been properly presented? I suppose not. Ladies, the young Master of Rowardennan. Jamie, Miss Hamilton and Miss Monroe from the United States of America.” Sir Apple-Cheek bowed respectfully. “Let me present the Honourable Ralph Ardmore, also from the castle, together with Dandie Dinmont and the Wrig from Crummylowe. Sir Patrick, it is indeed a pleasure to see you again. Must you take off my gown? I had thought it was past use, but it never looked so well before.”
“YOUR gown?”
The counterfeit presentment of Sir Patrick vanished as the long drapery flew to the hedge whence it came, and there remained only an offended young goddess, who swung her dark mane tempestuously to one side, plaited it in a thick braid, tossed it back again over her white serge shoulder, and crowded on her sailor hat with unnecessary vehemence.
“Yes, MY gown; whose else could you more appropriately borrow, pray? Mistress Ogilvie of Crummylowe presses, sponges, and darns my bachelor wardrobe, but I confess I never suspected that she rented it out for theatrical purposes. I have been calling upon you in Pettybaw; Lady Ardmore was there at the same time. Finding but one of the three American Graces at home, I stayed a few moments only, and am now returning to Inchcaldy by way of Crummylowe.” Here he plucked the gown off the hedge and folded it carefully.
“Can’t we keep it for a sail, Mr. Macdonald?” pleaded Jamie. “Mistress Ogilvie said it wasn’t any more good.”
“When Mistress Ogilvie made that remark,” replied the Reverend Ronald, “she had no idea that it would ever touch the shoulders of the martyred Sir Patrick Spens. Now, I happen to love—”
Francesca hung out a scarlet flag in each cheek, and I was about to say, ‘Don’t mind me!’ when he continued—
“As I was saying, I happen to love ‘Sir Patrick Spens,’—it is my favourite ballad; so, with your permission, I will take the gown, and you can find something less valuable for a sail!”
I could never understand just why Francesca was so annoyed at being discovered in our innocent game. Of course she was prone on Mother Earth and her tresses were much dishevelled, but she looked lovely after all, in comparison with me, the humble ‘supe’ and lightning-change artist; yet I kept my temper,—at least I kept it until the Reverend Ronald observed, after escorting us through the gap in the wall, “By the way, Miss Hamilton, there was a gentleman from Paris at your cottage, and he is walking down the road to meet you.”
Walking down the road to meet me, forsooth! Have ministers no brains? The Reverend Mr. Macdonald had wasted five good minutes with his observations, introductions, explanations, felicitations, and adorations, and meantime, regardez-moi, messieurs et mesdames, s’il vous plait! I have been a Noroway dog, a shipbuilder, and a gallant sailorman; I have been a gurly sea and a towering gale; I have crawled from beneath broken anchors, topsails, and mizzenmasts to a strand where I have been a suffering lady plying a gowd kaim. My skirt of blue drill has been twisted about my person until it trails in front; my collar is wilted, my cravat untied; I have lost a stud and a sleeve-link; my hair is in a tangled mass, my face is scarlet and dusty—and a gentleman from Paris is walking down the road to meet me!
Chapter XVIII. Paris comes to Pettybaw
Willie Beresford has come to Pettybaw, and that Arcadian village has received the last touch that makes it Paradise.
We are exploring the neighbourhood together, and whichever path we take we think it lovelier than the one before. This morning we drove to Pettybaw Sands, Francesca and Salemina following by the footpath and meeting us on the shore. It is all so enchantingly fresh and green on one of these rare bright days: the trig lass bleaching her ‘claes’ on the grass by the burn near the little stone bridge; the wild partridges whirring about in pairs; the farm-boy seated on the clean straw in the bottom of his cart, and cracking his whip in mere wanton joy at the sunshine; the pretty cottages; and the gardens with rows of currant and gooseberry bushes hanging thick with fruit that suggests jam and tart in every delicious globule. It is a love-coloured landscape, we know it full well; and nothing in the fair world about us is half as beautiful as what we see in each other’s eyes. Ah, the memories of these first golden mornings together after our long separation. I shall sprinkle them with lavender and lay them away in that dim chamber of the heart where we keep precious things. We all know the chamber. It is fragrant with other hidden treasures, for all of them are sweet, though some are sad. That is the reason why we put a finger on the lip and say ‘Hush,’ if we open the door and allow any one to peep in.
We tied the pony by the wayside and alighted: Willie to gather some sprays of the pink veronica and blue speedwell, I to sit on an old bench and watch him in happy idleness. The ‘white-blossomed slaes’ sweetened the air, and the distant hills were gay with golden whin and broom, or flushed with the purply-red of the bell heather.
We heard the note of the cushats from a neighbouring bush. They used to build their nests on the ground, so the story goes, but the cows trampled them. Now they are wiser and build higher, and their cry is supposed to be a derisive one, directed to their ancient enemies. ‘Come noo, Coo, Coo! Come noo!’
A hedgehog crept stealthily along the ground, and at a sudden sound curled himself up like a wee brown bear. There were women working in the fields near by,—a strange sight to our eyes at first, but nothing unusual here, where many of them are employed on the farms all the year round, sowing weeding, planting, even ploughing in the spring, and in winter working at threshing or in the granary.
An old man, leaning on his staff, came tottering feebly along, and sank down on the bench beside me. He was dirty, ragged, unkempt, and feeble, but quite sober, and pathetically anxious for human sympathy.
“I’m achty-sax year auld,’ he maundered, apropos of nothing, “achty-sax year auld. I’ve seen five lairds o’ Pettybaw, sax placed meenisters, an’ seeven doctors. I was a mason, an’ a stoot mon i’ thae days, but it’s a meeserable life noo. Wife deid, bairns deid! I sit by my lane, an’ smoke my pipe, wi’ naebody to gi’e me a sup o’ water. Achty-sax is ower auld for a mon,—ower auld.”
These are the sharp contrasts of life one cannot bear to face when one is young and happy. Willie gave him a half-crown and some tobacco for his pipe, and when the pony trotted off briskly, and we left the shrunken figure alone on his bench as he was lonely in his life, we kissed each other and pledged ourselves to look after him as long as we remain in Pettybaw; for what is love worth if it does not kindle the flames of spirit, open the gates of feeling, and widen the heart to shelter all the little loves and great loves that crave admittance?
As we neared the tiny fishing-village on the sands we met a fishwife brave in her short skirt and eight petticoats, the basket with its two hundred pound weight on her head, and the auld wife herself knitting placidly as she walked along. They look superbly strong, these women; but, to be sure, the ‘weak anes dee,’ as one of them told me.