CHAPTER X
HIGH FESTIVAL
A children's tea-party in a Highland barn sounds a trivial sort of affair; and, as a spectacle, would doubtless suffer in contrast with a fancy-dress ball in Kensington or with a State concert at Buckingham Palace. But human nature is the important thing, after all, no matter what the surroundings may be; and if one considers what the ordinary life of these children was – the dull monotony of it in those far and bleak solitudes; their ignorance of pantomime transformation scenes; their lack of elaborately illustrated fairy tales, and similar aids to the imagination enjoyed by more fortunate young people elsewhere – it was surely an interesting kind of project to bring these bairns away from the homely farm or the keeper's cottage, in the depth of mid-winter, and to march them through the blackness of a January evening into a suddenly opening wonderland of splendour and colour and festivity. They were not likely to remember that this was but a barn – this beautiful place, with its blazing candelabra, and its devices of evergreens and great white and red roses, and the long table sumptuously set forth, and each guest sitting down, finding himself or herself a capitalist to the extent of sevenpence. And so warm and comfortable the lofty building was; and so brilliant and luminous with those circles of candles; and the loud strains of the pipes echoing through it – giving them a welcome just as if they were grown-up people: no wonder they stared mostly in silence at first, and seemed awestruck, and perhaps were in doubt whether this might not be some Cinderella kind of feast, that they might suddenly be snatched away from – and sent back again through the cold and the night to the far and silent cottage in the glen. But this feeling soon wore off; for it was no mystical fairy – though she seemed more beautiful and gracious, and more richly attired than any fairy they had ever dreamed about – who went swiftly here and there and everywhere, arranging their seats for them, laughing and talking with them, forgetting not one of their names, and as busy and merry and high-spirited as so great an occasion obviously demanded.
Moreover, is it not in these early years that ideals are unconsciously being formed – from such experiences as are nearest? – ideals that in after-life may become standards of conduct and aims. They had never seen any one so gentle-mannered as this young lady who was at once their hostess and the little mother of them all, nor any one so dignified and yet so simple and good-humoured and kind. They could not but observe with what marked respect Ronald Strang (a most important person in their eyes) treated her – insisting on her changing places with him, lest she should be in a draught when the door was opened; and not allowing her to touch the teapots that came hot and hot from the kitchen, lest she should burn her fingers; he pouring out the tea himself, and rather clumsily too. And if their ideal of sweet and gracious womanhood (supposing it to be forming in their heads) was of but a prospective advantage, was there not something of a more immediate value to them in thus being allowed to look on one who was so far superior to the ordinary human creatures they saw around them? She formed an easy key to the few imaginative stories they were familiar with. Cinderella, for example: when they read how she fascinated the prince at the ball, and won all hearts and charmed all eyes, they could think of Miss Douglas, and eagerly understand. The Queen of Sheba, when she came in all her splendour: how were these shepherds' and keepers' and crofters' children to form any notion of her appearance but by regarding Miss Douglas in this beautiful and graceful attire of hers? In point of fact, her gown was but of plain black silk; but there was something about the manner of her wearing it that had an indefinable charm; and then she had a singularly neat collar and a pretty ribbon round her neck; and there were slender silver things gleaming at her wrists from time to time. Indeed, there was no saying for how many heroines of history or fiction Miss Meenie Douglas had unconsciously to herself to do duty – in the solitary communings of a summer day's herding, or during the dreary hours in which these hapless little people were shut up in some small, close, overcrowded parish church, supposing that they lived anywhere within half a dozen miles of such a building: now she would be Joan of Arc, or perhaps Queen Esther that was so surpassing beautiful, or Lord Ullin's daughter that was drowned within sight of Ulva's shores. And was it not sufficiently strange that the same magical creature, who represented to them everything that was noble and beautiful and refined and queen-like, should now be moving about amongst them, cutting cake for them, laughing, joking, patting this one or that on the shoulder, and apparently quite delighted to wait on them and serve them?
The introductory singing of the Old Hundredth Psalm was, it must be confessed, a failure. The large majority of the children present had never either heard or seen a piano; and when Meenie went to that strange-looking instrument (it had been brought over from her mother's cottage with considerable difficulty), and when she sate down and struck the first deep resounding chords – and when Ronald, at his end of the table, led off the singing with his powerful tenor voice – they were far too much interested and awestruck to follow. Meenie sang, in her quiet clear way, and Maggie timidly joined in, but the children were silent. However, as has already been said, the restraint that was at first pretty obvious very soon wore off; the tea and cake were consumed amid much general hilarity and satisfaction; and when in due course the Chairman rose to deliver his address, and when Miss Douglas tapped on the table to secure attention, and also by way of applause, several of the elder ones had quite enough courage and knowledge of affairs to follow her example, so that the speaker may be said to have been received with favour.
And if there were any wise ones there, whose experience had taught them that tea and cake were but a snare to entrap innocent people into being lectured and sermonised, they were speedily reassured. The Chairman's address was mostly about starlings and jays and rabbits and ferrets and squirrels; and about the various ways of taming these, and teaching them; and of his own various successes and failures when he was a boy. He had to apologise at the outset for not speaking in the Gaelic; for he said that if he tried they would soon be laughing at him; he would have to speak in English; but if he mentioned any bird or beast whose name they did not understand, they were to ask him, and he would tell them the Gaelic name. And very soon it was clear enough that this was no lecture on the wanderings of the children of Israel, nor yet a sermon on justification by faith; the eager eyes of the boys followed every detail of the capture of the nest of young ospreys; the girls were like to cry over the untimely fate of a certain tame sparrow that had strayed within the reach – or the spring rather – of an alien cat; and general laughter greeted the history of the continued and uncalled-for mischiefs and evil deeds of one Peter, a squirrel but half reclaimed from its savage ways, that had cost the youthful naturalist much anxiety and vexation, and also not a little blood. There was, moreover, a dark and wild story of revenge – on an ill-conditioned cur that was the terror of the whole village, and was for ever snapping at girls' ankles and boys' legs – a most improper and immoral story to be told to young folks, though the boys seemed to think the ill-tempered beast got no more than it deserved. That small village, by the way, down there in the Lothians, seemed to have been a very remarkable place; the scene of the strangest exploits and performances on the part of terriers, donkeys, pet kittens, and tame jackdaws; haunted by curious folk, too, who knew all about bogles and kelpies and such uncanny creatures, and had had the most remarkable experiences of them (though modern science was allowed to come in here for a little bit, with its cold-blooded explanations of the supernatural). And when, to finish up this discursive and apparently aimless address, he remarked that the only thing lacking in that village where he had been brought up, and where he had observed all these incidents and wonders, was the presence of a kind-hearted and generous young lady, who, on an occasion, would undertake all the trouble of gathering together the children for miles around, and would do everything she could to make them perfectly happy, they knew perfectly well whom he meant; and when he said, in conclusion, that if they knew of any such an one about here, in Inver-Mudal, and if they thought that she had been kind to them, and if they wished to show her that they were grateful to her for her goodness, they could not do better than give her three loud cheers, the lecture came to an end in a perfect storm of applause; and Meenie – blushing a little, and yet laughing – had to get up and say that she was responsible for the keeping of order by this assembly, and would allow no speech-making and no cheering that was not put down in the programme.
After this there was a service of raisins; and in the general quiet that followed Mr. Murray came into the room, just to see how things were going on. Now the innkeeper considered himself to be a man of a humorous turn; and when he went up to shake hands with Miss Douglas, and looked down the long table, and saw Ronald presiding at the other end, and her presiding at this, and all the children sitting so sedately there, he remarked to her in his waggish way —
'Well, now, for a young married couple, you have a very large family.'
But Miss Douglas was not a self-conscious young person, nor easily alarmed, and she merely laughed and said —
'I am sure they are a very well-behaved family indeed.'
But Ronald, who had not heard the jocose remark, by the way, objected to any one coming in to claim Miss Douglas's attention on so important an occasion; and in his capacity of Chairman he rose and rapped loudly on the table.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'we're not going to have any idlers here the night. Any one that bides with us must do something. I call on Mr. Murray to sing his well-known song, "Bonnie Peggie, O."'
'Indeed no, indeed no,' the innkeeper said, instantly retreating to the door. 'There iss too many good judges here the night. I'll leave you to yourselfs; but if there's anything in the inn you would like sent over, do not be afraid to ask for it, Ronald. And the rooms for the children are all ready, and the beds; and we'll make them very comfortable, Miss Douglas, be sure of that now.'
'It's ower soon to talk about beds yet,' Ronald said, when the innkeeper had gone; and he drove home the wooden bolt of the door, so that no other interloper should get in. Meenie had said she wanted no outsiders present; that was enough.
And then they set about getting through the programme – the details of which need not be repeated here. Song followed song; when there was any pause Meenie played simple airs on the piano; for 'The Cameraman's Dream,' when it came to her turn to read them something, she substituted 'The Pied Piper of Hamelin,' which was listened to with breathless interest. Even the little Maggie did her part in the 'Huntingtower' duet very creditably – fortified by the knowledge that there were no critics present. And as for the children, they had become quite convinced that there was to be no sermon; and that they were not to be catechised about their lessons, nor examined as to the reasons annexed to the Fourth Commandment; all care was gone from them; for the moment life was nothing but shortbread and raisins and singing, with admiration of Miss Douglas's beautiful hair and beautiful kind eyes and soft and laughing voice.
And then, as the evening wore on, it became time to send these young people to the beds that had been prepared for them at the inn; and of course they could not break up without singing 'Auld Lang Syne' – Meenie officiating at the piano, and all the others standing up and joining hands. And then she had to come back to the table to propose a vote of thanks to the Chairman. Well, she was not much abashed. Perhaps there was a little extra colour in her face at the beginning; and she said she had never tried to make a speech before; and, indeed, that now there was no occasion, for that all of them knew Ronald (so she called him, quite naturally), and knew that he was always willing to do a kindness when he was asked. And she said that he had done a great deal more than had been originally begged of him; and they ought all of them, including herself, to be very grateful to him; and if they wished to give him a unanimous vote of thanks, they were all to hold up their right hand – as she did. So that vote was carried; and Ronald said a few words in reply – mostly about Miss Douglas, in truth, and also telling them to whom they were indebted for the money found in each saucer. Then came the business of finding wraps for them and muffling them up ere they went out into the January night (though many a one there was all unused to such precautions, and wondered that Miss Douglas should be so careful of them), while Ronald, up at the head of the room, was playing them a parting salute on the pipes —Caidil gu lo it was, which means 'Sleep on till day.' Finally, when Maggie and Meenie were ushering their small charges through the darkness to the back-door of the inn, he found himself alone; and, before putting out the candles and fastening up, he thought he might as well have a smoke – for that solace had been denied him during the long evening.
Well, he was staring absently into the mass of smouldering peats, and thinking mostly of the sound of Meenie's voice as he had heard it when she sang with the children 'Whither, pilgrims, are you going?' when he heard footsteps behind him, and turning found that both Meenie and Maggie had come back.
'Ronald,' said Meenie, with her pretty eyes smiling at him, 'do you know that Maggie and I are rather tired – '
'Well, I dinna wonder,' said he.
'Yes, and both of us very hungry too. And I am sure there will be no supper waiting for either Maggie or me when we go home; and do you think you could get us some little thing now?'
'Here?' said he, with his face lighting up with pleasure: were those three to have supper all by themselves?
'Oh yes,' said she, in her friendly way. 'I am not sure that my mother would like me to stay at the inn for supper; but this is our own place; and the table laid; and Maggie and I would rather be here, I am sure. And you – are you not hungry too – after so long a time – I am sure you want something besides raisins and shortbread. But if it will be any trouble —
'Trouble or no trouble,' said he quickly, 'has nothing to do wi't. Here, Maggie, lass, clear the end of the table; and we'll soon get some supper for ye.'
And away he went to the inn, summoning the lasses there, and driving and hurrying them until they had arranged upon a large tray a very presentable supper – some cold beef, and ham, and cheese, and bread, and ale; and when the fair-haired Nelly was ready to start forth with this burden, he lit a candle and walked before her through the darkness, lest she should miss her footing. And very demure was Nelly when she placed this supper on the table; there was not even a look for the smart young keeper; and when Meenie said to her —
'I hear, Nelly, you had great goings-on on Monday night' – she only answered – 'Oh yes, miss, there was that' – and could not be drawn into conversation, but left the moment she had everything arranged.
But curiously enough, when the two girls had taken their seats at this little cross table, Ronald remained standing – just behind them, indeed, as if he were a waiter. And would Miss Douglas have this? and would Miss Douglas have that? he suggested – mostly to cloak his shamefacedness; for indeed that first wild assumption that they were all to have supper together was banished now as an impertinence. He would wait on them, and gladly; but – but his own supper would come after.
'And what will you have yourself, Ronald?' Meenie asked.
'Oh,' said he, 'that will do by and by. I am not so hungry as you.'
'Did you have so much of the shortbread?' said she, laughing.
He went and stirred up the peats – and the red glow sent a genial warmth across towards them.
'Come, Ronald,' said the little Maggie, 'and have some supper.'
'There is no hurry,' he said evasively. 'I think I will go outside and have a pipe now; and get something by and by.'
'I am sure,' said Meenie saucily, 'that it is no compliment to us that you would rather go away and smoke. See, now, if we cannot tempt you.'
And therewith, with her own pretty fingers, she made ready his place at the table; and put the knife and fork properly beside the plate; and helped him to a slice of beef and a slice of ham; and poured some ale into his tumbler. Not only that, but she made a little movement of arranging her dress which was so obviously an invitation that he should there and then take a place by her, that it was not in mortal man to resist; though, indeed, after sitting down, he seemed to devote all his attention to looking after his companions. And very soon any small embarrassment was entirely gone; Meenie was in an unusually gay and merry mood – for she was pleased that her party had been so obviously a success, and all her responsibilities over. And this vivacity gave a new beauty to her face; her eyes seemed more kind than ever; when she laughed, it was a sweet low laugh, like the cooing of pigeons on a summer afternoon.
'And what are you thinking of, Maggie?' she said, suddenly turning to the little girl, who had grown rather silent amid this talking and joking.
'I was wishing this could go on for ever,' was the simple answer.
'What? A perpetual supper? Oh, you greedy girl! Why, you must be looking forward to the Scandinavian heaven – '
'No, it's to be with Ronald and you, Meenie dear – just like now – for you seem to be able to keep everybody happy.'
Miss Douglas did blush a little at this; but it was an honest compliment, and it was soon forgotten. And then, when they had finished supper, she said —
'Ronald, do you know that I have never played an accompaniment to one of your songs? Would you not like to hear how it sounds?
'But – but I'm not used to it – I should be putting you wrong – '
'No, no; I'm sure we will manage. Come along,' she said briskly. 'There is that one I heard you sing the other day – I heard you, though you did not see me – "Gae bring to me a pint o' wine, and fill it in a silver tassie; that I may drink, before I go, a service to my bonnie lassie" – and very proud she was, I suppose. Well, now, we will try that one.'
So they went to the other end of the barn, where the piano was; and there was a good deal of singing there, and laughing and joking – among this little party of three. And Meenie sang too – on condition (woman-like) that Ronald would light his pipe. Little Maggie scarcely knew which to admire the more – this beautiful and graceful young lady, who was so complaisant and friendly and kind, or her own brother, who was so handsome and manly and modest, and yet could do everything in the world. Nor could there have been any sinister doubt in that wish of hers that these three should always be together as they were then; how was she to know that this was the last evening on which Meenie Douglas and Ronald were to meet on these all too friendly terms?
CHAPTER XI
A REVELATION
Early the next morning, when as yet the sunrise was still widening up and over the loch, and the faint tinge of red had not quite left the higher slopes of Clebrig, Ronald had already finished his breakfast, and was in his own small room, smoking the customary pipe, and idly – and with some curious kind of whimsical amusement in his brain – turning over the loose sheets of scribbled verses. And that was a very ethereal and imaginary Meenie he found there – a Meenie of lonely hillside wanderings – a Meenie of daydreams and visions: not the actual, light-hearted, shrewd-headed Meenie of the evening before, who was so merry after the children had gone, and so content with the little supper-party of three, and would have him smoke his pipe without regard to her pretty silk dress. This Meenie on paper was rather a wistful, visionary, distant creature; whereas the Meenie of the previous evening was altogether good-humoured and laughing, with the quaintest mother-ways in the management of the children, and always a light of kindness shining in her clear Highland eyes. He would have to write something to portray Meenie (to himself) in this more friendly and actual character. He could do it easily enough, he knew. There never was any lack of rhymes when Meenie was the occasion. At other things he had to labour – frequently, indeed, until, reflecting that this was not his business, he would fling the scrawl into the fire, and drive it into the peats with his heel, and go away with much content. But when Meenie was in his head, everything came readily enough; all the world around seemed full of beautiful things to compare with her; the birds were singing of her; the mountains were there to guard her; the burn, as it whispered through the rushes, or danced over the open bed of pebbles, had but the one continual murmur of Meenie's name. Verses? he could have written them by the score – and laughed at them, and burned them, too.
Suddenly the little Maggie appeared.
'Ronald,' she said, 'the Doctor's come home.'
'What – at this time in the morning?' he said turning to her.
'Yes, I am sure; for I can see the dog-cart at the door of the inn.'
'Well now,' said he, hastily snatching up his cap, 'that is a stroke of luck – if he will come with us. I will go and meet him.'
But he need not have hurried so much; the dog-cart was still at the door of the inn when he went out; and indeed remained there as he made his way along the road. The Doctor, who was a most sociable person, had stopped for a moment to hear the news; but Mr. Murray happened to be there, and so the chat was a protracted one. In the meantime Ronald's long swinging stride soon brought him into their neighbourhood.
'Good morning, Doctor!' he cried.
'Good morning, Ronald,' said the other, turning round. He was a big man, somewhat corpulent, with an honest, wholesome, ruddy face, soft brown eyes, and an expressive mouth, that could temper his very apparent good-nature with a little mild sarcasm.
'You've come back in the nick of time,' the keeper said – for well he knew the Doctor's keen love of a gun. 'I'm thinking of driving some of the far tops the day, to thin down the hares a bit; and I'm sure ye'd be glad to lend us a hand.'
'Man, I was going home to my bed, to tell ye the truth,' said the Doctor; 'it's very little sleep I've had the last ten days.'
'What is the use of that?' said Ronald, 'there's aye plenty o' time for sleep in the winter.'
And then the heavy-framed occupant of the dog-cart glanced up at the far-reaching heights of Clebrig, and there was a grim smile on his mouth.
'It's all very well,' said he, 'for herring-stomached young fellows like you to face a hill like that; but I've got weight to carry, man; and —
'Come, come, Doctor; it's not the first time you've been on Clebrig,' Ronald said – he could see that Meenie's father wanted to be persuaded. 'Besides, we'll no try the highest tops up there – there's been too much snow. And I'll tell ye how we'll make it easy for ye; we'll row ye down the loch and begin at the other end and work home – there, it's a fair offer.'
It was an offer, at all events, that the big doctor could not withstand.
'Well, well,' said he, 'I'll just drive the dog-cart along and see how they are at home; and then if the wife lets me out o' her clutches, I'll come down to the loch side as fast as I can.'
Ronald turned to one of the stable-lads (all of whom were transformed into beaters on this occasion).
'Jimmy, just run over to the house and fetch my gun; and bid Maggie put twenty cartridges – number 4, she knows where they are – into the bag; and then ye can take the gun and the cartridge-bag down to the boat – and be giving her a bale-out till I come along. I'm going to the farm now, to get two more lads if I can; tell the Doctor I'll no be long after him, if he gets down to the loch first.'
Some quarter of an hour thereafter they set forth; and a rough pull it was down the loch, for the wind was blowing hard, and the waves were coming broadside on. Those who were at the oars had decidedly the best of it, for it was bitterly cold; but even the others did not seem to mind much – they were chiefly occupied in scanning the sky-line of the hills (a habit that one naturally falls into in a deer country), while Ronald and the Doctor, seated in the stern, were mostly concerned about keeping their guns dry. In due course of time they landed, made their way through a wood of young birch-trees, followed the channel of a burn for a space, and by and by began to reach the upper slopes, where the plans for the first drive were carefully drawn out and explained.
Now it is unnecessary to enter into details of the day's achievements, for they were neither exciting nor difficult nor daring. It was clearly a case of shooting for the pot; although Ronald, in his capacity of keeper, was anxious to have the hares thinned down, knowing well enough that the over-multiplying of them was as certain to bring in disease as the overstocking of a mountain farm with sheep. But it may be said that the sport, such as it was, was done in a workmanlike manner. In Ronald's case, each cartridge meant a hare – and no praise to him, for it was his business. As for the Doctor, he was not only an excellent shot, but he exercised a wise and humane discretion as well. Nothing would induce him to fire at long range on the off-chance of hitting; and this is all the more laudable in the shooting of mountain hares, for these, when wounded, will frequently dodge into a hole among the rocks, like a rabbit, baffling dogs and men, and dying a miserable death. Moreover, there was no need to take risky shots. The two guns were posted behind a stone or small hillock – lying at full length on the ground, only their brown-capped heads and the long barrels being visible. Then the faint cries in the distance became somewhat louder – with sticks rattled on rocks, and stones flung here and there; presently, on the sky-line of the plateau, a small object appeared, sitting upright and dark against the sky; then it came shambling leisurely along – becoming bigger and bigger and whiter and whiter every moment, until at length it showed itself almost like a cat, but not running stealthily like a cat, rather hopping forward on its ungainly high haunches; and then again it would stop and sit up, its ears thrown back, its eyes not looking at anything in front of it, its snow-white body, with here and there a touch of bluish-brown, offering a tempting target for a pea-rifle. But by this time, of course, numerous others had come hopping over the sky-line; and now as the loud yells and shouts and striking of stones were close at hand, there was more swift running instead of hobbling and pausing among the white frightened creatures; and as they cared for nothing in front (in fact a driven hare cannot see anything that is right ahead of it, and will run against your boots if you happen to be standing in the way), but sped noiselessly across the withered grass and hard clumps of heather – bang! went the first barrel, and then another and another, as quick as fingers could unload and reload, until here, there, and everywhere – but always within a certain radius from the respective posts – a white object lay on the hard and wintry ground. The beaters came up to gather them together; the two guns had risen from their cold quarters; there were found to be thirteen hares all told – a quite sufficient number for this part – and not one had crawled or hobbled away wounded.
But we will now descend for a time from these bleak altitudes and return to the little hamlet – which seemed to lie there snugly enough and sheltered in the hollow, though the wind was hard on the dark and driven loch. Some hour or so after the shooters and beaters had left, Meenie Douglas came along to Ronald's cottage, and, of course, found Maggie the sole occupant, as she had expected. She was very bright and cheerful and friendly, and spoke warmly of Ronald's kindness in giving her father a day's shooting.
'My mother was a little angry,' she said, laughing, 'that he should go away just the first thing after coming home; but you know, Maggie, he is so fond of shooting; and it is not always he can get a day, especially at this time of the year: and I am very glad he has gone; for you know there are very few who have to work so hard.'
'I wish they may come upon a stag,' said the little Maggie – with reckless and irresponsible generosity.
'Do you know, Maggie,' said the elder young lady, with a shrewd smile on her face, 'I am not sure that my mother likes the people about here to be so kind; she is always expecting my father to get a better post – but I know he is not likely to get one that will suit him as well with the fishing and shooting. There is the Mudal – the gentlemen at the lodge let him have that all the spring through; and when the loch is not let, he can always have a day by writing to Mr. Crawford; and here is Ronald, when the hinds have to be shot at Christmas, and so on. And if the American gentleman takes the shooting as well as the loch, surely he will ask my father to go with him a day or two on the hill; it is a lonely thing shooting by one's self. Well now, Maggie, did you put the curtains up again in Ronald's room?'