Farewell to Priorsford

A Book by and about Anna Buchan (O. Douglas)

Preface

This book has been compiled at the request of many who wish to know more about Anna Buchan by those privileged to enjoy her friendship.

This commemorative volume is presented in the hope that it will give to all who enjoy Anna Buchan’s books a share of the fun, the courage and the inspiration she gave to all who knew her.

Anna Buchan of Priorsford

Stories by Anna Buchan

Anna Buchan of Priorsford

A Biographical Introduction

A. G. Reekie

“There has been so much happiness and such great sorrow; but the sad bits are as precious as the happy bits, and they all help to make the pattern. On the whole, a gay pattern.”
— Ann and Her Mother

“What was Anna Buchan really like? I’ve read all her novels and her autobiography, but what sort of person was she really?”

Many readers of the books of “O. Douglas” have asked this question; some may have asked with slight apprehension being aware that successful novelists sometimes prove to be unhappy people quite different from their books. Pre-occupied with their work, some writers tend to be detached and indifferent citizens and companions. In the case of those few fortunate mortals whose days have overflowed with happiness as well as success—as Anna Buchan’s did—such gifts given so generously may spoil the recipients and make them self-centred, inconsiderate and lacking in sympathy.

Anna Buchan was without a trace of the occupational weaknesses of the famous novelist or the self-absorption of the very successful. In her personality and in her achievements, apart from her wide appeal as a writer, she attained to a distinction of character and an influence of exceptional quality. This makes difficulties for those who seek to portray her to others who did not know her personally. Anna Buchan was in fact one whose personal goodness was of such a quality that it made an unforgettable impression on all who met her. An entire community is ready to testify that her influence permeated the town in which she made her home, and which she used as a setting for many of her tales.

Priorsford is, of course, the bright attractive county town of Peebles. It can be said that by her life and example she turned Peebles into Priorsford. Peebles was a little kingdom where her influence was inescapable, and it was an influence that enriched all the civilising aspirations of the community.

It will help those unfamiliar with the inner nature of Scottish life and character to understand Anna Buchan better by recalling the richness—the peculiar Scottish richness—of her heritage.

Her people were Borderers for many generations. Border folk have a marked individuality. For centuries the people of the Border country were comparatively untouched by the main currents of national life. This developed an independence of judgment, a love of stories about themselves and a strong sense of community.

Anna Buchan’s paternal grandfather, whose brass plate inscribed Mr. Buchan, Writer, remains on the bright red door of the Bank House in Peebles High Street, was the legal and financial adviser to the prosperous sheep farmers whose flocks swarmed all over the hills of Tweedvale. Among the farmers was Anna’s maternal grandparent, John Masterton of Broughton Green.

To this strain in which Border character and prospering security were finely proportioned was added an upbringing in a Scottish manse. It is not quite accurate to describe a Scottish manse as the equivalent of an English vicarage. The traditions of the Scottish manse are not so closely linked with the ruling classes of the past. There was a much more stern view of human destiny in the Scottish clergyman’s home due to the Calvinistic doctrines which prevailed in Scotland for so long. If behaviour was strictly defined, it was because there was nothing more important than character. If life was held to be a solemn destiny, it cultivated personal expression of a high order. Other books besides the Bible were warmly cherished. Great minds as well as great hearts were reared in Scottish manses.

Anna Buchan was born in a Scottish manse. Her father, the Reverend John Buchan, was a minister of the Free Church of Scotland. The eldest son of the well-known Peebles lawyer, after completing his course at Edinburgh University, and prior to becoming an ordained minister with a church of his own, took charge of the Free Church at Broughton, fourteen miles further up the valley of Tweed from his home town, during the winter of 1873. Moody and Sankey, the American evangelists, were then in the capital. The young minister brought their hymns to Broughton, and he stirred the village with his earnest preaching and conscientious visitation.

Helen Masterton was only sixteen when the zealous young clergyman sought her hand. In the spring he was called to be minister of Knox Church, Perth, and before the year ended Helen Masterton became mistress of the Perth manse. The congregation gave a warm welcome to the girlish bride who had “put her hair up for the first time on her wedding morning. No congregation has ever welcomed a younger bride to its church and manse than this Border girl. A year later another John had appeared, and, soon after, the blissfully happy parents left Perth for Pathhead Free Church, near Kirkcaldy, in the kingdom of Fife.

The Pathhead manse, the scene of Anna’s birth, was a substantial, roomy house with a large garden. One of the windows of the nursery, which Anna shared with William and Walter, who followed her, overlooked the garden and commanded a view of the broad waters of the Firth of Forth. The intermittent shafts of light from the beacon on Inchkeith was in Anna’s imagination the flickering gleams of a giant’s lantern.

A visitor to the manse in those days describes the young mother sitting in her low chair encouraging the children in their jokes and banter; and sometimes appealing for protection from them. Mr. Buchan would sit silently while young John expounded a bright new idea of his or listened to Anna reciting or asking a lively question. Life in a Free Church manse of those days had a moral austerity and a firm code of behaviour, but the children were allowed ample expression for their developing talents as well as their high spirits.

Brother John was the natural leader in the numerous adventures of the minister’s family. Pathhead was not a particularly romantic district, but John cast a glory over all of it for his sister and brothers. They went to the woods, to the docks at Kirkcaldy, to the little fishing places along the coast, and many exploits had their venue around the coal-pit. From the beginning John was destined to be Anna’s hero. John was born to lead, was infinite in resource and knew more than any other boy knew. Moreover, did he not have a scar on his head as a result of an accident which nearly killed him?

Children of the manse are notorious for the amount of mischief into which they fall. The Buchan family was not an exception. Their escapades were many and varied, and these were frequently recounted by members of the congregation in shocked tones mingled with admiration and repressed mirth. Some of those childhood pranks are re-told in the novels of Anna.

As a child Anna, was singled out for special mention. She was the worst behaved, but allowance must be made for hero-worship. Though she was a girl, she must not fail John. She made herself what used to be called a tomboy so that John would give her commissions as readily as he gave them to William and Walter. Anna had to establish that she could be trusted just as much as her younger brothers when deeds of daring were the order of the day.

Mischievous to the extent that they once set a woodpile ablaze at the coal-pit, their pranks were more than balanced by the nature of their home life. The Buchan children were drawn naturally into a devotion for literature and a regard for the great virtues their father proclaimed in his sermons and in his life. The children came to know the Bible and the Pilgrim’s Progress as endless stores of wonderful stories, and as source books for all kinds of games. John re-named the physical features of the whole district with names from Bunyan.

Mr. Buchan’s ministry in Pathhead was a fruitful one; he was noted for the power of his appeal to young people. He had talents greater than have been generally recognised. While at Pathhead he published a volume of verse entitled Tweedside Echoes and Moorland Musings, which indicated a natural talent for song. This and another volume of theological writings were, however, minor interests. His deep sense of vocation as a minister of the Gospel made him centre all his energies in his high calling.

To his own children he seemed a wonderful father. In a privately printed tribute to his memory Anna wrote of those Pathhead days:

“What a wonderful father he was! When he came to the nursery tea, fairies spoke out of the teapot, and the fearsome Red Etain of Ireland and cunning Whippitie Stourie joined hands with English Alice to make a Wonderland. He played like a boy, and knew well and loved the good land of ‘Make believe.’ On winter days how he shepherded his flock through the Dunnikier Woods to the pond, and bored holes and fitted skates on to five pairs of feet; then so patiently gave the staggering company their first lesson in the art of skating. In the evenings, with the red curtains drawn in the study, two on his knee and two on the rug at his feet, and ‘Mother’ sitting near, listening, and mending childish garments, he would read of Bruce and Wallace, of John Knox, and that lonely lady, Mary of Scotland, the Covenanters, and old, unhappy, far-off things; or he would get The Queen’s Wake and entrance his audience with the music of ‘Bonnie Kilmeny gaed up the glen,’ imbuing his children with something of his own passionate love for his native Scotland and for all the great kingdom of books.”

The parents’ deep love for Border country was soon shared by all the children. Each summer the children travelled to Broughton to live at their mother’s home, The Green.

Broughton lies in a beautiful hollow among high hills. Through it passes an ancient highway from Edinburgh to the south. The Green had been an inn. On wet days John would tell tales of highwaymen and other adventurers, who, the children were sure, had sojourned in the house, the rooms of which still bore their numbers from the hostelry days. All around was a countryside of Arcadian richness. No children ever had a finer playground. Its glories captured them completely. There were pools and streams to explore, trees and hills to climb, birds to watch, all the life and routine of a large sheep farm to share in, and the shepherds’ cottages to visit; all of an almost untouched pastoral world was theirs and its people, who could tell good stories about Walter Scott and James Hogg, were their friends.

This Border country with its many streams and valleys, each with its lore and songs of courage in battle or of love requited and otherwise, was a constant refreshment and source of inspiration. John was to find the setting here for his novel, John Burnet of Barns, and for Witchwood, one of his finest and his own favourite; Walter was to be its historian in his History of Peeblesshire, a county history and survey of exceptional merit; and in the novels of Anna there are many pictures of the uplands of Tweeddale.

Each September the children left Broughton for Pathhead with passionate regrets, soon forgotten on arriving at the manse. Then in 1888, the year Anna’s sister Violet was born, the John Knox Church in Glasgow, the oldest Free Church in the city, situated on the south bank of the Clyde, a church with a fine succession of scholarly preachers, called the Reverend John Buchan to be its minister.

Glasgow was an exciting prospect for the children. But the second city of the Empire with its agglomeration of people piled up in high tenements is an exacting sphere for a clergyman with such a deep sense of his pastoral duties as the Reverend John Buchan had.

Anna often talked of Glasgow. She maintained strong and affectionate ties with many of the families connected with the Knox Church long after she had left Glasgow. I knew Glasgow well, and I was not unfamiliar with its South Side. Anna enjoyed speaking of the cheerfulness, the friendliness and the generosity of the Glasgow folk. One day I expressed some wonderment as to how they survived their dismal housing accommodation and those dark streets into which the sun seldom shone. As this seemed to Anna to imply some sort of criticism, she was at once ready to defend.

“They have a spirit that rises above these dreadful disadvantages,” she declared with emphasis. Her father certainly had. Into that huge pool of strenuous, teeming energy and frightening poverty he bravely carried his message. At the cost of much tramping through city streets and climbing stairs, he ministered to the members of his scattered congregation.

The children approved of their new home in Crosshill at 34, Queen Mary Avenue. This large villa still preserved something of its former rural peacefulness, though only two miles from the centre of the city. To their father the garden was some compensation for the lost sight of the fields and woods of Pathhead. Little Violet, alone among his children shared with him his delight in flowers, though John wrote of the garden in The Scholar-Gypsies.

At Pathhead Mrs. Buchan had added to her knowledge of domestic management an understanding and a capacity for the many duties of a clergyman’s wife. In all the work of homemaking, family upbringing and the Church she was now wise and experienced. She, too, visited the congregation, especially the old and the sick to whom she always carried comfort and a gift.

Anna was sent to a small private school. Later, when William and Walter joined John at Hutchesons, Anna entered the corresponding school for girls. She did not shine at her studies as did her brothers. For the Buchan children schooling may be described as a minor episode. Without disrespect it could be said that the most important lessons Anna and her brothers learned were those taught at home. School games were less enthralling than those they devised themselves. Every corner was peopled with the creatures of their imagination, and every day crowded with glorious adventures. These first flutterings of the creative power that was to be manifest so richly in John, and so enchantingly in Anna, were not repressed. In the Calvinistic household of the Reverend John Buchan there was a reverence for the gift of imagination. The children grew up in a fellowship in which they were held together by the most powerful bonds. Their family circle was a magic circle; their home a secret order of delight and its shrines were religion and literature. To the Reverend John Buchan and his wife was given the knowledge of how to raise a family so that all the talent within it was allowed to grow and flourish.

By 1892 childhood days were drawing to a close. John was preparing for Glasgow University in the autumn when Anna was to go to school in Edinburgh. But in the summer of that year Violet, now five, was far from well. She was a frail flower. Her delicacy had endeared her to her sister and brothers. Violet made Anna limit her pursuits with the boys. The days of the wild games were over. Anna was ready to give up excursions with her brothers in order to take her sister out to the Queen’s Park nearby, and to look at the shop windows in Victoria Road. Violet was the first to demand a story from Anna, who began a tale of their future life together of which Violet never tired, and even Willie and Walter occasionally joined in listening to Anna’s domestic chronicle about babies and baking, and of how all their lives were to be lived in a place very like Broughton. But the frail flower faded early. On a bright June morning Violet died at Broughton, where she had been taken in the hope that she would revive there.

This was the first of the sharp sorrows the Buchan family were to suffer. To the Reverend John Buchan it was his deepest sorrow.

In Edinburgh Anna lived at the home of a retired clergyman and his wife while she attended a school managed by two French ladies. It was more suited to her natural aptitudes than Hutchesons. Dull studies had no place in its casual curriculum. In its English literature class Anna won her one and only scholarship prize. What Anna enjoyed was the opportunity of exploring the capital. Knowing so well the history of Scotland, the city was not a strange place to her. When she went for music lessons to a teacher in Queen Street she returned by way of Castle Street so that she could gaze at the window of No. 39 through which passers-by once saw the hand of Scott covering page after page.

Anna saw the gentility of the capital exemplified in a great-aunt, whose teas consisted of tiny pieces of faintly buttered bread set on large silver plates, scones as small as a coin, miniature cakes and extra large cups half filled with weak tea—a genteel tradition that has not yet wholly disappeared. Anna remembered the sumptuous high teas of Glasgow, and this increased her yearning to return home. When she learned of the advent of another brother, she pleaded to be allowed to do her studies in Glasgow and ultimately the parents agreed.

The new arrival, Alastair, was known first as Peter, then as the Mhor—Gaelic for “ the great one.” Anna loved and cherished him. Mother was absorbed increasingly in church work and public duties so Anna mothered her youngest brother and took her responsibilities seriously. The Mhor was a mine of sayings which have been preserved for us in several of the novels.

Formal education was continued at Queen Margaret College, while John, a comparatively inconspicuous student at Glasgow University, was writing essays, short stories and a short novel, Sir Quixote of the Moors. Anna, as befitted a daughter of the manse, joined in Sunday school teaching beside John, whose class of Gorbal wild youngsters appear in his Huntingtower. Anna also assisted at Band of Hope (temperance) meetings and collected for missionary enterprises. She also visited many homes of the congregation and extended her knowledge of Glasgow life and character.

This routine of meetings and work connected with the life of a city church may seem dull to the outsider, and one which a girl of Anna’s lively spirit might wish to escape at the earliest possible moment. But she had no wish to escape from such activities. To the last year of her life she attended and addressed such meetings. She never thought ordinary people were dull just because they were ordinary. Her very acute powers of observation gave her insight into the latent comedy and pathos of ordinary human nature. This fact was partly contributory to her success as a novelist.

Though John was busy “commencing authorship,” Anna’s ambitions lay in another direction. She wanted to be an actress!

In her case this was not the foolish fancy of a stage-struck girl. She had attended a recital at which a well-known Shakespearean actor and actress had presented scenes from Shakespeare. Anna thought, with reason, that she had qualifications for a stage career. But in those days daughters of the Scottish manse did not enter the auditorium of the theatre, much less appear on the stage. In an earlier and less circumspect age the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland had adjourned to attend a performance by Mrs. Siddons, but a more critical view of the theatre by the churches was prevalent in Anna’s youth. Anna could not and never wished to pit herself against the traditions of the manse. She found a happy outlet for her desire to act in reciting extracts from Barrie and ®ther Scottish writers at all kinds of gatherings. Later she appeared in amateur theatrical productions and for many years delighted large audiences all over Scotland with her lecture-recitals in which she revealed her talent for histrionics. She could present to the life almost any Glasgow type. All her life in conversation she never told a story carelessly, but gave it the tone and accent which were exactly right.

Many who have enjoyed her company have spoken of the pleasure they had in meeting her. Part of the secret of her power to make even a short conversation stimulating and refreshing lay in her gift, which she possessed to an unusual degree, of projecting a character or a phrase or a word so that its impact was felt.

One day I was with her when the mother of a soldier—an only son—came to her with the news that the lad had been wounded. To watch Anna comforting this distressed mother was a revelation not only of her deep understanding, but of a great gift for personal expression. Her sympathy rose to the level of an art. Her exact use of homely phrases, Border words, comforting words, was impressive. I watched the mother reviving as Anna’s words went home to her heart. When she left us I simply shook hands. Anna had said all that ought to have been said and said it superbly. There was lots of satisfaction for Anna in giving her recitations; she enjoyed the warm response of her audiences. But there were other excitements. John had gone to Oxford and almost overnight had secured a firm and lucrative position in publishing circles. He wrote more and more essays and articles while still a student at Brasenose College, but his Oxford career did not suffer. He won the Stanhope prize for an historical essay and the famous Newdigate prize for verse.

The Buchan family was a very closely-knit one. There was something of Scottish “clannishness” in it, but it was not marred by a lack of interest in others, which is sometimes a feature of such families, nor was John the sort for whom great success meant a slackening of family ties. Anna’s first visit to England was due to John’s wish that she and Mrs. Buchan should spend a week in Oxford. The road south was one that Anna was to take often. For one who in so many respects was Scottish to the core, she had a very deep affection for the traditional in English ways. The rolling English road, the inns, the little fields and cultivated landscapes never failed to delight her all her life, and she journeyed each year to Oxford and Stratford with unabated zest.

This first visit was memorable. John was President of the Oxford Union, a coveted undergraduate office held by so many famous men. Anna was twenty-one, but she had never been in a theatre. So her attendance at the Oxford University Dramatic Society’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was one of her unforgettable experiences. Anna knew and loved the play. Her knowledge of Shakespeare’s work was deep. Untroubled by the problems about Shakespeare that vex so many university professors, she was the Shakespeare lover in excelsis. She could quote from the bard with an enviable readiness on all occasions. That she did not always do so is an instance of her tact. She refrained from making an apt quotation to one who might not appreciate it. She shared her enthusiasms with those who understood her enthusiasms. She had a strong dislike of bores, and took pains never to be one herself.

The Shakespeare Memorial Theatre at Stratford-on-Avon was not visited until after her father’s death. Its presentations yielded her one of her greatest joys. She became a regular Stratford pilgrim. Though she knew quite well all that could be said against Stratford, nothing ever caused her to lose her love of the place. Even in her last years she set out for Stratford with an eagerness that made one realise that Shakespeare was for her a source of never-ending delight. Her love of the Bard survived the long years, the many other interests of her life, her excursions into grandeur, the deep sorrows, and the weariness of the grim years of war. Her affection for the Stratford productions of her idol survived many changes—changes in the town, casts, stage techniques and even the change of theatre.

Anna’s deep and abiding interest in the theatre was not, of course, limited to Shakespearean plays. Every visit to London meant nights at the theatre. She travelled regularly from Peebles to Glasgow and to Edinburgh to see the trial runs of future London productions, as well as many repertory and amateur presentations. She was very nearly the perfect theatre-goer, but, reared as she was on Shakespeare’s profound sense of the dramatic and comic she was never deceived into accepting the third-rate for more than it was. She could give a shrewd analysis of a play and quickly perceive its flaws.

Sir James Barrie’s last play, The Boy David, was first produced in Edinburgh. Anna was present at that ill-omened first night. In a few words she described the strength and weakness of this Biblical play, and her prediction of its future course proved accurate. Her sense of theatre and her common-sense made her a just and reliable critic. Yet her primary reason for entering the theatre was not to criticise, but to give herself up to the make-believe of the theatre that the true inwardness of life might be unfolded.

Anna sought for this same revelation in her reading. She naturally read extensively. She knew all the modern writers. If she did not like some of them it was not because they were modern, but because they were inadequate. The film, the book and the play that could show only the sordid was distasteful to her, because it was so far from being the whole picture. She knew countless men and women in all walks of life, and she was persuaded that the true pathos and sublimity was not in the murky deeds of men but in the mystery of their invincible hopefulness and their persistent aspiration.

At the beginning of the century Glasgow’s cultural life was vigorous and stimulating. Anna was touched by the prevailing enthusiasms, and, in particular, she was impressed by youthful artists some of whom talked art to the exclusion of all else. Anna acquired a desire for darkened rooms and incense-burning. Only a little plain speaking was necessary for Anna to recover her excellent sense of proportion.

Anna did not, however, forget that she had once fallen into such a spell. Her deep understanding of youthful ambition grew out of her own youth in which she travelled along a set path. She showed how her own willing acceptance of the road set before her had immeasurably enriched her life. Her counsel to the young had special value. She did not forget that it is natural for youth to be extravagant in desires, enthusiasm and expression. She dealt tenderly with the dreams of the young, and, though her own youthful extravagances were mild and short-lived, she well remembered them and her humorous recounting of them made youth listen, as they did, to what she advised them.

The confines of the manse were breaking down. The Buchan family were beginning their travels which were to take most members of it to the far places. In 1900, when Mrs. Buchan had a serious illness, Anna had her first experience of housekeeping. In the summer, John took Anna to Switzerland as a reward. The following year John ventured upon his first essay in practical statesmanship by going out to South Africa as one of the notable band of assistants to Lord Milner, the British High Commissioner. At the end of the year the Reverend John Buchan accompanied by Mrs. Buchan and the Mhor, went to the same country to fulfil a temporary ministry of several months. This trip was very happy and successful, and, while her parents were from home, Anna spent most of the time at Peebles with Uncle William and her two aunts.

In 1906, the death of this uncle at Bank House was determinative of so much for Anna. The old family business in law and banking was without a head. William was in India advancing a successful career in the Indian Civil Service. John was back in London, and, though he was practising not very happily at the Bar, his career was obviously set on a very much larger scale. Walter, preparing for the Scots Bar, had to take over, though lacking in experience. Yet such was his ability—which he enjoys concealing—that he quickly established himself as banker and lawyer as well as Clerk to the Town Council, and as Procurator-Fiscal responsible for the presentation of charges at the local Sheriff Court.

As the two aunts, who had managed the Bank House, had resolved to retire to the Channel Islands, Anna became mistress of the family home, and from this time forth it was to be her home and Peebles her personal kingdom.

Peebles is one of the most attractive small towns in Scotland. A population of 6,000 live a well-developed communal life and take pride in the town’s history and charm. Its size preserves it from the depressing anonymity of city life, and yet prevents the excessive curiosity of village existence. Set in the heart of beautiful pastoral country on the banks of Tweed, few homes in the town are without a view of the surrounding wooded hills.

The town is divided into well-defined sections: the Old Town with modern extensions, the Northgate, the Eastgate and the prosperous suburb on the south bank of Tweed. The Bank House stands at the centre on which these four districts converge. Situated at the west end of the bright and broad High Street, which is faintly reminiscent of an English scene, the House is close to the highway. It is much more modern in appearance than one would expect in a building over a century old. The main entrance and vestibule is actually part of a tower which enhances its air of quiet distinction.

At street level are the public rooms including the sitting-room with its restful atmosphere, many books and family portraits and its large bay windows which look out on the garden sloping down to Eddleston Water just before this river pours into Tweed. Downstairs, which is at garden level, are the kitchen quarters, and upstairs are the bedrooms which either overlook the street or the garden. This was the home Anna managed for forty years in the course of which it became the centre of so much that was fine and admirable in the community and in which she entertained so generously. Here, the great ones came and the humble ones too, and all left refreshed and happy.

The departure from Glasgow was the end of a long phase that had been formative and enriching. The circle of her acquaintances was to widen as the years brought success and fame. In Glasgow the circle had been more or less limited to those open to a daughter of the manse. Most of her youthful years had been spent within the circumference of church life and work. Her errands in the Gorbals making sick calls or collecting for missionary causes, had given her insight into the life of mean streets, and her visits in the suburbs of Glasgow an understanding of the hopes and fears and the social environment of the city’s middle classes.

All her memories of these people—their pathos, their shining courage, their wit and humour—were safely stored away. Years were to pass before her experience of the warm common humanity of Glasgow life was to be given the appealing and entertaining presentation she gave it in her novels. For there was as yet no sign of “O. Douglas”. At twenty-eight Anna was fully occupied in the management of Bank House and acting as hostess to her brother. Many calls of a civic character claimed her and, though no longer in a central position in a church as the minister’s daughter, she was almost as busy as she had been in Glasgow in the activities of the church.

The same year as Anna came to Peebles, John intimated his impending engagement to Miss Susan Charlotte Grosvenor. To such a family as the Buchans this announcement was momentous and caused, not unnaturally, some apprehension. Miss Grosvenor was an English aristocrat with a most distinguished lineage; she was a direct descendant of the Duke of Wellington. Her background was full of all that is fine in English ways of living, and in contrast to the Border heritage of the Buchans. To Anna, John had been a glorious companion, wise counsellor and hero. Such a marriage as John hoped for must have seemed the curtailment of a very precious relationship, and the beginning of a gulf which would grow inevitably wider with the years. But the Buchan luck and love held. Susan Grosvenor, beautiful in person, brilliant in intelligence, enriched immensely the life and work of John Buchan, and the life of his brothers and liis sister by a friendship of deep charm and abiding strength; a friendship, which Anna reckoned as one of the great blessings of her life, and for which she so often expressed her thankfulness.

Anna and Susan shared so much happiness together. They also shared hard sorrows. When the shadows at last lengthened for Anna, Susan’s lovely companionship gave to the last a warm and comforting glow.

At the wedding of John and Susan in St. George’s, Hanover Square, London, in 1907, Anna was a bridesmaid. The Reverend John Buchan, normally reserved in manner, was happy and gay. He kissed his beautiful daughter-in-law and went to Paris for a holiday.

All the brothers vied with each other in their devotion to their sister. Anna was precious to each one of them. Willie in India thought the change in the balance of their family existence caused by John’s marriage was an excellent junction to insist on Anna visiting him.

The months Anna spent in India gave her a powerful impetus to write, though when she came back to Peebles there was little time for putting pen to paper. Anna felt no compulsion to forego any of her numerous activities so that she could concentrate on writing. Domestic and family affairs were as engrossing as ever. Moreover, the long spell of freedom from severe anxieties was ending to be followed by years of strain and sorrow.

The family felt that their father should retire from his heavy labours in Glasgow. The Reverend John Buchan was sixty-two, and he was growing less able for his strenuous pastoral duties. Much persuasion was necessary before he finally agreed to leave the Knox Church. At last the Reverend John Buchan retired, and came to reside in a house opposite Bank House on the other side of the river. A pleasant retirement was planned with occasional preaching engagements and work on a book about the poets of Peeblesshire. But the ageing minister had a heart attack while on holiday in London. On returning to Peebles, he had to accept restrictions on all his activities. His contented spirit and his joy in living among the hills of home helped him to recover a fair degree of health. Then Mrs. Buchan was stricken with a menacing fever due to a mysterious disorder of the blood, later diagnosed as pernicious anemia. Doctors and specialists were puzzled—a fact which furthered Mrs. Buchan’s scepticism about their powers.

As the illness of Mrs. Buchan was protracted, it was decided to give up the house on the South side, and so the Reverend John with his now invalid wife returned to the home of his birth, where Anna and Walter shared in the exacting burden of caring for their very sick mother, and guarding their father, as far as possible, from’ the tension and worry caused by Mrs. Buchan’s mysterious and persistent malady.

Anna spent many nights sitting up with her mother. Writing proved one way of keeping awake. Anna forgot for awhile the anxieties of the night in recollecting the happy carefree days of her Indian tour.

Mrs. Buchan’s fever continued to rise and fall alarmingly until she was taken to London for treatment by Sir Almroth Wright, the famous physician and bacteriologist.

There were many anxious hours before the treatment proved successful. After three months Anna brought her mother and father safely back to Bank House in the summer. John and Susan and their two children spent part of the summer at Harehope in the Meldon Hills only a few miles north of Peebles. The prospects of a more cheerful winter were brighter, but, before winter came, the Reverend John Buchan passed to his rest.

Anna now felt that she had a story she must write. It was a biographical sketch of her father to preface a privately printed volume of some of her father’s theological essays and sermons with a selection of his poems. What she wrote was deeply felt, and it shows the profound effect his example had upon Anna. Though her love for her mother was obvious to all, her father’s teaching had reached the deep heart’s core. The intense evangelical faith of the Reverend John Buchan had quickened no one more than his own daughter. She was his best disciple; for the inspiration of her life she drew deeply from his saintly example. John wrote of his father:

“He loved all changes that the seasons bring;
Enough for him the homely natural joys;
The wayside flower, the heath-clad mountain rift,
The ferny woodland, were his favoured choice.
Each year with grateful heart he hailed the gift
The princely gift of Spring.
Not as the thankless world that takes God’s boon
With blinded soul on trivial cares intent,
To him heaven shone in every summer noon,
And every morning was a sacrament.”

To Anna her father was another Mr. Standfast, and only she could have told all that he counted for in everv day of her life.

Anna was glad she could find some measure of forgetfulness in writing. Before the coming of spring, she had completed the story of her visit to India. Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton undertook to pubfish the book under the title Olivia in India. It was a special pleasure to Anna that this famous firm became her publishers. One reason being that in those days they were perhaps the publishers best known to clergymen, and she had seen many of their books in her father’s study. But her modesty kept her own name off the title page. By this time John was the author of over a dozen successful books; he had also made a reputation as a publisher through his directorate of Thomas Nelsons, and he was prospective Unionist candidate for Peebles and Selkirk. To Anna, John was doing what he had always done—he was doing most things better than most could. She did not wish the name of Buchan to be associated with her first novel, which she considered of much less consequence than any of her brother’s, even though it would have given it favourable publicity. So the pseudonym that was to become so well known, “O. Douglas”, was chosen.

Willie, of course, was especially interested in his sister’s book about her stay with him in India. He was due home on leave. Anna looked forward to showing him the proofs of her novel, but by the time these were available Willie Buchan was a stricken man. He came home tired but in good spirits. Soon after a mysterious malady affected him. Treatment was unavailing. Each day he grew weaker. Willie, the most handsome of the Buchans, the able administrator, the jolly fellow with the monocle, the promising writer, the very dear brother, was doomed.

The distress of the family was acute. John travelled constantly from London to Glasgow where Willie was in a nursing home. Anna took to him the proofs of Olivia in India. Willie, in severe pain, found a whole day’s forgetfulness in reading them.

William Buchan was a gallant gentleman. He met a cruel fate without complaint, and he left an indelible memory of a gay and courageous end.

His death shocked the family. The Buchan luck so many referred to, sometimes with a little envy, did not preserve the family from tragic loss. If their successes were exceptional, so were their sorrows in severity.

Anna and her mother could not conceal their grief. The winter was long and hard. Alastair, fortunately, had his classes at Glasgow University. Walter planned all kinds of quiet diversions.

When spring came, Anna tasted the sweets of authorship. Olivia in India was published. The novel was in the form of a traveller’s letters to home, and it set the tone and character of subsequent books. Her novels are mostly family chronicles. Part of the reader’s pleasure in them is the feeling of perusing a long letter from an old friend. The enormous sale of her novels was to some extent due to Anna’s marked talent for establishing a friendly relationship with her readers. Her talent in the genre was unsurpassed, and her first essay received a very encouraging reception.

James Douglas, then writing for the London Evening Star, wielded considerable influence on the sale of books he reviewed. His praise of a book could create a big demand for it; his condemnation had often the same result. Anna’s book delighted Douglas—an appropriate circumstance—and he devoted a whole column to his review of it. He described Olivia as “a happy book”.

Happy books are scarce. It is not given to many among the multitudes of all kinds of writers to produce a happy book. Though usually characterised as light literature, the writing of such a book demands special gifts as a human being as well as the essential talents of the writer. Anna’s books were happy books, but they were not made so by the avoidance of the harsh realities of existence. The world into which Anna took her readers was not the enchanted world of the fairy tale and happy endings at all costs. There is sorrow and sadness, sickness and heartache, and many a glimpse of the unfortunate in her novels. The shadows are there because she knew so well the grief and the burden of existence. The happiness in her books is secured, despite the misfortunes, because she cherished every gleam in the dark, every joke in the gloom, every comfort in the struggle. She held fast to faith in the ultimate decency of things. She believed much more than that; much more maybe than many of her readers might be able to accept. But the glow of these happy books indubitably sprang from their author’s deep and passionate belief in her father’s interpretation of life.

So it was natural that her second book would be about her father. She began to write it at the beginning of World War I, and before it was finished another break was made in the family circle. Alastair, the little fellow who appears in several of the novels with his quaint sayings, odd exploits and comic escapades, had become a Lieutenant in the Royal Scots Fusiliers. He had been much in war, had been wounded and had returned to the slaughter. On the 9th April, 1917, he fell in battle into which he had led his men with “words of comfort and encouragement”.

The novel about her father and Glasgow life often lay neglected. Anna was engaged in many kinds of war work, which included the entertaining of soldiers in the large military hospital the Peebles Hydro had become.

The Setons was the title finally chosen for the second novel, which, like the first story, was largely drawn from life with only a few alterations. It was a transcript of the life Anna had known so well, and which Glasgow folk at once recognise as authentic. The Setons was an immediate success, and letters began to pour in upon the author.

Though John had always been encouraging, Anna’s writing had not been treated as a matter of supreme importance. The Buchans took a certain degree of authorship for granted in their family. Willie had written, like his brother John, for Blackwood’s Magazine; Walter, despite his many civic, legal and financial activities, had published a monograph on his sister-in-law’s ancestor, the Duke of Wellington, the same year as Olivia had appeared.

After the publication of The Setons, it was clear that Anna’s novel writing should not be considered a mere pastime. For the next ten years she wrote with more regularity, and the novels of this period made her known throughout the land and the Commonwealth. She moved into the select circle of writers whose books are certain to run into many editions.

With each book the letters from admirers mounted higher and higher. Most authors in a similar position content themselves with formal acknowledgment. Such a reply was impossible for Anna. She refused to have a secretary to handle the large post bag that came daily to Bank House, and she refused to use a typewriter. She wrote in her own hand a friendly note of thanks to every letter of appreciation she received.

This burden and the increasing calls for her appearance at public functions throughout Scotland necessitated some change in the ordering of her daily life. Blessed as she always was with the help of a most efficient and devoted domestic staff, she nevertheless remained responsible for certain domestic duties. These tasks the essential shopping and constant entertaining, left almost no time for writing. So she arose at five o’clock every morning for her bath, then gave the next three hours up to the chores she had to do, so that part of the forenoon could be free for desk work. A strong constitution helped her to maintain this Spartan habit. I have seen guests gasp when she chose to reveal it to them.

Other hours for writing were also possible when the circle of three—Mrs. Buchan, Walter and Anna—were alone in Bank House. Writing was also possible when she stayed at Broughton in the summer, and at Elsfield Manor where John and Susan Buchan with their four children lived after 1920.

Anna’s visits to Elsfield in the spring, and the summer visits of her brother and sister-in-law with the children to Scotland, were among the happiest features of the 1920’s. Life had become more settled and serene, and, though the actual writing of a novel was not a joyful task to Anna, she was happy in the steady flow of her tales, which a very large public clamoured to buy.

Peebles was increasingly proud of the Buchan family. John was held in high honour everywhere. Walter was the much respected Clerk of the town, and his counsel was sought by all. Mrs. Buchan was a most familiar figure. She was everywhere where a kind word, a pot of preserves or a cake could do good. She and Anna were a partnership in good deeds unostentatiously performed. The character of these generous acts is known, but not their number. Mrs. Buchan’s visits to many a home was a benediction.

Though she now gave more time to her writing, Anna did not withdraw herself from the community she loved. She was to be seen most days in the High Street and elsewhere spending an hour on shopping, except when she was fulfilling one of the countless engagements, which took her to every part of Scotland. Her mother invariably accompanied her on these journeys to open a Bazaar, a Sale of Work or a Garden Fête. The task of the lady or gentleman, who has the honour of declaring such functions open, calls for a variety of gifts if it is to be really well done. The speech to be a success must be short and apt; it must please the audience, and must encourage the people to buy what the surrounding stalls have to offer.

On such occasions, which have daunted many an experienced speaker, Anna was excellent. The first time I heard her speak was at a Garden Fête and, though I judge myself a somewhat blasé listener to such speeches, Anna’s expert approach made me forget the formalities. She was at once on good terms with her audience. She did so through her gift of being able to speak naturally to a large audience as if it were a gathering of two or three friends. Two amusing stories cleverly spaced and timed in delivery, a clear and sympathetic understanding of the good cause for which the Fête was held, an encouraging word to the workers and a climax which went right home made, what so often is a trying sort of formality, a very pleasing and stimulating ten minutes.

The girl who had once wanted to be an actress was completely at home on a platform. Though she appeared so cool and calm and spoke so naturally, Anna never lost an innate modesty; there was always about her the faint flutter of a shyness, which character and will-power had disciplined.

Anna could enliven the dullest and most formal occasion by her gift of projecting her own zest and fun from a platform to an audience. Speeches moving the adoption of annual reports of charitable institutions come near to being the nadir of all speech-making. Even in this class Anna was never dull. An instance of her success in such a task was a speech she made when moving the adoption of the annual report of the Peebles Association of the Queen’s Nurses.

Beginning by contrasting the bad news in the newspapers with the good news of their Association, Anna described how her mother had collected in Fife in 1887 for the fund to form the Nurses’ Association as a gift to Queen Victoria. An old lady, whom her mother had called upon, asked: “Dae ye no think it wad be mair like the thing if the Queen gave me a present?” Then she gave a short graphic picture of pre-nursing association days, and quickly passed to an occasion when she had to prepare a poultice which, however, leaked. Then she said a few words about those who worked earnestly for the Association, and finally she praised the nurses, and told of an old man she knew who lived alone and required a nurse. He was strongly opposed to being nursed. “To think,” he said, “I’ve lived till I am eighty, and noo I’m gaun to be overpowered by a woman.” But, Anna concluded, he too lived to bless the nurses.

This speech is typical. Little wonder she was so much in demand. For years Anna willingly faced the fatigue and discomforts of constant travelling to make her brief appearance and effective speech and, though her mother knew well how reliable her daughter was, she frequently expressed concern over the speech she was about to make. It was Mrs. Buchan’s way of encouraging Anna to be at her best, but she almost always was. Though sometimes very tired, her vitality was exceptional. Her health never gave rise to anxieties. At home there were occasional remonstrances about the time and energy she spent in letter writing and speech-making, but Anna did not spare herself, and through the years never failed to answer a letter or keep an engagement she had contracted.

The circle of friends and acquaintances was constantly widening. John had been offered a choice of seats in the House of Commons, but his health was affected by a duodenal conditon, which was often painful; because of it he had undergone a major operation and several enforced spells of rest. In 1927, however, he entered Parliament as a representative for the Scottish Universities, being elected by a very large majority. His fame as a writer was widespread, and his counsel was sought in high places. Many people from all walks of life claimed his friendship. At his home at Elsfield he entertained some of the most famous people of the time, but other folk were equally welcome, and many a young man and woman found there a determinative influence on their subsequent careers.

Yet the family ties were as strong as ever, and Anna had frequent opportunity of meeting the famous and the celebrated.

Anna’s interests, however, did not centre in the life of high places, though she greatly enjoyed her occasional encounters with the great. She read much, but it would be inaccurate to describe her main interests as intellectual. Modern scientific and philosophic thought had little interest for her. Theological arguments had no appeal. She was fond of the old songs of her native land, but symphonic music had a soporific effect on her as theatre-going had on John.

She had an intense appreciation of other people’s gifts and achievements. She spoke as if everyone else’s work was much more important and much more interesting than her own. She delighted in encouraging others to talk, and it was always difficult to persuade her to speak about her writing. This was not an affectation; it was the ingrained politeness of the daughter of the manse; it was second nature for her to take a genuine interest in people. People fascinated her; she had a kindly curiosity about what people were doing and thinking.

Professor T. H. Bryce, a former Professor of Anatomy in Glasgow University, and a cousin of Lord Bryce who wrote The American Commonwealth, retired to Peebles. The death of his wife left him an ailing and somewhat lonely man. Anna visited him and persuaded others to do so. One day I told Anna I had spent the previous afternoon with the Professor.

“And what did you do?” Anna asked at once.

“Well, he felt able for a little stroll, so we went to the cemetery, and we sat there talking about immortality,” I replied.

“What a very Scottish thing to do!” Anna exclaimed. Then she added: “I hope your conclusions were sound.”

I said our conclusions would not have dismayed her.

She smiled and nodded. It was a slight incident, but it pleased her, and it was the kind of incident she could so well embellish in a novel.

Anna was very selective in her listening to the radio. She preferred to spend the evening reading when she was alone. She enjoyed most talking about books and plays. I cannot recall her ever making a harsh judgment. Unkindness was contrary to her code. That does not mean her opinions lacked sharpness; her opinions were sometimes very short and pungent. With her gifts of expression she could give a sentence a wealth of meaning.

A novel by a writer we both knew had proved disappointing. I asked Anna what she thought of it. She drew herself up.

“What dreary people!” she said. It was all she needed to say. The way she lengthened the word “dreary” was at once comic and devastating.

On political matters she voiced emphatic views, but she had no fondness for long political discussions on social occasions. There are only a few political judgments in her autobiography, Unforgettable, Unforgotten, but they are emphatic. Occasionally, she was persuaded to address Unionist gatherings, and in one hotly-contested election in a Parliamentary constituency, a striking speech she made to a very large audience swayed the issue in favour of the candidate for whom she appealed.

Anna had an extraordinary patience—as her mother had—with all sorts of people. Again like her mother, she was very kind to bores. But the pompous and complaining were exceptions. The pompous tended to make her laugh, and she thought very few persons were justified in being chronically woeful.

As John’s fame continued to grow so, in its own way, did Anna’s. Novels now came from her pen with regularity. Penny Plain, Ann and Her Mother, Pink Sugar, The Proper Place, and Eliza for Common—all received a rapturous welcome in the empire of “O. Douglas” enthusiasts.

Ann and Her Mother told the story of Mrs. Buchan. There is almost no attempt to disguise its true character. Though it pictures a world that has almost vanished, the years and the changes have not reduced its appeal. It contains several moving passages as well as vivid cameos and rich comedy. It gives flashes of the emotional power Anna held in reserve. Had she chosen to lead a more secluded life, she might have written novels on a bigger scale. Yet it is doubtful if the books she might have written would have had as an enduring life as the ones she did. Though her works were outside the fashionable trends of intellectual fiction, her accurately drawn portraits of Scottish character will have an interest and a charm for future generations. Already there arises a new generation, which eagerly absorbs the gentle but authentic tales of “O. Douglas”.

Penny Plain is the first of her stories set in Priorsford. Peebles was stirred to find its familiar features and some of its personalities in a very popular novel. The town reacted to the distinction Anna gave it by using it as a setting; there was a desire to enhance the charm and character of the place she skilfully presented in her novels. Thus it became more and more the “O. Douglas” town. For long a popular resort—even in pre-slogan days “Peebles for Pleasure” had a universal circulation—more and more were drawn to visit the town whose inhabitants pointed out Bank blouse with pride. More and more people rang the bell of the bright red door, and were given a gracious welcome.

Anna entertained on a very generous scale. She gave innumerable luncheon parties, and at afternoon tea guests of all types were to be met.

One afternoon one might find the Commander, a retired naval expert with a doctorate in science, who delights in making provocative remarks in a most bland manner. There is a quiet, modest lady, also a novelist, whose gifts Anna extols to all her guests. The thin, nervous lady is the one who played the organ at the meeting from which Anna has brought her, along with a clergyman’s widow, who is one of Anna’s most trusted lieutenants in good works. There is also the minister who spoke at the meeting and his wife is there too. One of Anna’s nephews, who is staying for a few days at Bank House, is also there. And Walter leaves his adjoining office for twenty minutes to join the group round the table. It is an animated group. No one is neglected. There are no pauses in the talk, and there is a lot of laughter. Everyone has a piece of Anna’s own gingerbread which she made with beer.

Anna was a natural hostess. Her own enjoyment in entertaining was obvious. People meeting her for the first time were surprised to find that they did most of the talking. Anna was a most sympathetic and encouraging listener. She had the power of concentrating utterly on what she was being told. This concentration may explain the ease with which she remembered little details about her friends and acquaintances; she could quote remarks from past conversations, which was often pleasing and sometimes startling. Very Little escaped her. As her mother observed, “Anna misses nothing.”

Every day was full. Anna served on many committees in the town and county. Peebles has a well-developed interest in music and drama, which Anna did much to encourage. Fond of Gilbert and Sullivan operas, she was President of the Peebles Philharmonic Society, which produced one of the operas every year. Anna was one of the Peebles Players, a successful amateur group, and she appeared with them in several productions and in performances at national dramatic festivals.

1932 was the last of the comparatively quiet and serene years, though this centenary year of Sir Walter Scott was exciting enough for a family who idolised the great wizard. John’s contribution was the biography Sir Walter Scott which G. M. Trevelyan has described as “the best one-volumed biography in the English language.” He also wrote a play for the Centenary celebrations at Peebles in which he played the part of Scott. He also wrote a play, The Maid, in which Anna appeared.

There were other happy occasions. Elsfield, London, Broughton and Peebles were the centres of most of them. A larger world, however, was now looming. John was about to enter a new life of service of the highest order. The prelude was John’s appointment as the Lord High Commissioner to the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland. This office is unique in the United Kingdom. The Lord High Commissioner is the representative of the King; he lives in the Palace of Holyrood House, and he receives all the courtesies and ceremonial accorded only to Royalty; he addresses the General Assembly from the Throne Gallery of the historic Assembly Hall on the Mound of Edinburgh, and he fulfils a heavy programme of engagements during the ten days of the tenure of his office. Generally, this unique position has been held by a Scottish peer, and sometimes by a member of the Royal family. John Buchan was the first son of the Manse to hold the office, and his appointment was universally acclaimed.

The General Assembly brings ministers and elders from every part of Scotland into the Capital. Though a religious court, its debates touch upon almost every aspect of the life of the Scottish people. John Buchan spoke to it with a complete understanding of its place in the nation’s life, and from personal knowledge of the significance of the Church in the life of the people. He and his gracious lady made the occasion memorable. And it was so for Anna and her mother. All Anna’s books, as well as John’s, were to be found in Scottish manses so her presence in the Throne Gallery with her mother gave an added thrill to John’s Commissionership. Every day they were surrounded by people clamouring to meet them. For Anna’s mother this was probably the happiest time of her long widowhood. To the excitement of appearances at the Assembly and various social occasions, they had the pleasure of residing at the Palace of Holyrood House with elaborate ceremonies, the official dinners and the huge party in the gardens below Arthur’s Seat. All this exciting happiness was theirs again for a second time when John was appointed Lord High Commissioner the following year.

John was staying at Bank House for a few days in the spring of 1935, when he was summoned to Buckingham Palace. A few days later his appointment as Governor-General of Canada was announced, and he became the first Lord Tweedsmuir, taking his title from the tiny village close to the source of the river he loved. He threw himself, despite constant pain, with zeal and imagination into his high office. The people of Canada responded to the distinctive way he fulfilled his many duties. He helped Canada towards self-realisation.

Family ties were stronger than ever, and, in his first year as Governor-General, John was eager for his mother, sister and brother to stay at Government House in Ottawa. Anna had taken her mother on countless journeys, but this was the longest. At the age of seventy-nine Mrs. Buchan crossed the Atlantic with Anna.

It was a very happy visit, and they made more new friends. So the following year—the year of the Coronation of Their Majesties King George VI and Queen Elizabeth—Bank House extended hospitality to many Canadians.

But before the year was out Mrs. Buchan grew tired, and, on the last day of her long life, Anna saw on her mother’s face a look of utter content.

Her passing was lamented. Everyone missed the remarkable little lady who had been so kind to all. For Anna it was a very big breach. Her mother had occupied a large place in her life, and for many years she had been her constant companion. Some years later when Anna began to write her reminiscences, she talked frankly to me about the difficulties of writing autobiography. Then she confessed: “When I start to write, memories of my mother crowd in upon me. These are the memories that are uppermost, and I expect they always shall be.”

Walter and Anna were now alone in Bank House. The bond between them had always been strong. Now it was firmer and finer than ever.

I have postponed comment on a question that usually follows the question with which we began. The second question is “Why did Anna Buchan never marry?”

It is a natural question perhaps to ask about one so attractive as Anna was. But she was not a believer in the prevailing literary fashion that insists all must be told. We must respect her reserve. We must remember that every life has a private agony. It is improbable that Anna’s life was an exception. Perhaps some words of Nicole in The Proper Place were written out of her experience. Whatever heartache Anna knew from whatever cause, she did not ever fail to show the shining morning face, and she used her gift for fantasy and friendship to find a way to joy and peace. If there had ever been a sore wound, it had healed so well that none could detect the faintest scar.

The flow of novels continued though the interval between them lengthened slightly. The Day of Small Things, a sequel to Penny Plain; Priorsford, a sequel to The Proper Place; Taken by the Hand and Jane’s Parlour received a rapturous reception from her readers spread throughout the English-speaking world, and each book increased the correspondence their author had to tackle daily. This correspondence became a heavy burden, but Anna still refused to seek relief from it. There is no doubt whatever that this steady stream of friendly letters from her pen gave a great deal of pleasure and happiness to the recipients, but as the pile of incoming letters mounted, the effort of coping with them was a constant drain of time and energy. Appeals to Anna to reduce this labour was unavailing. The only concession she agreed to make was to accept Walter’s gift of a room he had prepared for her in a building opposite Bank House. Here, overlooking Tweed, Anna was able to write with more freedom from the ever increasing interruptions.

Anna and Walter returned to Canada in July of the fateful year of 1939, undeterred by the growing rumbles of the second World War. This visit gave the Buchan family the opportunity of spending the last few weeks of peace together, and they were the last days Anna and Walter were to enjoy with John. Anna and her brother returned to Peebles in time to hear the Prime Minister’s broadcast message that war had begun.

War brought large numbers of evacuees to Peebles which was a so-called safe area. Soldiers of the British and Polish armies thronged the streets of the little Border town, and crowded into its dwellings. Bank House entertained many of these visitors. Later, when the Canadian soldiers arrived, many spent their leave in visiting Peebles to see the ancestral home of their Governor-General.

That harsh winter, with all the uncertainties and uneasiness of the “phoney war” period, brought the hardest blow of all to Lady Tweedsmuir in Ottawa and Anna and Walter in Peebles. John Buchan’s amazing life, so rich in lasting achievement despite the adversity of pain, came to its end. On Sunday, 11th February, 1940, Anna’s “playmate, comrade and counsellor” departed this life.

Anna had a book The House that is Our Own to finish. It was to be the last of her published novels. The writing of it sustained her through sessions of grief.

Though the war gathered momentum, Anna and Walter still continued their journeys south. Anna saw for herself the ravages of the blitz, and she learned at first hand what it meant to suffer nights of bombardment. She continued to fulfil public engagements, and she served the Red Cross and other movements to help the cause of country. She ministered to those to whom war brought grievous loss. She was quick with her sympathy and her practical help. When a Peebles lad, a rear gunner in a bomber plane, suffered shocking injuries, the doctors suggested that if his sweetheart married him, it might help to strengthen the wounded lad’s grip on life. The Peebles lass flew to her lad with a full bridal attire provided by Anna.

Anna was President of the Peeblesshire branches of the League of Wives and Mothers. She held this office to the end. She had, I think, more pride in this office than in most others she held. She enjoyed saying. “I am neither wife nor mother, so they made me President.” She always attended the meetings of this organisation at Peebles and Innerleithen. She spoke at every meeting, and usually voiced the thanks of the women to the speaker of the day. Anna, however, did not remain on the platform. She moved freely among all the women, some old and infirm and others young and newly married. They were drawn from all sections of the community. How these women enjoyed their brief chat with Anna, who seemed to know them all, their families and their troubles! No presentation of Anna Buchan would be complete without this picture of her moving among the women, shaking hands and smiling, and asking questions, and being utterly absorbed in the answers. This was the daughter of the Manse doing the work she first learned in her father’s Church. The sophisticated might be puzzled by this expenditure of herself, but for Anna long ago there had come a call to cheer ordinary folk, and she obeyed it to the end.

When Anna began to work on Unforgettable, Unforgotten, she had some doubts about writing it. John in his Memory Hold the Door had written an inspired book which has gone into many editions. He did not choose to write of the more personal aspects of his life. It was these aspects which mainly engaged Anna’s interest. Lady Tweedsmuir gave her much encouragement and, as Anna proceeded, her pleasure in chronicling “the fount of all her memories” increased. To Anna the friendship of Susan Tweedsmuir grew more and more precious, and the inevitable sadness of the last years was made less so by the charm and intelligence of Susan’s endearing companionship.

Anna’s health was still very good, but friends began to say that she was ageing a little. This only meant that she moved a little more slowly. She was as erect and alert as ever. Her bright eyes were as keen as ever, and her zest unimpaired. She accompanied Walter to “cures” where he sought alleviation from arthritis, but no opportunity of theatre-going was foregone by either of them. She began work on another novel with its opening chapters set in Priorsford in the early days of the war. Old friends were to appear as well as new ones, including an attractive young Canadian.

The publication of Unforgettable, Unforgotten in October, 1945, gave Anna much pleasure. The book received a warm welcome from all types of reviewers, and sales were only limited by the then prevailing restrictions on paper. An enormous number of letters poured into Bank House. It was just and appropriate that one who had given so much happiness and comfort to others should be given such warm-hearted and sincere assurances of her fine achievement. The book not only pleased her many readers anxious to read their favourite author’s own story; it helped substantially to round out the saga of the Buchan family, one of which had attained to the highest public honours and an abiding place in literature, while another suffered the bitterness of affliction; one to the briefest life of fragrant beauty; another to sacrifice in early manhood for King and Country; another to long and valued service to the community, and another with the gift to make an empire of friends through telling the story of the romance and sorrows of their lives. John had told his part of the story in his own way. Susan Tweedsmuir in John Buchan by his Wife and Friends, published in 1947, revealed what sharing in that life and joining the family meant. Anna told how the story began, and revealed the sources of the family’s strength, and the firmness of the bonds that held them together through the years unimpaired by great changes, tragedy and success.

The day after I had read the copy of Unforgettable, Unforgotten she had sent me, I said to her, “That invalid girl in the Glasgow slum was right. Your life is a fairy tale come true.”

Anna smiled. Her eyes shone. The years seemed to fall from her. I could see she was reliving some wonderful part of the fairy tale. I did not disturb her reverie which she broke with a sigh. “Yes,” she said simply, “I have so much to be thankful for.” I felt then that for her, though the sorrows had been severe the joys outweighed the sorrows; the darkness and the mystery had been redeemed by romance and gladness. Her thankfulness to the Creator of all things was as genuine as her frank and simple faith that the Christian verities were central to human life.

Anna Buchan was a Christian. Worship was the clue to living, so she was constant in attendance at Divine Service. On first coming to Peebles she had worshipped at the Church in Eastgate and, later, when union took place, at the Old Parish Church which nobly flanks the west end of High Street. Every Sunday morning as the bells pealed out a familiar air, Anna crossed the roadway to mount the flight of steps to the sanctuary.

All the letters welcoming the autobiography were cheerfully answered. Another happiness was the safe return of her three nephews from the war.

In the summer of 1947 the Borders were stirred by a visit from their Majesties, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, accompanied by Princess Elizabeth, Princess Margaret and the Duke of Edinburgh, then Lieutenant Philip Mountbatten. This visit was the occasion of an impressive demonstration of Border loyalty to the throne. Peebles, no less than the other Border towns and villages, welcomed their Majesties with thunderous cheers. Anna and her brother had tea with the King and Queen and other members of the Royal Family. A picture taken by a press photographer of the King engaged in conversation with Anna shows her exactly as she was in her last years.

Walter’s health grew worse, and Anna’s concern for her brother naturally increased. Then at Christmas, 1947, her own health for the first time became troublesome. Indisposition continued and worsened. The following May she went to Edinburgh for an operation. Complications followed which taxed her strength. Anna faced these ordeals bravely, but when weakness continued, she wanted to return home. Instinctively, she wished to end her course beside the river she and her people had loved so much for so long.

Walter decided to retire from his public positions in the town and county. Public recognition was made of the services he had given, for forty-two years to the community. Peebles knew it had been fortunate in retaining all these years the devoted service of such a brilliant man. Anna was unable to accompany him to the dinner given to him by the Town Council. So Walter went alone. He only of the Buchans survived to voice a public farewell. He referred with justifiable pride to the fact that his forty-two years completed over a century of service by his family to the town.

Through the summer into the autumn, when Anna’s town is perhaps at its best, she grew weaker. But she was still a bright and cheerful spirit; and she still wrote letters. These wonderful last notes of encouragement and help said little about herself, and those who received them will cherish them. Only the last weakness could keep Anna from writing.

The inevitable hour approached. The door was closed against the world. Only Walter and Susan shared the closing chapters.

November was a month in which Anna rejoiced to pile the logs on the fire and draw the curtains. On the forenoon of the 24th November, 1948, her heart fluttered and failed, and the final curtain was drawn.

⁎  ⁎  ⁎

A vast crowd filled the Old Parish Church for the Memorial Service. All the people of Peebles lamented Anna Buchan’s passing and found it difficult to believe that they would never again see her walk their bright High Street and return her greeting. They had the feeling that, though Anna had lived a long life, her death seemed premature, because they had always known her to be so gay of heart, and so in love with living.

“Is life a boon?
If so, it must befal
That Death, whene’er he call,
Must call too soon.”

Anna shared that sentiment, but through a persistent devotion, through her happy books and her ministry of comfort, she had nurtured for herself and many others the Blessed Hope that from the dust of this earthly existence there blossomed a richer, fairer Life.

## Anna

Susan Tweedsmuir

It is very hard to write about someone you have dearly loved and whose death has left you with an infinite sense of loss and desolation.

Many of the things which Anna and I most deeply shared are too intimate to be written about, and Anna was the very soul of reticence. She would not, I know, wish that anything should be written about her which would have violated her fastidious reserve, so that my task, as I say, is not an easy one.

A great deal has been written about the love of sisters through the ages, even aunts have had pages to themselves in memoirs, but am I mistaken in thinking that the sister-in-law relationship has often been the target of scorn? And yet sisters-in-law can be very happy together, and Anna and I were very happy always in each other’s company. Our relationship had the warmth of sisterhood with the sparkle and fun and difference of outlook which sprang from our diverse upbringings.

I had been engaged for a short time to John when I first met Anna. He had brought his mother and her to London and installed them at Brown’s Hotel. Anna was very charming to look at with her bright hair and blue eyes and her pretty soft colouring. When we first met it was surprising that we understood each other at all; we literally spoke different languages. I had spent a good deal of time abroad, having been two winters in Egypt with an uncle and aunt, and I had also lived for months both in Germany and Italy. Anna had been abroad with John on mountaineering expeditions and had proved herself a bold and reliable climber, and once for a short trip to the Loire, but otherwise she had never left her native shores, so that any sophisticated remarks I made went completely wide. (This was soon partly evened out by Anna going to India to stay with her brother Willie, from which expedition she returned with her always receptive mind broadened and fertilised.)

I knew little or nothing of Scotland. True I had had a glimpse of that country by staying in several large country houses, amongst parties of people assembled for shooting and fishing, but I was completely ignorant of rural Scotland, industrial Scotland, and the life of a town like Peebles and Kirkcaldy.

My mode of life was completely foreign to Anna. I lived with my mother and sister in a big house in Upper Grosvenor Street. My mother was the centre of a complicated group of relations who were mainly landowners in a large or small way who moved to and from the country. Anna was not much interested in my life, and I felt that it was up to me to understand hers. Where we both showed wisdom was in concentrating on our likenesses rather than our unlikenesses. We both loved books and the theatre and we both laughed at the same jokes, and we left it at that.

I was soon fascinated by some aspects of my new family. They possessed the power of telling stories in a remarkable degree, and had what amounted to genius in recounting any incident old and new. It was always such fun to go for a drive with Anna and her mother. My mother-in-law could tell us something about the inhabitants of each little Peeblesshire farm. She excelled in terse comments, and I remember her saying once of a woman on a farm “she was the kind that would let a fire go out when she was sitting in the room all the time.”

Sometimes her voice would rise to an Old Testament-like quality of denunciation. We would be passing some farm-house where the surroundings looked run down and untidy, and she would say in a voice of mounting disapproval in broader and broader Scots, “he was a queer, thrawn¹ sort of character, and his wife was a dwaibly² body, and their children were a fair disgrace, and all their money went done . . .” and then a chronicle of other disasters followed.

I was enthralled by these tales and by her knowledgeable comments on all farming operations. My mother-in-law had a severe dislike of all muddle and waste, and her great passion in life was warmth and cosiness, not the luxury of smart hotels (though she liked hotels and found them restful, and the company there interested her vividly). She admired and practised the cosiness which springs from a great deal of hard work and much careful planning on the part of the hostess of the house. “It’s a grand thing comfort,” she often said. A chill house with no fire and scones on the table left over from the day before, filled her with horror, and she would rise at an unearthly hour in the morning to make quite certain that this did not happen in her house.

Sometimes she would shake her head and sigh deeply, and I well remember one day when we were sitting by the fire she said thoughtfully, “Susie, human nature’s a queer, nasty thing.” I forget the reason now for this pronouncement, but I think that some friend of hers, or perhaps an acquaintance, had behaved badly; but how often her words have come back to me in these latter days. This pessimism it must be said was offset by a frequent recital of all the nice people she had met in her life and how kind they had been to her.

To return to cosiness. Anna had an almost equal passion for it and also worked hard to secure it, and she admired it in others. This comes in again and again in all her books, and as most people in their heart of hearts love to be cosy (whatever they may say to the contrary) this accounts partly for the large public Anna’s books have always had. A great many hard-pressed people admired her very much and felt that at any rate generosity and cosiness if unattainable by them, was very pleasant to read about.

To understand Anna it is necessary to know the Borders which have an atmosphere all their own and a kind of mellow charm. The little towns which are concerned with the tweed industry do not encroach much into the surrounding countryside. You can almost instantly after driving through them get into remote hills and valleys. You can look at the “glittering and resolute streams of Tweed” and remember stories and ballads. You can pass what were once castles strategically placed on green knolls a little apart from flourishing farm domains, the ochre colour of the ruins blending with the dark green tints of the hillsides.

I love this county of Peebles so much that perhaps I may permit myself to give a short description of it, which might interest those who have never seen it, and yet who love it for Anna’s sake.

The soft rounded hills usually have a cleft in the middle where a tiny burn runs down into the larger river. It is pre-eminently a sheep country and sheep seem to cling precariously to the steep hillsides, but their stout and matronly bodies show that they are getting a good living. Cattle, calm and composed, graze in the pastures by the river looking a little like spotted toys.

The farm-houses are usually white-washed in front and are surrounded by trees which hide all but their chimneys. They stand at the apex of a glen and are tucked into the folds of the hill. This whole countryside is full of the pastoral sound of the bleating of sheep, and seagulls, who have apparently decided to become inland birds, hold committee meetings in the field and wheel above the river.

One of the loveliest things in the border country is the colouring. The heather is not so glowing and spectacular as in some other parts of Scotland, but it blooms in patches amongst the grass and around screes and the whole effect produced is of a lovely and slightly worn Turkey carpet. After the heather is over the bracken turns a subtle rust colour picked out with gleams of yellow; in fact I have sometimes been reminded of old-fashioned, slightly gilded gingerbread—a very homely comparison to which I may add the more poetic picture of the hills glowing in the evening sunshine like cornelians.

The soft open quality of the hills allows them to reflect shadows of passing clouds on their green surface, and the double moving pattern of the clouds in the sky and their shadows moving across the hills is a very satisfying one.

Also on a green saddle between two hills a shadow edged with deep indigo often fingers. Many exiles have closed their eyes to the recollection of a sheep dog rounding up a huddle of sheep by a stone dyke, a rusty patch of bracken, a few hard-bitten trees which have survived through sheer stamina and will to live—a velvet plush hillside curved under a soft sky.

This country encourages thought and poetry as well as action. The hills are magnificent for walkers and climbers, and there are days when you can sit and watch the burn water flowing in endless arabesques over rocks before it falls into miniature pools, a pastime to which I am much addicted. But Peeblesshire is not a county for lotus eaters or dreamers, as the changing temperamental weather does not allow for laziness or idle thought.

Anna constantly went out into the country. She must have presided at little country bazaars in nearly every village and she liked going to the Crook Inn at Tweedsmuir, set in one of the loveliest bits of scenery in the Borders. She was welcome in every house, large and small, and at home with everyone.

It is not given to many people to have the satisfying experience of living in a small country town and to be equally happy in the whole surrounding country side.

Peebles has a broad street from which other streets radiate, but the life of the place centres in the High Street. In the morning it is thronged with shoppers carrying bags and baskets who always seem to have time to pause and exchange cheerful greetings and news of the shopping front with their friends. Anna was always out by nine-thirty in the morning with her basket. She walked very rapidly, like all her family, but would always stop for a word with someone and both the shops and the shoppers feel the blank left by her death. There was a vividness about her, and she had that priceless quality of making one feel that life was very well worth living.

Anna’s day always began with an enormous amount of housework. Bank House was full of books, not only on shelves but stacked on tables. It was also full of photographs, and pictures and endless small china and other ornaments. Everything shone and gleamed with polishing. The whole house had that look which alas, is becoming rare now, of a family home which had been lived in for generations. Possessions are treasured not because of their cash value but because they are concerned with some happy memory and had been bequeathed by a long dead member of the family.

I always associated Bank House with late summer flowers, I suppose because I have been there so often in September and early October. I always think of the sitting-room there as full of Michaelmas daisies with their delicate open faces, asters with their bold artificial colours, and the clotted brilliance of snapdragons. Sometimes Anna had an exquisite touch of pastel colour in the room, from a big bunch of single scabious given her each year by our friend Mrs. Pringle of Torwoodlee.

Flowers and a fire bring a room to life, and with Anna’s families of little brass ornaments which she had brought back from India which winked and sparkled, and books laid out ready to be read and discussed, it was a pleasant room indeed.

Like many practical people Anna had the weakness (shared by me) of losing things all the time. Ration books, which were haunted by a special kind of gremlin, were often mislaid, letters became impossible to find, the Biro pen I had given her was discovered after lengthy search in the most unlikely places. Large portions of the book she was engaged upon at the moment unaccountably disappeared, and we spent hours daily looking for her (and my) spectacles. My husband, who was extremely methodical, used to say that I had the feeblest grip on my possessions of anyone he had ever known, as he restored me my handkerchief for the tenth time from under a sofa or the depths of the log basket. I often reminded Anna as we grew older of how stern we were, in the pride of our youth, with her mother who lost things continually. “Gran, can’t you remember where you put your spectacles?” we used continually to say. Alas, the years found us out and made us lose our spectacles too.

My husband and I watched Anna’s emergence into the great world with joy and interest. From being a delightful daughter and sister she became a writer and a best seller, a celebrity and a woman of means. Into each rôle she fitted perfectly. I remember someone said to me, “I enjoyed meeting Miss Buchan so much, she is so bright and pleasant.” I repeated this to Anna who said, a little grimly, that she, like all Ministers’ daughters, had had a long apprenticeship in being bright and pleasant.

Anna had no vanity and adulation bored her, though she was greatly touched and pleased by the many sincere tributes she had about the books. But, as I say, adulation made her unhappy and we would listen often whilst she told of some of the more foolish praise she received. She had a very neat and ready wit. Once she met a lady at a crowded tea-party who for some reason mistook her for me and said gushingly, “I have always so longed to meet your husband.” “So have I,” replied Anna quietly, melting away into the crowd.

The keynote of Anna’s character was generosity. She gave away all she had with both hands. In John Buchan by his Wife and Friends I wrote, “I early learnt lessons of thrift and generosity from Anna.” When I read this aloud to her in manuscript she stopped me, saying with amusement “You never learnt any lessons of thrift from me, my dear.”

Before I met Anna I had known extravagant people who spent money on their own pleasures and had nothing left to give to others. I had also met many kind and generous people, but I had never before come in contact with any one family who economised so much on themselves and gave away money so unsparingly.

Anna made money on her books especially in the days when the earnings of a writer were not so cruelly penalised by taxation as now. It brought her pure happiness to have a surplus to present to a wide circle of beneficiaries. I was often one of them and occasionally remarked that she was turning me into a parasite, at which she laughed and just went on doing it.

She worked harder than usual at Christmas time, not only sending away cheques and postal orders, but doing up innumerable parcels with her own hands. These activities went on all the year round but were much increased at Christmas. Stingy people who came to Bank House were apt to leave it in a rather deflated mood.

Anna liked clothes and always bought very nice ones. She said that you need to give your audience at a meeting something to look at. In her own case she needed no adventitious aid from clothes. Some people’s personalities diminish on a platform, but Anna’s acquired a fuller richness. A small woman, she gained in stature as she was speaking. She had the most perfect sense of occasion. I went once with her to a small country sale. She was perched on the top of a double flight of wooden steps, up and down which some unrestrained small children clambered during her speech. She was quite undisturbed by this, and her speech was a gem both in matter and manner.

John and I and her mother went with her once when she opened a very big flower show in Glasgow. She professed to be nervous, and, indeed, like all good and sensitive speakers, seemed a little strung up before she started, but her speech was admirable and the audience who were all standing were completely still and spellbound. Her funny stories about her speaking experiences were innumerable. Readers of Unforgettable, Unforgotten will remember the story of the produce sale which she opened when a coop containing a live turkey was placed under the platform on which she stood. We listened with delight to these stories and instantly asked her to repeat them. I remember the tale of a Burns’ evening when she was heckled by a member of her audience as to whether Burns did or did not eat “Champit tatties”. Anna professed her ignorance and never spoke about Burns again. To tell the truth Anna was a heretic about Burns, much preferring Sir Walter Scott as a man and a writer.

She had all the attributes of a good speaker. A clear voice and a perfect enunciation. I have had the luck to hear most of the leading speakers of our time, and I would put her amongst the first half-dozen for excellence both as a speaker and a lecturer.

As I have said, we laughed a lot at Anna’s stories of her speaking experiences, in fact we always laughed when we were together, and our laughter sometimes outran all bounds. We were alike in being susceptible to completely paralysing and idiotic giggles. I remember an occasion when a minister recited Gunga Din, and Anna and I for some reason were shaken by this, but we kept our faces straight until the frond from a fern in a flower pot on a nearby table caught in his waistcoat button (a fact of which he remained entirely unaware) and from that moment we became a shame and disgrace to the whole party by our ill-suppressed mirth. This untimely laughter, which is usually an attribute of youth, continued through our lives and broke over us devastatingly when we were together. In about the third year of World War Number II Anna asked me to go to Edinburgh with her. She had seen a plushy coat there which she thought she liked, but on coming home she decided that she did not want to have it. This was a little difficult as she had given up the required number of coupons and had asked the shop to put it aside for her. She begged me to come and criticise the coat so that she could get out of buying it. I am notoriously bad at that sort of thing, and (unfortunately for us) we fell into the capable grasp of a blonde young saleswoman who sized us up at a glance. I was wearing a biscuit-coloured synthetic fur coat and, mindful of my promise to help, I said in as strong a voice as possible, “I don’t like the pale colour of this coat you were thinking of buying, Anna,” to which the young woman, glancing coldly at me, remarked, “This coat is not nearly such a sickly colour as yours, madam.” At which uncontrollable laughter swept over us and Anna had, of course, to buy the coat and my synthetic garment still bears the name of “Sickly” in my family.

Laughter is one of the things I recall most often in my constant thoughts of Anna. Just before she went into the nursing home in Edinburgh I got a letter from her which ended with these words: “We have had such fun together, my dear,” and when I read it I was blinded by tears.

We wrote weekly to each other and her letters were full of admirable touches and vivid descriptions. In the 1914 war she wrote to me about a kindly lady who was in the habit of taking rabbits to soldiers’ wives to help them to eke out their food supplies. Instead of cooking and eating them the moment her back was turned they flung the rabbits straight into the stream behind their houses. Anna described a party given for the soldiers’ wives just after the war, during the influenza epidemic, when the over-powering smell of eucalyptus and beefsteak pie made all the helpers feel faint and sick. Her books are full of these life-like vignettes, and by these I am sure they will live.

I never can think how Anna managed to write even as much as she did. There was no need to conceal her manuscript under a blotting book when her family came in. We loved her writings and constantly pressed her to write more. Anna often said that she liked four clear hours in front of her when she started to write. I wonder if she ever got so much as one or two clear ones. She often said that I was the only person, except Walter, who guarded her privacy, and I could only do it when she came for her brief and happy visits to Elsfield, when I put a writing desk for her and no child or anyone else was allowed to go near her.

My mother-in-law did not help very much, in fact she always wanted Anna to accept every speaking invitation she received. Her brothers were most emphatic in their pleas that she should not do this, and Walter constantly offered to get her secretarial help in writing her letters.

We could not move her at all, she just went her own way saying that when people wrote to her she must write back in her own hand. She did refuse endless invitations to speak, but she did accept a great number and she allowed some of her creative energy to be dissipated by those time-wasting activities which beset every well-known author. I still think it was a pity that she did this, but when she died letters poured in from all parts of the English-speaking world from those to whom she had written, and I realised then what they had meant to the people who had received them.

She wished more than anything to add to the sum of human happiness, and she achieved this object.

After the operation in Edinburgh in May, 1948, she came home to Peebles and lay in bed in her own room. She wrote letters, read books and listened to the wireless. She smiled when I went in and we talked and laughed, and she said how pleasant and restful it was to be in bed after her long and active life. I knew that the end could not be very far away as I sat there talking as cheerfully as I could, with a painful constriction at my heart. I did not stay long as I knew she wanted to be left alone with Walter as much as possible. Their devotion to each other was proverbial amongst those who knew them. He managed to maintain a wonderful calm and serenity in these last days and my admiration for him, always great, became deeper and more heartfelt; I knew just what he was feeling. She grew rapidly worse in November, and the end came peacefully.

The large parish church at Peebles was packed with people, and when we emerged on to the flight of steps outside we found a hushed and silent High Street full of men and women who stood with bent heads as we passed. Blinds were drawn down and the gay and cheerful High Street mourned as though darkness had fallen.

Bank House is now a place of pilgrimage. Nellie, who cared for Anna all through her illness, and who has for many years been one of the best friends our family has ever had, and Mrs. Cowan, whose help has always been invaluable, keep Bank House as shining as ever. Visitors who want to see the room where Anna wrote sometimes come in and look at it for a few minutes. This is a labour of love for Nellie as she knows that Anna would have wished it so.

Anna’s ashes were taken by Walter to the cemetery where his parents and other forebears lie, and were scattered there. I think that a light wind bore them to rest on a hill side, and that the rain mingling them with the earth made them a part of the countryside she loved so well.

## Olivia

Alice Fairfax-Lucy

Dearest,

Since memory is a diminishing glass I want to try and evoke it before the pictures become too small and distant. With a generation or more between us, we grew in the end like contemporaries, and as such we corresponded. This letter, then, the last of many, I dedicate to you in love and gratitude.

Where does memory begin? Only, I suppose, when the unrelated incidents of early childhood draw together to form a coherent pattern. I see you as a bright gold thread in that pattern.

When we—my three brothers and myself—were little we called you Auntie Nan. You were “Nan” to your own brothers, and it suited you. We thought you very beautiful with your golden hair and keen eyes. You seemed very old to us—or rather ageless, like a powerful benevolent enchantress. You had the power to make life more exciting for children by the exercise of a strong imagination. Nobody was ever such a deviser of surprises. How well I remember the fairy Whippetty Stourie who lived in the chimney in Gran’s bedroom, undeterred by the presence of a gas fire, and who would leave presents for us in the fireplace at odd times. You interpreted intuitively the child’s love of the unexpected.

When was it that I, at first tentatively and then boldly, dropped the “Aunt” and you became—as you have remained—the “Olivia” of such dear memory? I can hear you quoting the speech from Twelfth Night that ends with line

“. . . and make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out ‘Olivia’!”

and your soft Scotch voice dwelling on the name. Viola was always my favourite, but like Ellen Terry you adored Rosalind, and all Shakespeare’s other golden girls were dish-clouts to her.

As from one contemporary to another, you sometimes permitted yourself to comment dryly to me on the vulgar and pretentious of your acquaintance. You could be astringent about human folly, though infinitely tolerant of human weakness. But the aunt in you never ridiculed, however lightly, the vapourings of adolescence; that forbearance on your part more than anything, sealed our relationship. So much has been written about our family background that I will say only that our Broughton summer holidays stretch behind me in a perpetual noon-day glow of your making; a terrain of memory to which my mind, seeking, footholds, returns with thankfulness.

It is the fashion to be cautious nowadays—vehemence is suspect and enthusiasts are apt to evoke pity. It is perhaps dangerous to care too much about anything while the ground shifts perpetually under our feet. (“Tempting Providence,” Gran would have said, visualising Providence as a sort of meddling go-between, liable to tale-bearing, if not propitiated. One of my father’s favourite stories was of the old woman who remarked slightingly of Providence, “There’s One Above will settle wi’ him!”) You were not afraid of enthusiasm, and one of your most delightful traits was the quality which an earlier age called sensibility. You lived in the books you loved, and cared so desperately about unhappy endings that now whenever I am reduced to tears over Misunderstood or The Heir of Redclyffe I shall think of you.

You introduced me to Peter Ibbetson and the poems of Austen Dobson, besides much else. I was never able to interest you in the novels of Charlotte Yonge and you could not abide Dickens, but apart from those blind spots we were at one, and roamed together the delightful kingdom of the minor classics.

Generosity in Aunts can take other forms than the giving of presents. Children suffer, often silently, from a haunting pity, the more painful because they cannot rationalise it. As a child I would shut my eyes at the sound of a blind man’s stick tapping the kerb, felling sick at my helplessness to relieve the world’s misery. As I write the old sensation comes back to me and there returns to me the passion of gratitude I had for your quick reaction as you dropped half-crowns into the dingy cap. I was so certain of your reaction being the same as mine that once we were together beggars had no terrors for me. It might be “indiscriminate charity”, as one’s governess was careful to explain, but what relief to know that for one night at least the ex-serviceman or out-of-work miner could be sure of a lodging and food. I don’t believe any tramps—and they were plentiful in my childhood ever came to the back door at Broughton or in Peebles, but you and Gran pressed food upon him and listened with eager sympathy to what in those days were only too tragically authentic hard-luck stories. When your benevolence extended to the stray cats of the neighbourhood your family grew restive—I loved you all the more for it.

To us children your success as a novelist was the least important thing about you. After all it was easy I You just wrote down things that happened and described people whom we knew! As I grew older I realised the skill that could maintain such an airy balance of light and shade. My favourite of your books, if I may speak of my own personal partiality, is Eliza for Common. The “difficult” girl who thought her parents hopelessly innocent, and wanted to redecorate the family drawing-room, has the sterling ring of reality. You used to say that you never put members of your family into your books, but what about Bad Bill biting the parlourmaid, and Althea, that dreary “modern girl”? Like all other well-loved writers, you must submit to being identified with your own creations. Which were you?—gay Elizabeth of The Setons, sentimental Kirsty of Pink Sugar, stiff-lipped Nicole Rutherford or competent Jean Jardine? A little of each perhaps, though none are like you.

No one will ever be able to explain away the quality of your writing—comforting is the nearest description I can think of. In illness or distress people turn to your books, in the same way as, during the war, the soldiers read the novels of Trollope and Mrs. Gaskell to shreds. I firmly believe that in the starry galaxy of which Jane Austen and George Eliot are the great fixed luminaries, you have your unobtrusive place. How far that little candle sheds its beams only the lonely, the heartsick, and the disenchanted, will ever truly be able to tell.

Your love of Shakespeare (not this side idolatry) found in me a ready proselyte. Not long ago, when I was obliged by the necessity for moving house to discard books for which space could not be found, I came upon the shabby black Shakespeare that you gave me on my fourteenth birthday, its pages thumbed transparent and scored with underlining. “Time-sickness” can be almost a physical pang. “How blessings brighten as they take their flight.” No one will share Stratford in April with me in quite the same way, or respond as you did to my eager grab at your arm as we sat together anticipating mutually every felicitous phrase.

Each Spring you spent Easter at Elsfield—was it always “Stratford weather” as we used to call it, drenched one minute brilliant the next, with great skies of heaped white on blue? It seems so now. In your honour we children staged scenes from Shakespeare in the white-panelled drawing-room where a window alcove provided a stage. I can recall vividly Gran’s disapproving twinkle and your controlled expression as we cheerfully declaimed passages usually “bowdlerised” for the young person. With your gift for fitting the right word and action to the occasion you gravely complimented us and handed chocolates up over the improvised footlights.

During our annual London visit you indulged me with glorious intemperance, in our mutual passion, the theatre. As it was not always possible to see two performances in a day we had to content ourself on non-matinée days with films, which were a poor fidgety sort of substitute for the reality of the stage. In spite of the difference in our ages we shared, I believe, a capacity for living intensely in the moment, which builds the invisible fourth wall to the three-sided room of lath and canvas, and projects the atmosphere at once responsive and magnetic which every actor recognises. It is a selfless absorption that does not often outlast youth, and leaves one yawning, hungry, and rather miserable, all of which feelings you intuitively understood and ministered to with tea in the interval and a taxi home. Often as we have driven back to the Langham Hotel, through the lavender London dusk pricked with lights and loud with hurrying feet, I have felt that dreadful tightening in my throat induced by nostalgia for things uncomprehended, and turned to see you smiling at me through tears. “Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return,” and let me be a child again sitting beside you at Wyndham’s or His Majesty’s, breathless as the footlights go up and the curtains quiver in the yellow glow!

The de-bunking wit of the 30’s rather spoilt your pleasure in the theatre; Noel Coward could not take the place that Gerald du Maurier held in our hearts, and latterly you found the longer plays of Shakespeare tiring. Almost the last time we were together in Stratford we saw As You Like It, the play of all Shakespeare’s that you loved the best. I think, though I am not sure, that George Hayes, an actor we both admired, played the melancholy Jacques. He spoke “All the world’s a stage” leaning against a tree at the edge of the stage, while the banished Duke and his men sat grouped about a rough table by a fire of logs. As the actor’s voice played skilfully with the diminuendo of the speech the lights dimmed too, till on the dying fall of words the firefight flickered out. As I felt your responsive pleasure then, I feel it now.

The thing that might have divided us, but did not, was my luck in finding out what it feels like to be on the other side of the footlights. You were as ready to enter into that experience as once to share my childish wonder about what it felt like to be a real actress.

You often described to me how Ellen Terry, whom you visited before she died, was too ill and blind to receive visitors for more than a few minutes, but that in that short time you felt the hovering faint presence of her Juliet and Imogen. You never suffered that wreckage but kept your invincible air of youth to the end. No doubt you knew the touch of early frost, and sorrow had not spared you, but it never withered you, and to the end you could, with very little make-up, have played Rosalind.

Do you remember the last words of George du Maurier’s Trilby that we loved so much and could quote by the hour? Above the last drawing of the spectacles lying on the open book, by the guttered candle and the empty ink-well, are the lines that sum up for me your unabashed liking for sentiment, your respect for order, and love of the little things of life, and your gift for drawing warmth from a cold hearth:

“A little work, a little play
To keep us going—and so good day!

“A little warmth, a little light
Of love’s bestowing—and so good night!

“A little fun to match the sorrow
Of each day’s growing—and so good morrow!

“A little trust that when we die
We reap our sowing! And so—good-bye. . . .”

Alice.

## Author and Friend

Christine Orr

Very many people, when they remember Anna Buchan, think first of her books. To a host of readers who may never have seen her, there is an indefinable glamour in the name of “O. Douglas”. It stands to them for a friend, even if unmet. And the books themselves have exactly the quality of an ideal conversation with a friend, heartening, releasing the spirit from nagging worries, kindly yet salted with observant humour.

Before I knew Anna, I read The Setons and found in it this rare atmosphere of friendliness.

To an only child who had consistently invented imaginary people to take the place of brothers and sisters, the tale of a Glasgow household was like a door opened in welcome, an invitation to join in the warmth of a family circle—a very special family with its private jokes, its passion for books and old ballads, its rich associations, its background of a fire-lit room, snug against a Scottish winter, with a tea-table generously spread for all who came.

The same glow of fire and lamplight pervades all Anna’s novels.

I remember her once talking of a review which charged her with giving too much attention to the lamp-lit room and too little to the cold street outside. Surely in her choice of theme and method of approach she was wise—wise as Jane Austen who, writing in the midst of the Napoleonic wars, hardly ever referred to them, but selected her own ground and stuck to it, achieving a quiet perfection that Sir Walter Scott admitted was beyond him, for all his “big bow-wow”.

There are plenty of writers to-day anxious to convince us in loud voices that the world consists largely of one cold bleak street. Anna had found from her own experience that while “joy and pain are woven fine, a covering for the soul divine”, the joy is quite as real as the pain, and she was able to pass it on to a great number of readers who needed sorely to be reassured of the existence and value of happiness.

She has painted for us a gallery of irresistible comics. Her Bella Bathgate moves in the same clime as the outspoken Kate in the Highland kitchen of Neil Munro’s Daft Days. Her Mrs. Heggie and Mrs. Jackson are presented with as much shrewdness as any study of E. M. Delafield’s. Her young girls, too—Elizabeth Seton, Jean Jardine and the rest—are not merely conventional heroines, but, like the Findlater Sisters’ Penny Monypenny, creatures of sturdy reality.

Yet with all her gift for describing happiness, Anna never forgot the pain. Some of the most unforgettable parts of her stories are the poignant ones.

Her wit could be unsparing of the pompous Mrs. Duff-Whalleys of the world, but she had enough sympathy to enter into the feelings of the plain spinster who used to polish the parental furniture at each spring-cleaning, wondering whether the spring would ever come when she would polish a dressing-table in a home of her own.

There’s the same sympathy in that picture of the hard-driven tenement mother who used to watch, from the window above her kitchen sink, the train setting off for London, with its dining-car cosily lit, wondering what such a journey of comfort must be like, longing to take it, remarking to her daughter, “Eh, there goes my dinner off to London again!”—and in her last illness still hearing the trains pass, and yearning for a holiday she had never known and never now would know.

Yet to me, for all the delight of her books, Anna’s own personality is more memorable still. Simply by being what she was—vital—she added significance to the whole of life. One meets only now and then people like her with the power to turn everyday existence from a rather drab routine to something like a page from the kind of novel one settles down to read—as one read her own—with a sense of pleasant expectancy.

I think of her as one thinks gratefully of colour, whether in a garden or a lovely room.

Her own choice of colour, in clothes and belongings, impressed me when I was young and unsure about such things.

Her enthusiasm for the theatre added colour to one’s mental pattern. Shakespeare had been, at school and college, rather a dry text-book study. Her zest in him brought Twelfth Night and A Winter’s Tale alive for me.

Above all, her faculty of appreciation had the tonic effect of warm colour.

I think she described one of her characters as “a grand praiser”, It was true of herself. For all her discrimination and ability to show up anything pretentious or “phoney” with incisive wit, she could be extraordinarily encouraging—to a lonely woman struggling to convalescence after a severe illness, to a nervous child at a fancy-dress competition conscious of a rather homemade costume, to a beginner in her own line of writing, discouraged over the inevitable first failures.

The colour of such a personality does not fade. In her writing, and in talking of her own family, Anna was very sure that “love’s not Time’s fool”. In the midst of a busy life, lived in the major key, she gave the impression of being able, like Robert Browning, even in the bustle of the noontide, to “greet the unseen with a cheer”.

So, we greet her now.

## A Peebles Player

William Crichton

The Peebles Players owed their origin to Anna Buchan.

Without her invaluable help, this happy band would never have come into being, and lacking her constant encouragement we would not long have survived.

She embued the whole company with her enthusiasm, and all of us were inspired by her own passionate love for the theatre.

It was, I fear, with more courage than discretion that we first tried our ’prentice hand in Campbell of Kilmohr, a tragedy of the ’45. I asked Miss Buchan to play Mary Stewart, the Highland woman, whose son Dugald is captured and shot by Redcoats because of his refusal to divulge the whereabouts of Prince Charlie.

This is a difficult play, and much depends on the closing scene when Mary Stewart exalts: “Last night I was but the mother of a lad that herded sheep on the Athole hills; this morn it is I who am the mother of a man who is among the great ones of the earth. All over the land they will be telling of Dugald Stewart. Mothers will teach their children to be men by him. High will his name be with the teller of fine tales. Let the heart of you rejoice,” she continues to the sobbing Morag. “There are things greater than death. Let them that are children shed the tears.” Then, with all the grandeur gone out of her voice, she speaks the final words of the play: “Let us go and lift him into the house, and not be leaving him out there alone.”

I still recall the exaltation of Anna Buchan in this last scene which she played superbly.

This play began the happy adventure that brought a lasting joy to everyone in the Company which recalls its associations with Anna Buchan proudly.

For our next production we very much wanted to do a full-length play. It was Miss Buchan who suggested Barrie’s Quality Street, and an excellent choice it proved to be. Miss Buchan played Susan Throssel, and what fun we had in that blue and white room. Who could forget that schoolroom scene? Anna Buchan exacted every ounce of comedy out of it. Her own pleasure in playing the part was obvious, and audiences warmly responded.

Some weeks after this production, the Scottish Community Drama Association asked me if I would agree to house a Border Drama Festival in Peebles. They were anxious that The Peebles Players should submit an entry in order to stimulate local interest in the Festival.

This presented something of a problem to us. So far, we had gaily gone our way; we had worked hard, it is true, and we had enjoyed ourselves very much in the process.

An open competition, however, was a different story. Time was short—too short for us to produce a one-act play for Festival purposes. For good or ill we decided, and Miss Buchan agreed, to enter the fourth act of Quality Street.

The adjudicator was Norman Marshall, the well-known London producer, who awarded The Peebles Players first place.

Our next production was the evergreen Marigold, and here again Miss Buchan’s Mrs. Pringle, mistress of the Manse, was an outstanding performance.

For a later Drama Festival, Miss Buchan obtained for us an original play by John Buchan. It was called The Maid. It was a beautifully written play, and was highly praised by E. Martin Browne. Here again Miss Buchan rendered great service.

The Sir Walter Scott centenary was celebrated in Peebles with a Pageant in which many of the characters from Scott’s novels appeared. Anna Buchan essayed the difficult rôle of Meg Merrilees, and triumphantly succeeded in bringing this strange character to life.

A remarkable feature of the Pageant was a prelude written by John Buchan in which the author appeared as Sir Walter with his brother Walter as the faithful Tom Purdie. Other parts in the Pageant were played by the author’s wife and by his daughter Alice.

Perhaps Miss Buchan’s most memorable rôle was that of Nannie Webster in Barrie’s Little Minister. After many years it remains vivid in my mind as the part in which she showed best of all her exceptional gifts as an actress.

At a Red Cross Concert during the last war, Miss Buchan said: “I think we have all felt that we must give and give, and go on giving until that happy day when one’s help is no longer needed.”

Anna Buchan went on giving until the end.

In her books she has left abundant and enduring evidence of her gifts as a novelist. The talents of the actress are inevitably less well preserved, but all who were privileged to see her act will remember her outstanding stage appearances with real pleasure.

Stories by Anna Buchan

### Introductory Note

Five stories by Anna Buchan, not previously published in book form, and the first eight chapters of a novel, entitled The Wintry Years, are appropriate to this commemorative volume, as many admirers of Anna Buchan’s work will wish to read and treasure them.

The first of these stories, Jock the Piper, will come as a delightful surprise to many of Anna Buchan’s readers. It is a delicate evocation of childhood. She tells how four children go on a visit to Story-land. Though children will enjoy it, all who have relished the many interludes written around children in the “O. Douglas” novels will enjoy meeting the Mhor once again as he joins in this adventure with a setting rich in Border lore. The children go out to seek the King of Errin and rescue the Princess from Red Etin.

The supremely happy childhood days of the Buchan family are enshrined in this poetic tale which John Buchan anticipated in his poem to his sister:

“We were two children, you and I,
Unkempt, unwatched, far-wandering, shy,
Trudging from morn with easy load,
While faery lay adown the road. . . .
Sometimes, on sunny summer’s noon,
Our wearied feet got elfin shoon,
And we toiled up the hill so high
We seemed to knock against the sky,
While far above the clouds we heard
The singing of the snow-white Bird . . .
You in such lore were wondrous wise,
My princess of the shining eyes.
Our favour was the crimson Rose,
Our light the glow-worm’s lamp, our ways
The Road the King of Errin goes,
And that is to the End of Days.”

Broughton was the scene of the happiest of those childhood days so Jock the Piper is followed by two stories with a Broughton setting. These, and the sketch of the village, are of Broughton in earlier days.

These tales and the two following stories, A Tea Party at Eastkirk and Two Pretty Men, have all the sparkle, the charm and fine sentiment of her work in the period after the first World War.

Finally, comes eight chapters of the novel, The Wintry Years which Anna Buchan did not live to finish.

All Anna Buchan’s novels were about the life around her. As John told her, when he wrote stories he invented while she, in her books, was always remembering.

All was grist to her mill. She worked into her novels a phrase from this friend and a mannerism from that person. Most novelists work in this way. Few authors write “out of their heads” they draw largely from life, otherwise their tales would lack convincing life-like qualities. But Anna Buchan drew more directly from life than is usual, and it was mostly from the life of ordinary folk. Many were pleased to serve as models; others did not always recognise that they had served in that way.

Fragments of unfinished novels are usually tantalising. The Wintry Years leaves the reader wondering how the author intended to develop her story. Though this curiosity cannot now be satisfied, the fragment gives us a glimpse of what might have been one of her best books.

The setting of the tale is Priorsford at the beginning of the Second World War. It was inevitable that Anna Buchan should write of the effects of war on the people of her town. It was the next phase in her chronicles of Priorsford.

The eight chapters do not take us beyond the period of the “phoney” war. In Unforgettable, Unforgotten, the author tells of her hurried return from Canada to Britain in September, 1939, and how a nephew insisted on taking her to a deserted cinema to see Conrad Veidt in The Spy in Black. In The Wintry Years the reader will observe how this incident is used in the novel.

With these last words from Anna Buchan the story of Priorsford, her kingdom, comes to an end. The reader may feel sadness in taking farewell of a novelist, who, as Elizabeth Bowen has said, “holds a position that is probably unique; she is one of the few who are on the side of the angels, who can render life in terms of the courage it takes to live, and of its ultimate capacity for happiness, without having recourse to meretricious sentimentality.”

Anna Buchan was grateful for that tribute as she was for everything that was good. She would have wished all her readers to take farewell of Priorsford gratefully.

A. G. R.

A Story for Young and Old

## Jock the Piper

“When that I was and a tiny little boy.”
— Twelfth Night

It was Saturday afternoon.

The three boys had been trying to play at Pale Faces and Redskins, but there was no zest in the game and they were now sitting disconsolately in their Hidey Hole in the pinewood.

There is always a queer dull feeling about Saturday afternoon, but this particular Saturday it was much worse than usual for Jock had gone away. Jock Dodds, the coachman’s son, the best of companions and most inspired of leaders, the dear friend and ally of the boys, had gone that morning to a “place” on a farm in another county. He would never come back any more, at least it would never be the same again. Even that morning there had been a difference.

They had all gone to the station to see the last of him. Jock wore a new suit and squeaky boots, and was very conscious of his splendours. His hair looked redder than ever, and was well oiled. A round tin box belonging to his mother contained his belongings. The boys had gazed at him stolidly, too shy to say anything. When the train came in, they shook hands awkwardly; Jock remarking “So long” to each in turn.

And now Arthur looked round in dreary wonder that everything could look just the same.

He remembered the mornings they had set off with Jock, thrilling with the thought of the adventures that might befall them before the day drew to a close. If the influence of the Good Folk was strong, they looked diligently and kept a watch for they never knew when they might meet the Queen of fair Elfland with her horse’s mane hung with silver bells: and they would lie with ears close to the turf by a thorn-tree (one portal, as everyone knows, to Faery) listening for the sound of bells that would tell them that the Queen and her merry men rode that day. Not that Jock cared much for fairy stories. He preferred things to have an historical basis.

Often, as Robert the Bruce, Wallace, or Prince Charlie, they scoured the hills or lay hid for hours among the bracken, sustained by scones spread with rhubarb jam purloined by Jock from his mother’s cupboard. The hardships they endured, wading for hours in the burn to put the enemy off the scent, lying among whin-bushes, climbing the hill-face, all very hard on bare knees, were worthy of a better cause.

When the rain poured and the mist covered the hills and Tweed came roaring down in spate, they would cuddle cosily together in the barn loft, while Jock, to the accompaniment of the patter of the rain on the slates, told of his hero, the ill-fated Prince Charlie: of his courage, his beauty, and the wonderful things he might have done had it not been for the evil machinations of “thae English”.

Worked up by his own tales he would tramp about the loft, his freckled face aglow and his hair on end, and shout: “By! but thae Stewarts were the boys!”

When the boys in their turn told him of Lady Arabella Stewart and the Princes in the Tower, he remained “more than usual calm”,

“But they were just English,” he would remark callously, “and English are the better o’ a killing.”

Well: these good times were things of the past it seemed. The Great World, that was somewhere over the back of the Dreva Hill, had swallowed Jock up. They must find their own adventures now, or go without them.

Arthur began to whittle a stick with meditative air while Mhor watched him gloomily. Only Willie remained unaffectedly cheerful.

“Let’s play at grizzlies,” he suggested.

“The last time we played at that,” said Mhor, “you clawed a bit right out of my stocking and almost chewed a hole in my coat.”

Willie chuckled.

“I’m a grand grizzly,” he said, with honest pride.

Mhor began to bore a hole in the earth among the dry pine needles.

“If I went on boring,” he said, dreamily, “perhaps till tomorrow or the next day, I would bore right through to Australia.”

Willie’s amiable mind took a new turn.

“Let’s tell stories—I’ll tell one.”

“You talk one half too much for a kid,” said Arthur.

“I’m eight,” said Willie, not a whit abashed. “Will I tell you a funny story or a sad one? If you like I’ll tell you one I wrote in a note-book and I’m drawing the pictures for it myself. It’s about a little boy called Willie (not me, though), and he got a new watch and chain from his father and he went out for a walk with it, and a man asked him the time and when he took out his watch he ran away with it, chain and all, and went over the sea to Africa, and so a policeman went after the man——”

“No, he didn’t,” interrupted Arthur. “No policeman would go all that way after a silly old watch. It would take pounds and pounds—far more than the watch cost.”

“Well,” said Willie, thoughtfully, “I’ll tell you what he did. He sent a bloodhound, steerage, and he sniffed out the man and the watch and chain, and brought them all back. I’ll draw a picture of that bloodhound. He was a nice beast. I think his name was John.”

Again Arthur objected.

“Dogs aren’t called John. Call it Tweed, or Clyde, or Rover, or something.”

“When I draw it,” said Willie firmly, “it’ll have the sort of face that’s called John—ugly, you know, but nice. D’you think that’s a good story?”

“No,” said Arthur.

Mhor did not appear to be listening, he was busy getting through to Australia.

Arthur, his stick finished, stuck it into his belt and pulling his cap over his eyes, announced in a determined way that he was going to look for adventures.

“I’ll come too,” said Willie. “To-morrow’s Sabbath-day, anyway, and it’s a dullsome day and I can’t learn those catechisms in the least.”

“I don’t know where you’re going to find any adventures,” objected Mhor.

At that moment Elizabeth appeared on the scene. She was evidently dressed for an occasion of some importance, and her fingers stuck out stiffly in new kid gloves.

“Willie’s to come home,” she announced, “and drive with Mother and me to Peebles to get his hair cut, and I saw Miss Wilson looking for you, Arthur, to write out your exercise again. I heard her say to Mother it was shameful.”

“Where’s she looking?” demanded Arthur.

“She’s been in the stables and everywhere, and she’ll be round by the bridge in a minute.”

“Well, she can look,” said Arthur, with one leg already over the dyke, “but she won’t find me.”

“Nor me,” echoed Willie. “I won’t go and have my old hair cut, I won’t, I won’t! I wish I was bald, that’s what I wish.”

Elizabeth followed protesting.

“You can’t say I didn’t tell you.”

Arthur strode on in dignified silence while Willie panted behind him and Mhor followed, with his hands in his pockets, whistling in an unconcerned manner.

At the big White Gate they met the Beggar Wife, and that is how it all began.

Chapter II

It was no unusual thing for the children to meet gangrels of all descriptions on the quiet country roads. Generally they were in family parties, the man some distance in front with a bundle of broken umbrellas under his arm; the woman behind, carrying a baby in a tartan shawl, with another, not much older, dragging at her skirts, and several other children lagging after. Arthur thought privately that it was rather an enviable life. To wander all day long on white summer roads with no lessons to learn, and at sunset to eat frizzled ham and drink strong black tea out of a pan, sitting cosily round a fire in the open; and best of all, to sleep without troubling to undress, curled among clean straw in some byre or barn, only to waken to another blissful, lessonless day.

Who would not be a tinker?

But this woman was quite unlike anything they had ever seen before.

She was tall and straight, with dark eyes and very white teeth. Over her hair was tied a bright coloured scarf, and she had a pack strapped on her back. She smiled in the most friendly way as the children came forward, and Elizabeth, inspired by a sudden idea, ran up to her.

“Oh! Do you sell brooches? It’s Mary, you know. Monday’s her birthday, and she’s such a friend of mine. If you had one very nice and glittering and not too dear, perhaps I could buy it, but I haven’t much money.”

“How much have you?” asked Mhor.

Elizabeth dived into the pocket of her coat and producing a dilapidated purse, gravely counted out one threepenny bit and three pennies. She turned the purse inside out and shook it, then reluctantly came to the conclusion that sixpence was the sum of her worldly possessions.

“That’s all,” she said. “I did think I had another ha’penny but it seems I haven’t.”

Mhor began to take out the contents of his trouser pockets.

“I know I ought to have a penny somewhere,” he muttered. Finally it was discovered sticking to a piece of toffee and mixed up with string.

Elizabeth accepted it gratefully.

“That makes sevenpence. Have you spent your Saturday penny, Arthur?”

“I haven’t spent it,” Arthur explained, “but I lost it somewhere in the stack-yard. I think the biggest turkey swallowed it .I saw it kind of choking.”

“My pocket’s all hole,” Willie said, “so mine fell through likely. Or it may have fallen out when I was a clown and standing on my head; anyway, I haven’t got it any more.”

Elizabeth seeing nothing more could be expected from her brothers, held out the money to the stranger.

“Do you think you’ve got any brooches as cheap as sevenpence?” she asked.

The woman shook her head.

“I’ve nae brooches to sell.”

“What do you sell then?” said Willie. “What’s in your pack?”

She swung round her pack.

“What dae I sell?” she said. “Nae brooches, nae ribands, or braw stuffs for the maids, but mony a queer thing. What say ye to auld words—snatches o’ sangs—-scents, a whiff o’ Oberon’s wild thyme, maybe—and ale, guid ale o’ the Moor-Wife’s brewing? Dreams, laddie, dreams, they are ma stock in trade—glad dreams and sad dreams——” Her voice sank away in a whisper.

Elizabeth clutched Willie’s hand: she felt vaguely frightened. How still it was! Far below they heard the ripple of Tweed on its pebbles; the sun had gone behind a cloud; it felt cold. She remembered oft-repeated warnings not to talk to strangers on the road. Suppose this queer person should want to run away with Willie! Willie evidently did not share her fears, for he wriggled from her grasp and rushed up to the woman.

“I know you,” he cried, “you’re a fairy.”

“A fairy,” she said, “a bonnie-like fairy! Why! What ails the laddie? I’m just the Beggar Wife.”

Willie fell back, grievously disappointed.

“I did hope you were. I’ve never seen a fairy, though I’ve one of my own at home. Her name’s Whuppetie Stourie, and she lives in the nursery chimney. I’ve heard her hooting. When I had measles she sent presents and laid them on the fender. When Maggie set fire to the chimney I thought she’d be burned, but she wasn’t; she sent me a pistol and caps the very next day. And there’s another fairy in our house only this one’s more a bogle than a fairy. He’s called Windy Wallops, and he lived in the attics and you’ve got to hit him with hair-brushes when he tries to come down and——”

“I’d hit you with a hair-brush,” broke in Arthur. “I never saw such a kid to talk and such rubbish too.” The Beggar Wife turned to Arthur.

“You’ll no believe in fairies, sae big as ye are?”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur, doubtfully. “There used to be fairies any way, and I just wish there were still and I’d ask for wishes.”

“And what wud ye be wishin’ for?” she asked.

“Adventures,” said Arthur, promptly.

Were on our way to look for adventures now,” Willie explained.

“I’m not,” said Elizabeth, indignantly. “I’m going to drive with Mother, and Willie ought to go too, and Arthur knows he ought to be doing his exercise. Miss Wilson is looking for him this very minute.”

Arthur, who had forgotten this fact, started visibly and looked down the road, but the enemy was not in sight.

“D’ye think ye’ll find mony adventures round aboot here?” asked the Beggar Wife.

“I don’t know,” said Arthur, looking round at the quiet hillsides: while Mhor broke in—“We always found lots when Jock was here.”

“Wull I help ye?” asked the woman.

“But can you?” asked Mhor.

“Naething easier,” said the Beggar’s Wife. “D’ye ken what this is?” and she held out some small brown seeds in her hand. “This is fern-seed. If I gie ye a pickle o’ this, ye’ll find mony a ploy.”

At that moment Arthur sighted Miss Wilson coming round the corner, and he sprang forward.

“Give me some, please, here she comes,” he cried.

“And me,” said Mhor.

“Me too,” said Willie.

Elizabeth wavered for a moment, and then held out her hand too.

“Gang straight on,” said the Beggar Wife, “and tak the First Turn to the Left,” and she was gone.

Willie turned round and round like a teetotum looking for her, until Arthur caught his hand.

“Come on, unless you want to go back with Miss Wilson.”

Willie gave a last glance round and up to the sky and then announced solemnly, “She’s gone up a tree.”

So they went straight on, just as the Beggar Wife had told them, until they came to the First Turn to the Left.

Chapter III

Round the corner, instead of the white road winding up the hill they found a great lake, so large that they could not see to the other side. I expect it was the fern-seed that they held clutched in their hands, but certainly they didn’t think it at all strange.

“But however shall we get over?” cried Elizabeth, and at this the others looked blank. The water looked deep, and they could not swim. No white swan appeared, willing to carry them whither they would.

A cry from Willie, who had run down to the water’s edge, made the others follow quickly. Willie was hugging himself with delight, and emitting shrill squeaks, as he regarded four small boats rocking on the water, quite close to the edge. Four—one for each.

They were quite small, made of rough bark and lined inside with softest green moss. There were neither oars nor sails so it was not very apparent how they were to reach any destination, but Willie saw no fault in them.

“I’ll just get inside mine at once,” he said, and when he hopped in and sat down in the bottom of the boat—for there was no seat—his head was just visible over the side.

“We’d better all get in,” said Mhor, “though I don’t see how we are to get along with no oars or sails or anything.”

But Mhor’s lack of faith was rebuked, for no sooner were they all seated than the boats began to move, and they found themselves sailing gently into the unknown.

Willie’s boat kept slightly ahead of the others, and he turned round at intervals to shout: “Isn’t it fun, Arthur? Isn’t it fun, Mhor?”

“It’s ripping,” said Arthur, “but I rather wonder what sort of people we’re going to meet. If they are Redskins we had better be prepared,” and he took out the stick he had sharpened, from his belt and tried the point.

“It’s a good thing I brought my gun,” said Mhor. “I haven’t much ammunition though. I wish you hadn’t played the fool with all the pellets.”

“Willie has his bow and arrow,” said Arthur, “but even with all that, I don’t think we would make much show if they were Redskins. I wouldn’t much like to be scalped,” and he rubbed his head thoughtfully.

Elizabeth, on hearing this, became tearful.

“I won’t be scalped, Arthur, and they mustn’t be Redskins. We shall hold up a white flag, a handkerchief will do, when we get near any land to show that we mean well, and when we land you must say something to put them in a good humour.”

“You’re the eldest, Arthur,” said Mhor, “you’ll have to make a speech. What will you say?”

“Shan’t say anything,” Arthur replied.

“We might all say it together,” Elizabeth suggested. “Oh, I know a speech; you remember we had to learn it for Miss Wilson? Somebody’s speech, I forget who’s, but it began—‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears’.”

“‘I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him’,” continued Mhor.

“I wouldn’t say anything about burying anybody,” continued Arthur, “in case they say something nasty about burying you.”

A thought struck Elizabeth.

“S’pose they’re French!”

“S’pose they’re not,” said Arthur, rudely.

“S’pose we never arrive anywhere,” said Mhor. A shout from Willie interrupted them.

“We’re coming to land,” he announced.

They all stood up to see and, sure enough, they were approaching land of some description. Elizabeth scanned the beach anxiously.

“I don’t see any Redskins,” she said, “but they may be lurking.”

All they could see was a pebbly beach which lost itself in the shade of tall pine trees.

“I don’t see anything living at all,” remarked Mhor.

“It’s perhaps just as well,” said Arthur.

“My boat’s touching,” cried Willie, “I’ve arrived,” and he jumped into the shallow water and splashed gaily ashore.

Soon they all stood on dry land. The boats, as they stepped out of them, glided softly away.

“I don’t think we had better go among the trees,” said Elizabeth. “You don’t know what awful wild beasts may be there.”

The boys peered into the darkness of the pines, but no one appeared anxious to explore.

“The first thing,” said Arthur, “is to build a little house. There ought to be logs and things lying about, and there aren’t.”

“What shall we do,” said Elizabeth, “when night comes, and bears and lions come prowling round us?”

“Climb a tree,” said Mhor, cheerfully.

“I never could,” Elizabeth said.

“Perhaps we’ll find a cave,” said Mhor, consolingly. So they strolled along the beach, and they did find a most comfortable cave that just fitted them. There was a nice hollow for a fireplace and a hole in the roof for the smoke.

Arthur and Willie ran to look for sticks to make a fire and Mhor brought large stones that did very well for seats. Willie was found to be possessed of a box of matches, and soon a fire blazed merrily, and they crowded round it.

“It’s awfully real,” said Willie; “we’re just like people in a book.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, “only there’s something wanting. I know! There should be a pot on the fire, or something roasting before it. Elizabeth,” addressing his sister sternly, “why aren’t you preparing the evening meal?”

“Silly! “ Elizabeth replied. “What am I going to prepare, I’d like to know. You haven’t shot anything, and you couldn’t if you tried ever so.”

“Yes, I could though,” retorted Arthur. “Better than you, anyway. You’re afraid of anything, bulls and mice and——”

He stopped suddenly for the cave had darkened strangely. They all turned round and sprang to their feet, for there, framed in the mouth of the cave, stood the strangest figure. He was tall and thin, with a thin brown face, and eyes that seemed to be laughing all the time. His clothes were brown and fitted very closely to his figure, his hair was brown, and his long brown fingers strayed to the pipe that hung suspended from his neck, as if they always wanted to be making music. He bowed low to the astonished children and then, turning on his heel, he gave a laughing glance back over his shoulder.

“Come!” he said, and walked out of the cave.

“Where to?” cried Arthur, who kept his presence of mind; but the only answer was a strain of music, as the Pipe strode away.

The children looked at each other perplexedly.

“Perhaps we’d better follow him,” said Elizabeth. “He’s not a Red Indian, anyway.”

“He’s worse,” said Arthur gloomily, “he’s daft.”

“Oh don’t,” begged Elizabeth, “somebody might hear you and be offended.”

They were out of the cave now and following the Piper into the Pine Wood.

“Don’t let’s lose sight of him,” panted Mhor, “or we’ll be lost among the trees.”

But when they came to the wood they found quite a straight path leading through it.

They walked on and on for what seemed a very long time, and still they seemed to get no nearer the end of the wood, and still the Piper kept in front of them, always with his pipe to his lips. And this was what he played:

“Jock the Piper steps ahead
Taps his fingers on the reed:
His the tune to wake the dead,
Wile the salmon from the Tweed,
Cut the peats and reap the corn,
Kirn the milk and fold the flock—
Never bairn that yet was born
Could be feared for Heather Jock.

“Jock the Piper strikes his lay
When the hills are red with dawn:
You can hear him pipe away
After window-blinds are drawn,
In the sleepy summer hours
When you roam by scaur and rock,
List, the tune among the flowers,
’Tis the song of Heather Jock.

“Jock the Piper stays nor stops,
Hours and leagues are naught to him,
Meadowlands and mountain tops
Cliffs to scale and seas to swim,
Something falls upon your ear,
Not the wind and not the clock,
Very thin and faint and clear—
’Tis the call of Heather Jock.

“Jock the Piper, grave and kind,
Lifts the towzy head that drops:
Never eyes could look behind
When his fingers touch the stops.
Bairns that are too tired to play,
Little hearts that sorrows mock—
‘There are blue hills far away,
Come with me,’ says Heather Jock.

“He will lead them fast and far
Down the hill and o’er the sea,
Through the sunset gates afar
To the Land of Ought-to-be;
Where the treasure ships unload,
Treasure free from bar and lock—
Jock the Piper kens the road,
Up and after Heather Jock.”

Willie’s stockings came down, and he got a stitch in his side.

“I’m very tired,” he complained, “and very, very hungry.”

“It can’t last much longer now,” said Elizabeth, hopefully. “We’re bound to come to somewhere soon.”

“The trees are getting thinner,” said Arthur, “we’ll soon be out.”

“Look,” cried Mhor, “he’s stopped.”

The Piper waited for them.

“Ye liked ma bonnie tune?” he asked.

“Very much indeed,” said Elizabeth politely. “But it’s rather a long way, isn’t it?”

“’Deed no,” said the Piper. “Ca’ that a long road?”

“Well, it seemed long,” said Elizabeth meekly. “Please, is it much further, for Willie’s very tired?”

“We’re there,” said the Piper. “Three steps to the Right, then three steps to the Left, turn round three times and here we are,” and as the children turned round dizzily they found themselves facing the door of what seemed a great castle.

“We’ll chap at the door noo,” said the Piper, “and that’s anither job dune.”

Immediately the door swung open and a servant appeared.

“Guid-day to ye,” said the Piper, “I’m off again wi’ my pipe.”

The children gazed after him.

“I’m sorry I said he was daft,” said Arthur, “he’s not; he’s only very wise.”

The servant asked them to enter, and, having shown them in to a room, he left them saying—” I go to tell the King.”

They sat down in a solemnised row.

“Did you hear what he said?” asked Arthur.

“The King,” said Mhor, in awestruck tones.

Willie, in feverish haste, began to pull up his stockings.

Chapter IV

“I wish,” said Elizabeth, “I knew what was going to happen next.”

“You never can tell with Kings,” said Arthur. “Almost anything might happen.”

“We’re not very tidy to go to see a King,” went on Elizabeth. “Is my hair awful?”

“Not much worse than usual,” said Mhor consolingly.

“I’ll put on my gloves,” said Elizabeth. “My hands are pretty dirty. And that’s all I can do.”

They sat sedately on high chairs and waited, until Willie got pins and needles in his feet and slipped on to the floor. They seemed to be quite forgotten; no one came for them, and not a sound broke the stillness. Elizabeth began to take the gloomiest view of the situation.

“I wish they’d send for us,” she said. “I’d rather know the worst. Arthur, you don’t think the King will have us beheaded, do you?”

“Stuff,” said Arthur.

“I say,” began Mhor. “Couldn’t we sneak out softly and get away without anybody knowing? I vote we try.”

He began to tip-toe to the door, but at that moment it was flung open and a servant appeared and asked them to follow him. He came at an inopportune moment for Willie, who had removed a stocking and shoe to examine a blister on his heel.

However he rose to the occasion, and with shoe and stocking in one hand he limped after the others. They followed their guide through what seemed endless passages, and up little twisting stairs with shallow, polished steps, until he knocked at a door and, bidding them enter, left them.

The children hardly knew what they had expected to see, something very gorgeous anyhow. A throne and marble steps, and gaily-dressed courtiers, and probably a band. What they did see was a long, low-ceilinged room, the walls hung with tapestry; the floor bare of any covering and polished till it reflected the straight-backed chairs that stood stiffly against the wall; and tables bearing tall candlesticks. At first they thought the room was empty, but, from one of the deep windows, a boy came out to meet them. . .

A boy, not much taller than Arthur, very straight and slim, and graceful. He was dressed—oddly, the children thought—in green; and the boys noticed he had a dirk in his belt. He came half-way across the room, then stopped, looking at them shyly. The children stood in a group and stared. Who could this be?

Then the boy came across to them and, holding out both his hands, “Welcome to the Castle of Errin,” he said.

“Who are you?” asked Willie.

“I am the King of Errin,” said the boy.

“Oh! gasped the children.

“Somehow,” said Mhor, “I didn’t think Kings could be so young.”

“Oh yes, Mhor,” said Elizabeth. “Don’t you remember Edward VI in The Prince and the Pauper.”

“Anyway,” said Arthur to the King, “we’re jolly glad you are what you are. We didn’t know what was going to happen to us.”

“Do not fear,” said the King, “no evil can happen to you while you are in the Castle of Errin. Will you tell me your names?”

“That’s Mhor,” said Arthur, “and I’m Arthur, and that’s our sister Elizabeth, her hair’s always dreadfully untidy; and that thing without a shoe is Willie.”

“I’m not a thing,” said Willie, hopping indignantly on one foot, “and it’s because of the blister on my heel.”

“I’m sorry,” said the King. “May I see it?”

“Why,” said Willie, “it’s better; it’s quite gone.”

“Hurts are soon healed in Errin,” said the King.

“I say,” said Arthur, “how very jolly for you. It isn’t like that where we come from. You cut your finger, and it stays cut, I can tell you.”

Willie had put on his stocking and shoe again, and was exploring the room.

“These are grand floors to slide on, King,” he said, “and I like it being so empty; there’s nothing to knock over. Is it nearly tea-time?”

“Willie! ”said Elizabeth.

“Well,” said Willie, “we came away without our tea and I’m dreadfully hungry.”

“I fear I’m but a poor host,” said the King. “Tell me what would you have had to eat where you came from?”

“Oh, only bread and butter and perhaps jam, and milky tea,” said Mhor, “but anything else would do as well—and better,” he added.

The King did not ring a bell, indeed he made no movement that they could see, but the door opened and a servant stood, bowing.

“Now,” said the King, “please say what you would like.”

“Nothing plain, thank you,” said Willie, politely but firmly.

“Greedy-grub,” said Elizabeth.

“May we really say what we’d like?” asked Arthur. “Then I say roast turkey for one thing.”

“And sausages,” said Mhor.

“Fizzy lemonade,” said Willie.

“Shortbread,” added Elizabeth.

“Oh, and mix-biscuits,” said Willie; “you know, with hard, pink sugar on them—they’re lovely.”

The man bowed after everything mentioned, as if he understood perfectly, and in a very short time servants came in carying dishes, and the varied meal was ready.

The King sat at the head of the table, and Elizabeth at the foot; and everybody took two helpings of everything and drank lots of fizzy lemonade and was very happy.

When nobody could eat any more, Willie filled his pockets with pink sugar biscuits to put under his pillow for the morning; then he said suddenly: “I know there was something. King, you’ve forgotten your crown.”

“I wear no crown,” said the King.

“If I had a crown,” said Willie, thoughtfully, “I’d always wear it. I’d put it on in the morning after I’d washed my teeth.”

“You needn’t worry about it,” said Arthur. “You’ll never have one.”

“I know that,” said Willie.

“You shall have one if you like,” said the King, “and you’ll be a King too.”

Willie shouted with delight and got up from his seat to shake hands heartily with the King.

“Then there’ll be two of us,” he said. “What shall I be called?”

“King Willie sounds silly,” said Mhor. “Goodness! I’ve turned a poet!”

“I know,” said Arthur, “‘William Rex’.”

“Yes,” said Willie, “that would do. But what will Arthur and Mhor be? Can they be kings too?”

“Certainly,” said the King.

“No, thank you,” said Arthur, firmly. “One King in a family is quite enough. We’ll just hang round and look for adventures, but perhaps Elizabeth would like to be a Queen.”

“I’d like to go to bed,” said Elizabeth, yawning wholeheartedly.

They found that they were all rather sleepy, so they said good night to the King, and followed a servant who showed them to their rooms. Elizabeth’s room opened out of the boys’ and on each little bed night things were laid out just as if it had been their own nursery at home.

“You’d almost think,” said Elizabeth, “that they expected us, but of course they couldn’t.”

“Of course not,” said Arthur. “We just came by chance. We didn’t know ourselves that we were coming.”

“To-morrow,” Willie promised himself as he snuggled up to go to sleep, “to-morrow I’ll be a King and wear a crown, and this morning I was just Willie, and Maggie slapped me. She could almost be beheaded for that. I don’t think I understand—there was the Beggar-Wife—and the fern-seed—and——” And the sleepy fairy said something in his ear and he gave up trying to understand anything.

Out from the wood that surrounded the Castle of Errin stepped a tall figure. He stood under the window of the sleeping children, put his pipe to his lips and blew one long, clear note.

“Fine dreams,” he said, and disappeared again among the trees.

It was Jock the Piper.

Chapter V

“Wake up, wake up!” shouted Willie, “and see what I’ve got on.”

Mhor sat up and regarding with sleepy disapproval the spectacle of his young brother dancing on the top of his bed, still clad in pyjamas, but wearing on his head a golden crown.

“Isn’t it fine?” he said. “And it fits beautifully. It doesn’t fall off no matter how I waggle my head. Do I look like a king?”

“I never,” said Mhor, slowly, “saw anyone who looked less.”

Arthur now joined in.

“You look like a clown,” he said sternly. “Take the thing off and have your bath, and get dressed and don’t be so cocky or you’ll get kicked.”

Willie, somewhat crestfallen, took off his crown and began to make his toilet. But it would have taken more than his elder brother’s sternness to quench his flow of spirits that morning. The sun was streaming through the windows, inviting little boys to come out and play: all sorts of wonderful adventures awaited them: and had he not a fine gold crown all of his very own? So he babbled, as he dressed, in high good humour.

“I say,” said Arthur, suddenly, “those aren’t my clothes.” Then they found that their own clothes were away and in their place were laid out suits of green, and green caps to match with a long feather in each. The boys put on the suits and found they fitted beautifully.

“I can’t put on the cap,” said Willie. “You see I want to wear my crown.”

“But not outside, silly,” said Arthur. “Who ever heard of a king who wore a crown outside?”

But Willie held to his crown, and they had to let him have his way.

When they called in for Elizabeth before going downstairs, they found that she, too, was dressed in green.

“We shan’t ever find our way down among all those funny little stairs,” said Elizabeth. “We should wait till someone comes for us.”

“I know the way,” said Arthur, “I’ll lead you.”

He led them upstairs and downstairs, along passages, and in and out of rooms until they were all quite dizzy. Then he stopped and looked round, remarking: “This doesn’t seem to be where we were last night.”

“There you are!” said Mhor. “I thought you knew the way!”

“So did I,” said Arthur. “You can take a shot now.”

“When we’re as lost as can be,” said Mhor. “No thank you, you lead us back to our rooms again.” But a servant appearing at that moment, they gladly followed him to the room where the King and breakfast awaited them.

After breakfast the King asked them what they would like best to do.

“Anything,” said Arthur. “Whatever you want.”

“Would you care to hunt?” asked the King.

“Yes,” said Arthur, “but I don’t think we know how. You see we never have hunted.”

“Come, then,” said the King. “We shall get bows and set out.”

He took them to a room which was hung round with all sorts of weapons, and gave each a beautiful bow and arrows.

“I don’t need one,” said Elizabeth. “I shan’t be wanting to kill anything. I’ll go to take care of Willie.”

“You needn’t bother,” said Willie. “Do you think a king can’t take care of himself?”

At the Castle door they found ponies, ready saddled, waiting for them. They were pure white, and silver bells hung from their manes. A man dressed in green, with a silver bow hung over his shoulder, stood at each pony’s head.

Elizabeth gave a scream of delight at the sight of the ponies.

“The darlings!” she cried. “It’s like a fairy-tale come true.”

The men in green helped the children to mount, and as they rode away Elizabeth said to the King: “You’re dressed in green, and all the servants are dressed in green, and now we’re dressed in green. Do you mind telling me why?”

“It is our colour,” said the King. “We may not wear any other.”

“Oh!” said Elizabeth. She longed to ask why, but did not dare.

They rode over the moss, splashing through pools of peat water, and shouting with sheer lightness of heart.

“I didn’t know I was such a good rider,” said Willie. “It comes of being a king.”

“I think it’s the ponies,” said Elizabeth. “They’re so good and wise that they won’t let us fall off.”

Arthur grew impatient to try his new bow.

“What are you going to hunt?” he asked the King. They were approaching a wood and, as Arthur spoke, the King, raising himself in his saddle, cried “The White Doe”—and galloped straight into the wood. With that the ponies stopped dead, and the children came very near to flying over their heads. When they had recovered their seats, they looked all round but there was no trace of the King.

“Where’s he gone?” asked Willie.

“Don’t know,” said Mhor. “He said something about a white doe and went bang into the wood. I expect he means us to follow him.”

“Come on, then,” said Arthur. “Get up, horse!” But the ponies refused to move. Arthur got off and tried to drag his pony by the bridle, but it was no use.

“They don’t like that wood,” said Elizabeth. “I do hope the King won’t come to any harm in it.”

“What’ll we do now?” said Mhor.

“Wait till the King comes back, I suppose,” said Arthur.

“Let’s run races on our ponies,” Willie suggested. So they did that, but it wasn’t very exciting for the ponies kept pace and all finished at the same time.

Mhor dismounted.

“I’m going into that wood to scout,” he said, and, slinging his bow on his back, he lay down and began to wriggle through the brush-wood.

“Come back, Mhor,” said Elizabeth, but he paid no attention. The others got off their ponies and sat down among the heather,

“It’s not what I call hunting,” said Arthur.

“I’m dreadfully anxious about the King,” said Elizabeth, “and Mhor.”

“Where are the ponies?” said Willie. They looked round—the ponies had disappeared too.

“We should have kept hold of them,” said Elizabeth. There was a rustling among the trees, and they looked, startled, towards the spot. The brush-wood parted and Mhor’s head emerged, followed soon by the rest of him.

“Did you see the King?” asked Elizabeth.

“Not a trace of him,” said Mhor. “That white doe’s got him. But there’s an awfully jolly little loch just on there a bit. I saw it from a tree I climbed. Come on and explore. Where are the ponies?”

“Gone off,” said Arthur.

Mhor whistled. “We should have tied them up. We’ll have a long walk home.”

As nothing better seemed to offer, they set off in the direction that Mhor said the loch was. It lay between two little hills. Rushes grew round its edges and it looked very deep and dark.

“It isn’t a very happy looking place,” said Arthur.

“I’m going to wade,” said Willie.

“You can’t, Willie,” said Elizabeth; “it’s as deep as can be. Look how it goes down from the edge.”

They sat down and regarded the oily-looking water.

“There isn’t even a stone to throw into it,” grumbled Willie.

Arthur began to look about. “Here’s a whopper,” he said pulling at a boulder. “Help me to pull it out and we’ll roll it in. It’ll make a splendid splash.”

They all tugged at the stone until it loosened, and then heaved it into the water. It did make a splash, and Willie gurgled with delight as the water came over him. They watched the ripples growing wider and wider, and then a strange thing happened. Instead of the water becoming calm again, it got more disturbed. It churned and foamed, and from the middle of the loch there rose an enormous head. It came slowly towards the bank where the children sat frozen with horror.

Arthur was the first to regain his presence of mind.

“It’s coming out,” he screamed, “coming after us.” He pulled Elizabeth to her feet. “Come on, run if ever you ran.”

Mhor dragged Willie up. “My legs won’t run,” said Willie, with chattering teeth.

They ran hand in hand, stumbling over heather-bushes, splashing bog holes, but fast as they ran they seemed to make no progress, and they could hear the dreadful thing snorting at their backs. Their throats grew dry; the breath came in gasps; Elizabeth’s legs seemed to have no connection with her body; she stumbled and fell, bringing Arthur down with her, but as they fell they heard a shout; there was a flash of white, and something rode past them straight at the Monster.

When they were sufficiently recovered to look up they found the King bending over them.

“Where is it?” asked Arthur.

“It has gone back to its pool. How did you manage to waken it?”

“We threw a stone,” said Arthur faintly.

“What was it?” asked Mhor.

“A water-horse,” said the King. “Have you never seen one before? They are very fierce when roused.”

“We don’t have them in Tweed,” said Elizabeth. They sat up feeling better.

“We had some hunting after all,” said Mhor, “only the water horse did the most of it.”

“Oh, King! Why did you go away?” said Elizabeth.

“I did wrong to leave you,” said the King, “but when I saw the White Doe I forgot everything.”

“Did you shoot it?” asked Arthur.

“No,” said the King. “That is an enchanted wood, and the Doe disappeared.”

“So did our ponies,” said Willie.

The King blew a horn that hung by his side, and the ponies trotted quietly up.

“My legs are all shaky still,” said Elizabeth as she mounted. “It’s a very exciting place, this, to live.”

The boys had already persuaded themselves that they had got the best of the encounter with the Water Horse, and the topic lasted them until they reached the Castle of Errin.

Chapter VI

It was the afternoon of the hunting day. They were all up in a lumber-room on the very top of the Castle—the most fascinating place the children thought they had ever seen. The room was so full of treasures that it seemed as if one could never get to the end of them, and for hours they had been pulling things out of cupboards, and dressing-up, and acting parts—posing and strutting—to their own great satisfaction.

Tea had been brought up to them, not just a plain, ordinary nursery tea, but tea with poached eggs and buttered toast, and rich cake; and Elizabeth had poured it out.

After tea Mhor had declared his intention of going out to do some scouting, and had departed noisily.

Willie was sitting on the very edge of a big chair which he called his throne. He was draped in a green mantle trimmed with ermine which he had found in a cupboard, and flattered himself that he looked very kingly.

Arthur was making toffee and scorching his face in the process. Elizabeth and the King sat on the hearth-rug. Arthur took a teaspoonful of the boiling liquid and put it in a cup of water, and after a minute, remarked in satisfied tones:

“It’s firming beautifully; it’ll soon be ready to pour.” He licked the spoon, thoughtfully. “It’s got a ripping flavour too,” he added.

“King,” said Elizabeth, “I wish you’d tell us a story.”

“Oh, do,” said Willie, “an exciting story.”

The King shook his head. “I have no stories to tell,” he said.

“Oh, but,” said Elizabeth, “I’m sure you know heaps. Tell us a true story about yourself; they’re the nicest kind.”

“Tell me,” said the King, “about what you do where you come from.”

“But it’s not in the least interesting,” said Arthur, “not like this, you know.”

“It’s nice at Christmas time,” said Willie, from his throne, “but you have Christmas here too, haven’t you, King?”

“No,” said the King, “what is it?”

“It’s the time,” Elizabeth explained, “when Santa Claus comes and you hang up your stocking, and you must be asleep when Santa comes or he’ll just go away again. And the funny thing is, it’s so hard to go to sleep that night. And in the morning when you waken, it’s all dark and just like any other morning, and then you remember, and you crawl to the foot of the bed for your stocking, and it’s all lumpy!”

“All lumpy!” echoed Willie. “You can’t think what a lovely feel it is. And there’s nuts in the toes, and once in mine there was a chocolate frog, and I lay on it by mistake, and it was an awful job getting on my stocking when it was time to get up. It was sticky, though,” he added; “I licked my stocking before I put it on.”

“Dirty pig!” said Arthur.

“You don’t put on the stocking you hang up,” said Elizabeth; “it’s one out of the drawer.”

“When I go to Heaven,” said Willie, “it will always be Christmas Eve, and I’ll hang up my stocking every night.”

“Willie!” said Elizabeth. “You wicked boy to say such a thing: besides, you can’t because there’s no night there.”

“And,” said Arthur, “you won’t have a stocking, only a white night-gown and a harp.”

Willie sat back in his chair, crushed.

“This toffee’s ready,” said Arthur, “I’d better pour it.”

“Give me a bit while it’s soft and hot,” begged Willie.

“No, I won’t, greedy,” said Arthur. “You haven’t helped to make it, sitting up there all the time I was roasting myself.”

Elizabeth got up and began to pull things out of a dark corner. “Let’s play at something,” she said. “We could be conspirators. Here is a fine cloak.”

The King looked up.

“That,” he said, “is the Cloak of Darkness.”

“What does it do?” asked Elizabeth.

“Whoever puts it on,” said the King, “becomes invisible.”

“What a joke,” said Arthur, leaving his toffee. “Let me have a try.”

But Elizabeth had wrapped herself in the cloak and disappeared from sight. When she tired, Arthur put it on, and Willie left his throne and slipped out of his royal mantle to have his turn.

“Really,” said Arthur, as he sat down on the hearthrug, “this is a splendid place to stay, King. You’ve everything in the world you could want, even a Cloak of Darkness.”

“And we don’t have anything like that at home,” said Willie.

“Tell me,” said the King, “what you do all day.”

“Learn lessons,” said Arthur. “You wouldn’t like that. Sums and geography and Latin and French and grammar—just a lot of nonsense.”

“Grammar’s the worst “ said Willie. “When I’m a hundred, I’ll not be able to do it.”

“But,” said the King, “do you do lessons all the time?”

“Oh, on Saturdays,” said Arthur, “we don’t. On Saturdays we go away over the hills. When Jock was there we had fine times. Nobody could pretend like Jock. You forgot sometimes he wasn’t the person he was pretending he was.”

“Often,” said Elizabeth, “we played at Jacobites. It’s the nicest thing you can play at, though it’s so sad. D’you remember, Arthur, the day we played it with Jock up the Powsail Burn? He was Prince Charlie, and I was Flora McDonald, and you were Lochiel and Mhor was someone else—I forget who—and Jock stood at the edge of the burn and the boat was waiting to take him to France, and he thanked us all for being true to him and we all cried, and he cried too.”

“I didn’t,” said Arthur, “but——”

“It must be awful to be English,” said Willie, “and think of all the wicked things you’ve done—killed Wallace and Mary Queen of Scots, and hunted our Prince Charlie out of his own country.”

“And he never got a crown,” said Elizabeth, sadly.

“No,” said Willie, putting up his hand to feel his own crown, “he never got a crown, but oh! I wish he had.”

The King sat looking dreamily into the fire. “Poor Prince without a crown,” he said.

Then a silence fell in the room as they thought of the Fairytale Prince who had come across the seas to trust his fortunes to his people. Elizabeth was the first to speak.

“We’ve cousins who are English,” she said, in the hushed voice of one confessing to a shameful secret.

“They’re grown up though,” said Willie; “they came to see us last summer and I said to them, “Who killed William Wallace?” I was whipped for saying it too.”

“They were quite nice,” said Elizabeth, “and of course they couldn’t help being English. They brought me a doll with curly white hair.”

“Was that the one Mhor and me beheaded?” asked Arthur.

“Yes, you did,” said Elizabeth. “You played she was Mary, Queen of Scots. You’re a cruel, heartless——”

“Well, she shouldn’t been so ugly,” said Arthur, callously.

“You’re not very pretty yourself,” retorted Elizabeth.

“You needn’t speak,” said Arthur. “King, would you like to hear a poem I made on Elizabeth?” And without waiting for an answer, he began:

“Ugly hair like tow,
Straggling o’er her brow,
Many a span.”

“Stop it!” said Elizabeth.

“If you want to see
How ugly a girl can be
Come and look at she . . .”

He stopped this time, for the door burst open and Mhor stood among them, his hair on end, his face flushed, his clothes sticking with bits of whin and grass. He held up one hand, and in a dramatic whisper he said, “The pesky Reds are up!”

Arthur, although he recognised the opening sentence of a story he and Mhor were writing, was rather thrilled. Willie, who had been sitting on the very edge of his throne, with his legs tucked under him, on hearing Mhor’s awful tidings was so stunned that he fell forward on to the floor, hitting his nose and filling the air with lamentations. But no one had time even to pick him up.

Chapter VII

Arthur strode forward and caught Mhor’s arm.

“What are you talking about? There are no Redskins here.”

“Aren’t there just,” said Mhor. “You stop nipping my arm and I’ll tell you about it.”

“Fire away then,” said Arthur, still sceptical.

Willie stopped crying and sat up to listen.

“You know the moss out there,” Willie began, “where the heather grows long in tufts. Well, I was pretending it was the prairie and I was scouting. It was great fun and I raised crowds of rabbits and I saw a weasel; and then I remembered there might be adders about, and I didn’t want to be stung and have to chop off my finger, like the man Maggie told me about and he died after all, too. So I went in the other direction and there was a wood with a road through it and lots of little fir trees that looked likely places for nests, and I looked for them, and I didn’t notice how far I had gone till I came to an open place and there was a big fire and people round it.”

“Tinkers,” said Arthur.

“Redskins,” corrected Mhor, with dignity.

“How did you know what they were?” Willie asked.

Mhor sniffed scornfully. “Do you think I don’t know a Redskin when I see one?”

“Well, you never have seen one, except in a picture,” said Elizabeth, “so you couldn’t be quite sure.”

“I tell you they were Redskins,” insisted Mhor, becoming annoyed at this unlooked-for scepticism.

“Had they feathers on their heads,” asked Arthur, “and fierce, wild faces? Were they clad in tanned skins with fringes, and tomahawks and mocassins, and scalps hanging at their belts, and all that sort of thing?”

“They had,” said Mhor, firmly.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” wailed Elizabeth. “They’ll be here in a minute, I know they will.”

“What did you do,” asked Arthur, “when you saw the things?”

“I hid behind a tree and watched them. I wouldn’t have been here if they had seen me. It made me feel queer even to look at them.”

The King, who had been silent up till now, asked:

“What were they doing?”

“Capering round a fire like mad,” said Mhor, “with their faces all sticky with paint. They did look queer, I can tell you.”

The King looked thoughtful.

“The Snake Dance,” he muttered.

An idea occurred to Arthur.

“When Indians do that, doesn’t it mean they are going to attack?”

“It does generally,” said the King.

“I knew it,” cried Elizabeth. “They’ll scalp us all, and make me a squaw.”

“Will they come here?” asked Willie.

“Not here, I think,” said the King, “but I fear they may mean to attack my shepherd, who lives on the other side of the forest. The Chief of the tribe, Crouching Panther, has a grudge against the poor man, and——”

“Then,” interrupted Arthur, “we must go and warn him. Where are my boots?”

The others stood silent. It was very safe and cosy inside, outside there were leaping Indians and other horrors. Arthur laced his boots hurriedly and unevenly, and jumped up.

“Come on,” he cried, making for the door, “there’s no time to be lost,” then struck by the silence, he turned round on the others. “You aren’t afraid, are you?”

“No,” said Mhor doubtfully, “not afraid, but you didn’t see them—they’re very fierce—and their tomahawks looked sharp— and——!”

“That blister on my heel,” began Willie, “it’s bad again——”

Arthur looked at his faltering brothers, and his look was bitter in its scorn.

“All right then, stay,” he said. “Come on, King, and we’ll leave these cowards.” He marched off stiffly to the door.

“Stop!” cried Mhor. “I’m coming too. I’m not a bit afraid.”

“Nor me,” said Willie, “only——”

Elizabeth, with the air of an early Christian Martyr, declared her intention of going where her brothers went, if the King would promise to hold her hand. There was some time lost while Willie got some cotton-wool to put in his boot to save his heel, and then the party set out.

The King led the way, and they slipped along very quietly, trying not to walk on crackling branches in case the enemy might be near, and at last they came in sight of the shepherd’s cottage. All seemed peaceful. The blue smoke curled up to the evening sky; hens cackled drowsily as they went to rest; a collie-dog lay before the door, asleep.

“In time,” said Arthur, dramatically, as they went up the garden walk.

Sandy, the shepherd, hearing voices, came out, and was much astonished to see the King.

“Is’t yersel, yer Majesty? May I speir what has brocht ye here the nicht?” Before the King could reply, Arthur broke in:

“Haven’t you seen anything?”

Sandy stared.

“I dinna ken what ye mean, Sir. I’ve seen naething but ordinar’ things the day.”

“No Redskins,” asked Mhor.

“Ne’er a trace o’ the vermin, are they rangin’ round here again?”

“I fear they mean to attack your cottage,” said the King.

“A weel,” replied Sandy, “they maun just come and dae their worst, but some o’ them will hae her skins afore I’ve dune wi’ them.”

“We’ll stay and help you,” shouted Arthur. “The first thing to do is to barricade. Bar that gate and the paling looks quite like a stockade. Have you any fire-arms?”

“I’ve an auld blunderbuss that was ma faither’s,” replied Sandy, “but I’ve never let it aff at ony human being, ’deed I doot if it wad gang aff wi’out burstin’.”

“Then what are you going to defend yourself with?” asked Mhor,

The shepherd, who was a very big man with a great brown beard, threw back his head and laughed.

“I’m no feared,” he said. The boys cast at him exasperated looks.

“But they have their tomahawks,” Mhor explained, “and they are very fierce. They are”—he stopped and sought for a word—“quite relentless. If we don’t do something your house will be burned over you, your hearthstone will be cold, and we shall all be lifeless corpses, lying scalped.”

This realistic description was too much for Elizabeth, who cast herself down and moaned out her sorrows to the gravel. The shepherd looked bewildered, and “What do you propose to do?” asked the King.

Arthur cast the eye of a general over the prospect; the garden was surrounded by a wooden paling that, as Arthur had remarked, was quite like a stockade. The garden consisted of three rows of cabbages, three rows of potatoes, and a lot of gooseberry bushes. Arthur meditated, frowning thoughtfully.

“How many Redskins were there?” he asked Mhor.

“Heaps,” said Mhor, “about fifty, perhaps.”

“Fifty,” said Arthur, “against six.” He corrected himself as he gazed at the prostrate form of his sister: “Five and a half, rather: and no fire-arms to speak of. What would Dauntless Dick have done, I wonder!”

“Dunno,” said Mhor. “He had always a six-shooter and that helped him.”

“They may be here at any moment,” the King reminded them.

Willie jigged up and down in his impatience.

“Do something, please, do something,” he begged.

“I’ll tell you,” said Mhor. “Let’s boil kettles of water and stand at different points round the stockade and pour it on them.”

“Ye-es,” said Arthur, “that might do, but boiling oil would be better.” He turned to Sandy and asked:

“Do you happen to have any oil?”

“Juist paraffin,” said Sandy, “an’ if I pit that in ma pots, I could never tak ma parridge oot o’ them again.”

“Quite true,” said Arthur. “Put on water, gallons of it, and get pails ready. No time to be lost; the stealthy foe will soon be upon us. Now to work! King, you’ll stand over there. We’ll have to get chairs out of the kitchen to stand on. Mhor, you go over yonder. Sandy will stand behind the gate and Willie and me on each side of him. Of course they mustn’t see us, but as they come underneath to try to climb up, we’ll pour the boiling water on their feathered heads.”

“Arthur,” said Mhor, “let me go out and see if there is any trace of them, I’ll crawl among the trees and never be seen.”

Arthur looked doubtful. “You might be caught and there would be one less here to help.”

“But I’ll be back before they come,” promised Mhor. “I just want to do a bit of real scouting.”

“Do not go, I beg of you,” said the King. But Mhor had lifted up the bar and slipped out.

There were only four chairs in the kitchen, but they carried out the two arm-chairs, too (Arthur said the King and Sandy might stand on them as they were the most important people present) and put them round where they were to stand. Then Arthur turned his attention to his sister.

“Get up, Elizabeth,” he said sternly, catching her by her belt. “Nice sort of settler’s wife you would make! Show the spirit of your race.”

“Shan’t,” said Elizabeth sulkily. “I didn’t want to come, even from the beginning, and I won’t be a scalped corpse like Mhor said.”

“The water’s bilin’,” shouted Sandy, from the kitchen. “Wull I bring oot ma auld blunderbuss, just in case o’ accidents?”

“All right,” agreed Arthur.

Sandy came out, holding the weapon gingerly.

“Is it loaded?” asked the King.

“It is that, yer Majesty, fait full up.”

“Please don’t point it at me,” said Willie, “it might go off.”

“It micht easy,” said Sandy, “an that verra unexpeckit. But I think ma’sel that there’s something wrang wi’ the trigger: I’ve jickit it twice, and naething’s happened.”

“I think,” said the King, “it might be safer for everyone if you took it back to the house.”

Sandy looked regretfully at the weapon, but murmured resignedly, “Verra weel, yer Majesty,” and took it indoors.

“Can I have the collie beside me?” asked Elizabeth. “He might be a comfort.”

“Surely,” said the King. “What is his name, Sandy?”

“I ca’ him Solomon, yer Majesty, he’s sic a wise bit beastie.”

Willie, who was mounted on his kitchen chair, peering cautiously through a crack in the paling, now turned round and hissed:

“I see something moving among the trees, and I’m sure it’s a Redskin.”

He rocked wildly for a moment on his chair, and then fell into a gooseberry bush.

Chapter VIII

“Come out of that, you young ass,” said Arthur, pale with excitement. “I never saw a chap like you for falling into things. Bring out the kettles, Sandy, and we’ll be ready for them.”

They all helped to carry out pails of water and filled the kettles and pots, and put them on the fire again. Then they mounted on the kitchen chairs, and all eyes were glued to the cracks in the paling. At first nothing was to be seen; nothing but the wind blowing and the grass growing. Then a stealthy figure glided from among the trees and, dropping on all fours, crept towards the gate. He was followed by another, and another, until a crowd of dusky figures surrounded the little garden with its few but valiant defenders. The Redskins were even more appalling than Mhor had pictured them, and Arthur felt just a little shaky as he saw the fierce, painted faces with their awesome head-dress of feathers. The leader raised himself and made to lift the catch of the gate, but the bar was in and the gate never moved.

“Sold,” murmured Arthur.

The Redskins fell back and appeared to hold council together. Evidently they had not expected resistance. Eager eyes watched as the Chief, Crouching Panther, easily recognised by his brilliant abundance of paint and quantity of feathers, came forward and standing a few paces from the stockade, said:

“Let the Pale-Faces hold speech with the Red Warriors.”

The question was, which?

“King, you’d better,” whispered Arthur.

So the King popped up his head and said, “Say on.”

“Crouching Panther, the great Chief of the Shawanoes has no quarrel with the Pale-Faces. If they will give up the one whose settlement this is, Crouching Panther and his tribe will go away and return no more to war with the Pale-Faces.”

“And if we refuse?” said the King.

The Indian threw out his hands.

“Crouching Panther and his tribe will make an end of this settlement: fire will consume it: the grass will wave where it now stands. As for the Pale-Face Braves, their scalps will hang from the lodge-pole of the Red Warriors’ wigwams.”

Arthur felt a thrill of horror all down his spine, and Willie’s eyes grew large and round as saucers. There was a breathless silence. Sandy began to move towards the gate.

“Let me oot, yer Majesty. I’m no gaun to be the death o’ the lot of ye.”

“Let that bar alone,” said Arthur. “What do you take us for?”

“We stand together,” said the King, “whatever happens.”

“Thenk ee,” said Sandy, “but I’m rale vexed ye e’er cam near me.”

Willie stood on his kitchen chair with a pale face, and his hands tightly clasped round his stomach.

“I’ve a feeling as if I was on a swing,” he complained.

A calm voice from the other side of the paling broke in:

“Crouching Panther awaits the answer of the Pale-Faces.”

Arthur bounded on to his chair and shouted:

“Then you’ll get it, you big, murdering, feathery beast. It’s No—a thousand times—No—and you can all come and do your worst.”

The Indian bowed gravely.

“The Pale-Face has spoken,” he said, and strode into the forest.

“Now we’re for it,” said Arthur, as he dropped down among the cabbages.

“They’ve gone away,” said Willie; “we’ve frightened them away.”

“Nae fear o’ them,” said Sandy. “I ken their tricks.”

Arthur began to lift large stones from a pile near the cottage door, and heap them beside his chair.

“That’s ma rockery,” said Sandy, “we’ve spiled it but it canna be helped.”

Arthur paid no attention. “If we had only some oil,” he murmured to himself, “boiling oil.”

Sandy overheard the remark.

“Juist paraffin, as I remarked afore. But it’s a peety no to mak use o’ the blunderbuss when it’s there.”

“It’s hardly safe,” said the King.

“Havers! yer Majesty. It’s as safe as onything else at this moment. There’s naething very safe in the job, and I’ll keep him pinted at the scoondrils, he can gang aff at them as often as he likes. I’ll fetch him.”

“Where’s that idiot, Mhor?” said Arthur. “He promised to be back.”

“Perhaps he’s captured,” said Willie, looking more doleful than ever.

An arrow whizzed through the air and buried itself in the door of the cottage.

“The game’s begun,” said Arthur, and laughed suddenly.

“Keep close to the paling,” cautioned the King, “and wait till they come underneath and attempt to climb.”

The arrows came thick and fast and the beleaguered garrison pressed into the tar-smelling wood of the paling, breathing hard. Then an arrow with burning stuff wrapped round it, struck the thatch of the cottage. A blue end of smoke crept up and then a flame. The cottage was on fire.

“Eh, blast!” ejaculated Sandy.

“Beasts,” said Willie. “That isn’t playing the game.”

“Ready with that water,” screamed Arthur. “They’re coming.” But the Redskins did what Arthur had not expected them to do. They came on with a rush: they swarmed up the stockade: all Arthur’s fine plans about boiling water and large stones came to naught, for the Indians did not wait to have things thrown on them. They were on the top of the stockade before Arthur and Willie had their pails lifted up. It was curious about the King. When the enemy came over his part of the stockade and saw him, they always dropped down again as if afraid.

The stars peeped out at a weird sight. The light of the blazing thatch mingling with the gathering dusk; the little garden with its cabbages and potatoes all tramped down; the big man fighting like a fury; the white-faced children refusing to know when they were beaten; the yelling savages without; round all the peace of the great forest. They were very sore pressed. The enemy simply swarmed. Willie had been knocked off his chair again and again, but he always scrambled up again, and it seemed as though there was something that kept the Indians from coming into the little enclosure. At last one young brave, more daring then the others, jumped down. He was followed by another and another. Sandy turned round and, seeing what was happening, in a sudden fury, flung the blunderbuss among them. The long-suffering weapon exploded, and it would be hard to say who was more astonished, friend or foe. It served to check for a moment the advance, but only for a moment.

“It’s all up,” said Arthur, as he threw his arm round his sister. “Hide your face, Elizabeth, and don’t look at them. I’m sorry I brought you here.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Elizabeth, swallowing hard. “Where’s Willie?”

“I’m here,” said Willie. “I’m—I’m not crying, but it’s a pity about us.”

A Redskin approached the little group, his horrid, painted face lit by the glare of the burning cottage, in his hand a gleaming knife.

“It’s coming,” said Arthur, and clenched his teeth.

Elizabeth drew Willie down on her lap, shut her eyes tight—and waited. Then, above the crackling of the fire, above the hideous triumphant yells of the foe, came a sound that was strangely familiar. Very thin and faint, but quite clear it came—the sound of music.

“Jock the Piper!” cried Willie.

The Redskins heard it too; they seemed stricken with sudden fear. One by one they clambered back over the stockade, and were gone.

It all happened so quickly that the children were dazed. Elizabeth rubbed her eyes.

“Where have they gone to?” she asked. “Aren’t we to be scalped after all?”

Willie danced round her on one foot, singing:

“Piper Jock’s come! Piper Jock’s come!”

Arthur ran to the gate and unbarred it. A figure came rushing in, torn and wild and weary. It was Mhor.

“I’m fearfully sorry,” he gasped, all out of breath. “The beasts caught me and tied me to a tree, and if it hadn’t been for Piper Jock I would be there yet.”

Jock the Piper, stepping delicately and playing his “bonnie tune”, came through the gate and was greeted rapturously.

“We’ve had a fearful time,” Willie told him. “But they ran away when they heard your music. It’s been a real fight. Look at the cottage all blazed away—they did it, and in another minute if you hadn’t come——”

“Ay,” said the Piper, “but Jock the Piper’s aye there when he’s wanted, so mind that, laddie.”

“Can we go home now?” asked Elizabeth. “I’m not sure about those Redskins, and we’ve to go through that dark wood.”

“They won’t come back,” the King assured her, “and Piper Jock will go home with us all the way.”

They all shook hands very heartily with Sandy, and congratulated each other on the fine fight they had had.

“Only it’s a pity about your cottage,” said Mhor.

“O, never heed that,” said Sandy, airily. “We’ve had a verra fine time. A thing like that breaks the momentum and keeps a body frae wearyin’.”

A tired little company went back through the forest. Jock the Piper led the way, striding along, his pipe for once fallen silent, the others trotting to keep up with his long steps.

Only once all the way to the Castle was the silence broken, when Arthur turned to Mhor, and said:

“Fancy us fighting Redskins!”

“And I did do a bit of real scouting,” said Mhor.

Chapter IX

“And so they lived happy ever after and never drank out of an empty cup,” finished up Elizabeth. “That’s how fairytales always end.”

“Not always,” said Willie, who liked to be exact.

“Well, nearly always,” said Elizabeth.

“There was the one,” Willie continued, “about the bannock who went to see the world, and it finished— ‘We’ll all be in the toad’s hole in a hundred years.’ I like that story.”

“I don’t,” said Elizabeth. “I’m sorry for the poor bannock.”

“No good being sorry for a bannock,” put in Mhor.

“I s’pose I can be sorry for who I like,” said Elizabeth, crossly.

“Cross cat!” jibed Mhor.

Elizabeth had been telling a story to while away the time, but it had been listened to with scant attention except by Willie, who insisted on interrupting constantly to argue points.

“It’s always beastly the day after anything,” said Arthur, yawning. “Yesterday at this time we were fighting for our lives.”

Willie turned head over heels, then lay on his back kicking his legs in the air.

“So we were,” he chortled, “awfully in danger of our lives.”

Mhor got to his feet and looked round sleepily.

“Where’s the King, I wonder! We haven’t seen him all day and it’s nearly tea-time.”

“I hope,” said Arthur, “he hasn’t gone away on any adventures without us.”

“Not likely,” said Mhor.

“I don’t want any more adventures so long as I live,” Elizabeth announced.

“I never want anything else,” said Willie. “I’m as brave as—as Daniel.”

“Conceit!” said Elizabeth.

Nobody’s temper was very sweet that afternoon. Things in general seemed stale and unprofitable; after the excitement of the night before it was difficult to take an interest in everyday things. Also, they had not seen the King all day, and time had lagged sadly.

“I think I’ll go and look for the King,” said Arthur suddenly.

“Look for the tea when you’re at it,” advised Mhor.

Arthur started off for the door, twisted the handle for a minute irresolutely, and then came slowly back. The others looked at him in astonishment.

“What’s up?” asked Mhor. “Why don’t you go?”

“I don’t quite know,” Arthur replied. “Somehow it seems awful cheek to go and look for a king if he doesn’t choose to come to see us.”

“The King’s just a darling sweet,” said Elizabeth in tones of conviction.

“Oh, shut up!” said Mhor, rudely. “What a thing to call anyone.”

“It’s queer,” said Arthur, “though the King’s so awfully jolly and kind, you always feel so far away from him.”

“It’s his eyes,” said Mhor. “They always seem to be seeing far-away things.”

“I think,” said Elizabeth sentimentally, “that he’s lonely ’cos he hasn’t got a sister.”

Arthur scouted the idea, and was about to give his opinion of sisters in general and Elizabeth in particular, when the door opened to admit a servant with the much-desired tea.

“I’ll sit at the head of the table,” said Elizabeth, “and pour out, and play I’m the mother and you’ll all do as I tell you.”

“Not likely,” said Willie, trying to stuff a whole scone into his mouth at once.

Tea put them all in a better humour, and Arthur invited suggestions as to how they should employ the evening.

“I vote,” began Mhor, “I vote we—— Oh, I dunno—— What could we do?”

“I think we should play hide-and-seek,” said Willie. “There’s grand hidey-holes in this house, up and down those windy-stairs.”

“Ugh,” said Arthur, “who could be bothered playing hide-and-seek after they’d fought Redskins. Think of something fine and adventury.”

The door opened and they all sprang up thinking it might be the King, but it was only a servant to take away the tea-cups. They watched him as he tidied up, and Willie, thinking he had a nice face, said, “What’s your name, please?”

“Peter, sir.”

“I like that name,” said Willie. “Do you know of any adventures?”

The man looked puzzled, and Arthur explained:

“Like rescuing Princesses and things like that, you know. Are there any near here, captive ones, I mean?”

“No, sir,” said Peter, “they’re scarce. But I did hear that the Red Etin had one shut up in his dungeon.”

“What!” said Mhor. “Is that the Red Etin the story’s about, you know:

“The Red Etin of Ireland
He lived in Bellygand,
He stole King Malcolm’s daughter,
The King of fair Scotland.
He beats her and he binds her
And he ties her with a band,
And every day he dings her
With a bright silver wand——”

“That’s him,” said Peter.

“But,” said Willie, “I thought he was dead. I thought he expired with a fearful groan when the youngest son answered the last of his questions.”

“So they thought at the time,” said Peter, “but it turned out he had been in a trance and he has been very much alive ever since.”

Arthur pondered for a minute.

“Is this Princess Scots too?” he asked.

“I hear so,” said Peter.

“Then we’ll have to rescue her,” said Arthur, “of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Willie.

“I don’t see why,” said Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth,” said Arthur, reproachfully, “if you were captured by a giant and immured in a darksome dungeon, you would be very glad to be rescued by some gallant fellows, and you wouldn’t like it if their sisters told them not to bother.”

Elizabeth sniffed disdainfully at the “gallant fellows”.

“Mebbe I shouldn’t have told you,” said Peter. “His Majesty will be vexed.”

“Oh, we’ll tell him it wasn’t your fault,” Arthur assured him.

“Tell us, how far away is the old beast’s castle?”

“Three leagues through the forest,” said Peter.

“Everything’s through that old forest,” said Elizabeth, “and it’s very rude to go away places yourself when you’re people’s guests.”

No one paid any attention to her plaint.

“How shall we know the road?” inquired Mhor.

“You can’t miss it,” said Peter. “Just go straight through the forest. When you have gone two leagues you will come to a cottage. That is the cottage of the Ell-woman. Be sure and stop there, and she will tell you how to go on; she is very old and wise.”

“We shan’t go without weapons this time,” said Mhor.

“No use,” said Peter. “No weapons are any use against the Red Etin. Only the Ell-woman can tell you how to conquer him. If I thought I could help you I would go with you.”

“Oh, please don’t bother,” said Arthur and Mhor together. “You must be here to tell the King where we are if he asks for us.”

So again the little band slipped out of the Castle and took the road through the forest. Dusk was falling and in the shadow of the trees it was quite dark. Willie, looking up between the tall straight trunks of the pine trees to the darkening sky, said dreamily:

“There goes Leerie-licht-the-lamp lighting up all the stars, and we’re not going to bed at all.”

They trotted along steadily for they knew the way would be long, and no one spoke much. Once, Elizabeth put her hand in Arthur’s and said:

“When people rescue Princesses, don’t they have to marry them?”

“I s’pose they do,” said Arthur. “Why?”

“Then you’ll have to marry this Princess.”

“No, I won’t,” said Arthur decidedly. “I’ll be kind to her, quite kind, but I won’t let her kiss me, and I’ll send her home to her father.”

Elizabeth looked more cheerful.

“And you’ll never marry any nasty Princess, will you?” she asked. “You’ll always have me for your Princess?”

“But you’re not beautiful,” objected Arthur; “you’re horrid ugly and you’re not a Princess, but,” he finished magnanimously, “I’ll try to make you do.”

Chapter X

Dawn was breaking when they reached the cottage of the Ell-woman. It was a pretty place, with roses climbing up the white-washed walls, and pinks and other nice-smelling flowers growing in the little garden. The children were very glad to see it for they were both tired and hungry.

“Do you think she’ll give us any breakfast?” Willie asked as they approached.

“If we look very hungry,” Mhor said, “I should think she would.”

The door was shut so Arthur knocked with the knocker. It was opened at once, so suddenly, indeed, that they found themselves quite unprepared with anything to say, and could only gape stupidly. The Ell-woman held open the door and waited calmly for them to speak. It was difficult knowing how to begin, but Willie saved the situation by remarking, pathetically:

“We’ve never been to bed all night, and we’re very tired.”

“Come in,” said the woman.

They all trooped into the kitchen. It was the very cleanest kitchen you ever saw. The wooden chairs and dresser were scrubbed milk-white, and the brass candle-sticks and dish-covers simply shone. The Ell-woman drew forward chairs, and they were very glad to sit down. Then she spread a snowy cloth on the table and put out bowls of frothing new milk and scones. The children watched her hungrily, but she never spoke one word to them. When the meal was ready she motioned them to draw up and then left them alone. Willie looked after her.

“Is she cross?” he asked. “Or only very, very proud?”

“I think,” said Arthur, uneasily, “she’s what you call reserved.”

“What’s that?” inquired Willie.

“Oh, it’s just being that, of course,” said Arthur.

Everything on the table tasted so good that there was very little left when the Ell-woman came back.

“Thank you so much,” said Elizabeth, “we’ve had a lovely breakfast.”

This polite remark called forth no reply, and Elizabeth looked disheartened. There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute, and Mhor struggled with a desire to laugh. Then Arthur began:

“We’ve come——” and stopped, and Mhor giggled feebly.

Arthur kicked Mhor fiercely under the table and tried again:

“We’ve come to ask you to tell us how to conquer the Red Etin.”

The Ell-woman was so tall and held her head so high up in the air that Arthur had to stand quite a bit away from her, to see her face at all. When she spoke her voice was very low and deep and silky-soft.

“So that is your errand wi’ the Ell-woman,” she said.

“Peter said you could tell us,” said Willie, “ ’cos you were very old and wise, but you’re not old at all.”

“As old as the stars, bairn,” said she, “and as young as the morning.”

The children felt sadly puzzled. Mhor could not see that the Ell-woman’s age had anything to do with it. Either she knew, or she didn’t know, and he poked Arthur to continue.

“Peter said ordinary weapons were no use,” Arthur went on, “so we didn’t bring any though there are lots at the Castle.”

The Ell-woman did not seem impressed, so Willie took up the tale.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t think it, but we were fighting Redskins yesterday, or was it the day before?—you see we havn’t been in bed—— Anyway we beat them, Piper Jock and us.”

“And was that no enough for ye?” she asked, “that ye should come a’ the gait through the forest to meddle the Red Etin?”

“Well, you see,” said Mhor, “we heard he had a Scots Princess imprisoned in a dungeon, and we couldn’t very well leave her there.”

“And make no effort to release her from her vile capturer,” said Arthur, like a book.

“Is he very fierce?” asked Elizabeth.

“Mony a braw man gangs in,” said the Ell-woman, “but nane ever comes out.”

“Is it as bad as that?” said Mhor.

“Did these men ask you before they tried?” asked Elizabeth.

“What would braw men and strong want wi’ the Ell-woman’s counsel? They thocht they kent best themselves. Ay, the gate opened ready to let them in but it wull be lang, lang afore it clangs tae ahint their oot-gaun.”

The children stared, fascinated.

“Wh-what happened to them?” Willie asked with a gulp.

“Best no to speir, laddie. Are ye still bent on the ploy? she asked Arthur.

Arthur glanced at Mhor, who evaded the glance by looking out of the window, and then looked up into the grey eyes of the Ell-woman which seemed to shine at that moment with something of malicious fun.

“I—I think so,” he said.

“Think! That’ll no dae, ye maun ken.”

Mhor had caught the look in the Ell-woman’s eyes, and it stiffened his failing resolution.

“We must go on now,” he said. “It would be silly to have come all this distance just to go back and say we were afraid. If you’ll tell us the best way we’ll just start now.”

“Now!” cried Willie. “When we’ve been walking all night and never been to bed?”

“Jean!” cried the Ell-woman. A bare-foot girl appeared.

“Bring in some bracken, Jean.”

The girl went out and brought in armfuls of bracken which she laid on the floor.

“Rest there,” said the Ell-woman to the children, “and when ye wake, ye’ll hear what ye’ll hear.” So they gladly curled up in the sweet-scented bracken and were soon sound asleep. The sun crept up and blazed down on the roses and shone on the four, tired, towzled heads. Drowzy afternoon came and slipped into the gentle summer dusk before Arthur woke and wondered where he was. He looked round the unfamiliar place in a puzzled way, then he remembered, and shook Mhor.

“All right,” said Mhor sleepily. “It isn’t seven already, is it? I say! I’m dressed!”

“Of course you are,” said Arthur. “Don’t you remember the Ell-woman?”

“And the Red Etin,” said Mhor soberly.

“Yes,” said Arthur, “the Red Etin. Let’s wake the others.”

“We’re waken,” said Elizabeth sitting up, followed by Willie. Jean, the bare-foot girl came in and put bowls of porridge and milk on the table which the children supped up thankfully. They were just finishing when the Ell-woman appeared.

“Are ye ready for the road?” she asked.

The children said they were.

“Then hearken to me. Ye ken yer Questions?”

“Up to ‘Effectual Calling’,” said Arthur; “that is—pretty well.”

“Weel—mind them. Ye hed better start the noo and gang through that narra road: ye can see it frae here. The road gets worse as ye get on—tangled wi’ brambles and briers. When you’ve traivelled till ye’re wearied, ye’ll come to a wee cot-hoose: open the door and ye’ll see an auld wife wi’ a tartan shawl. Speak her fair and tell her ye come frae the Ell-woman an’ she’ll no be sweirt to tell ye what she kens. Here’s a bannock to tak’ wi’ ye for fear ye get hungry, an’ that’s a’ I can dae.”

They thanked her as they stowed the scones away in their pockets and prepared to go. She stood at the door and watched them and once, when Willie turned back to wave to her, she smiled, and her smile was very kind.

“Arthur,” said Elizabeth, “do you know who she is?”

“The Ell-woman, of course,” said Arthur.

“P’raps,” said Elizabeth, “she’s that too, but the last time we saw her she was the Beggar Wife. She looks taller and her dress is different, but I knew her when she smiled—it’s her.”

Chapter XI

The best part of an adventure is talking about it afterwards, it really isn’t much fun at the time, and it was with very mixed feelings that the children started on the road, pointed out to them by the Ell-woman.

It was a very narrow road with long sprays of brambles stretching across it, which scratched their faces spitefully as they tried to push them aside. They stumbled along dejectedly until they came in sight of a cottage, which, they decided, must be the “cot-hoose” they had been told to look out for. There was only one small window in it, and the door was so low that quite an ordinary-sized person would have had to stoop to enter.

“Shall I knock?” asked Arthur.

“The Ell-woman said just to go in,” Mhor reminded him, so Arthur lifted the latch and they all walked in.

The door opened straight into the kitchen. There was a peat fire burning in the middle of the floor and beside it, spinning as for dear life, sat an old woman in a tartan shawl. She did not look up from her spinning as the children entered, but cried in a high shrill voice:

“Sneck the door, sneck the door, the wind’s snell.”

She was old and withered and brown, and her face seemed very small looking out from the big white mutch that was tied under her chin. She paid no attention to the children, but kept on spinning and crooning to herself. This is the song she sung:

“I spin the lives of men
And the deeds of kings,
My thread is fine gold and dreams
And the deep heart-strings.
The whiteness of good
And the dark of sin,
I twine in and out, in and out,
    As I spin,
    As I spin.

“The world goes wearily round
And the winds range,
But I hear no sound
As the years change—
Only the song and the dream
My heart within
For I am the mother of all,
    As I spin,
    As I spin.”

They waited patiently, standing first on one foot then on the other, till she should be finished spinning and could listen to their errand, but the time passed and she seemed quite unconscious of their presence.

“Go up to her and shout,” said Mhor, “perhaps she’s deaf or something.”

Arthur went close to her and, bending down, said very loudly the first thing that occurred to him, which happened to be:

“It’s a fine day!”

“It’s on the chap o’ twal’ an’ braw mune-licht,” said the woman severely.

Arthur looked helplessly at Mhor, and Mhor said:

“We’ve come from the Ell-woman.” She looked at them for the first time.

“An’ what may ye be wantin’ wi’ the wife o’ the Runes?” she asked.

“The Ell-woman said,” continued Mhor, “that you’d be able to tell us how to conquer the Red Etin and rescue the Princess.”

The old woman did not answer, but began again spinning and muttering. The children watched her not liking to interrupt again, till suddenly she said:

“Who was the first man!”

“Is it a guess?” asked Willie.

Mhor advised Willie not to be an idiot while Arthur answered the question. There was another silence then came the second question—“Who was the First Woman!”

“Eve,” said the four together. The spinning stopped and the woman said solemnly—“What was the First Sin!”

“The eating of the Forbidden Fruit,” they said softly.

“Ye’ll dae,” said the Wife o’ the Runes, and went on with her spinning. Another weary wait. Willie sat down on the floor to rest his legs.

“We’re just like owls,” he said dreamily. “We don’t go to bed at all through the night. I’ve nearly forgotten what it’s like to be in bed.”

Arthur grew desperate. Unless something were done, it looked as if they might have to stay all night waiting on the old woman’s pleasure.

“Is it far to the Red Etin’s castle?” he said. “For I think we should start.”

The spinning stopped and the woman rose to her feet.

“Surely, bairn, it’s time—high time. I’m a donnert auld wife an’ I was forgettin’ ye. But it’s no far to the Red Etin’s Castle, juist twa or three steps an’ ye come to the muckle gates. A touch an’ they’ll open for ye. It’s easy to get in—ower easy some wud say—-but ye’ll want to ken hoo to get oot. Are ye wise?”

“Not very,” said Arthur, modestly.

“Are ye brave?”

“They’re all brave but me,” said Elizabeth. “I’m a coward.”

“She isn’t really,” Mhor explained, “not when the time comes.”

“Weel, hearken then. Ye’ll walk through the gates into the Castle an’ there ye’ll meet a man wha’ll ask ye the First Question. When ye answer he’ll let ye pass and ye’ll gang up the first stair an’ then ye’ll meet anither man wha’ll ask ye the Second Question. Pass him and gang up the second stair, and there’ll ye meet the third man wha’ll ask ye the Third Question. Syne, yer wark is to find the Red Etin.”

“Find him?” said the children.

“Ay, when he sees ye pass the third man he’ll ken his hour is near and he’ll hide. An’ mind this, everything in the place is bewitched and in league wi’ the Red Etin. He can turn himsel’ into onything—a chair—a table—the tangs—the nock——”

“How will we know which is him?” Mhor asked.

“Wi’ this,” said the Wife o’ the Runes, holding up what seemed a round bit of looking glass.

“Mebbe he’ll hae changed himsel’ into a table or a chair, but haud up the glass to it an’ he’s bound to tak his true shape. Syne ye’ll demand frae him the keys o’ the dungeon.”

“But will he give them up?” asked Arthur.

“He’ll no daur refuse when ye hev the Mirror of Truth, an’ as he gies up the keys his life wall rin oot, an’ the breath leave his wicked body.”

Arthur took the glass rather unwillingly.

“Is it quite playing the game?” he asked. “I mean is it quite fair to use this?”

The Wife o’ the Runes laughed.

“It’s fair to use the weapons he uses himsel’. If he fechts wi’ enchantments, so maun ye. It’ll be nane so easy, mirror and a’, but mind if ye loss the mirror ye’ll never win oot o’ the castle— so tak’ care!”

Arthur put the mirror carefully into his trouser-pocket, and they all shook hands gravely with the Wife o’ the Runes and thanked her for her help.

“Guid luck tae ye,” she said, and went back to her spinning.

It was almost daylight when the children reached the Castle gate. They stood and peered through the bars.

“I don’t like this job,” said Mhor. “Fighting Redskins is all right; you can see them and it’s in the open air, but to go and shut yourself up in an old castle all enchanted—it isn’t much fun, that’s all.”

“Can’t we go back even now?” said Elizabeth. “This is a hateful looking place, and something awful’s sure to happen to us if we go in.”

“There’s that Princess,” began Arthur, “shut up in the dungeon.”

“Oh, don’t mind her,” said Elizabeth, “she’ll be used to it by now, anyway.”

“It’s not her I’m minding,” said Mhor, “but I’d like to do for that old Red Etin.”

Elizabeth looked round her and shivered. Even in the fresh morning light there was something eerie about the place. Nettles and dockens grew round the gate, rank and luxuriant. It was strangely still. Willie looked over his shoulder, fearfully.

“Why aren’t the birds singing?” he whispered. “Or anything making a noise? It’s dreadful dullsome. I don’t like it—I’m frightened.”

“I’m not,” said Arthur, in a loud defiant voice, and to show his courage he gave the gate a kick. It swung open. Dumbly the children stared at each other.

“Perhaps,” said Arthur, feebly, “we’d better go in. Here! don’t you shove, Mhor.”

“I didn’t,” said Mhor; “I fell against you.”

Arthur walked through the gates, rather hesitatingly, it must be confessed, and the others followed. The gates closed behind them with an ominous-sounding clang. Inside there was a courtyard, grass-grown and neglected. A flight of rounded steps led up to a heavy nail-studded door. There was no sign of life. Willie, who was holding tight to Elizabeth’s hand, said mournfully:

“I think everybody in the world’s dead except us. It’s rather lonely.”

They wondered whether they should knock at the door or try the handle and walk in, but the difficulty was solved by the door opening itself as they went up the steps. They found themselves in a square hall with a narrow winding staircase leading up from it. The air felt damp and chill as if the sun never shone there. Crossing the hall without meeting anyone, they thought they were to pass unquestioned, but as Arthur put his foot on the first step of the stair, a little bent old man sprang up—out of nowhere it seemed—and barring the way with one arm, asked in shrill menacing tones:

“Who was the First Man?”

“Adam,” replied Arthur, firmly.

With a snarl the old man disappeared. The same thing happened at the second stair and the third, just as the Wife o’ the Runes had told them, and when they had mounted the third stair they were confronted by three closed doors. They debated which they would try first and decided that they would begin at the left-hand door and work round. The door opened easily, but the room inside was rather disappointing. There was absolutely nothing in it but a great oak chest. Arthur gravely held the mirror to it but nothing happened.

“That’s all right,” he remarked. “He can’t be in this room anyway.”

“Let’s open it and see what’s inside,” said Willie.

The lid was very heavy but they managed to hoist it up, and Willie nearly toppled inside in his hurry to be first at the treasures. First he pulled out a shimmering satin dress and a white cloak embroidered with pearls.

“Clothes!” he said disgustedly.

“They can’t be the Red Etin’s, surely,” said Mhor.

“Of course not, silly,” said Elizabeth. “I expect they’re the Princess’s.”

Willie kept tossing out articles of apparel in a contemptuous way until, with a squeal of delight, he pounced on something.

“What’s that you’ve got?” demanded Arthur.

Willie showed his treasure which was a leather pouch with long strips of leather for strings.

“It’s a fearfully useful thing,” he explained, as he tied the strings round his waist. “I think it’s meant for holding cartridges.”

“But you haven’t got any cartridges,” Arthur reminded him.

“I know,” said Willie cheerfully, “but I’ve got a nice bag for them.”

“I think it’s stealing,” said Elizabeth in a high-moral tone, “to take things out of people’s chests even if they are Red Etin’s.”

“I think,” said Mhor severely, “you’re forgetting what we came for—it’s high time we were getting on with our search.”

“Come on, then,” said Arthur. “He’s not here, anyway.”

They left the contents of the oak chest scattered untidily about on the floor, and tried the next room. If the first room was empty, this room made up for it. The children thought they had never seen so many different things in a room before. There were grandfather clocks and carved tables; spindle-legged chairs covered with old brocade, and common wooden chairs; coats of mail and ivory elephants; bureaux and carved red and white chessmen; great china jars and cabinets filled with curiosities.

“Rather like a pawn-shop, isn’t it?” said Mhor.

Arthur clutched the mirror tightly.

“I bet he’s here,” he said and marched up to a grandfather’s clock. The others watched him breathlessly, but the clock made no sign. Evidently it was innocent.

“Try this,” begged Willie, lugging an ivory elephant from its place on a table.

“Put it down first,” Arthur cautioned him. Willie put the elephant on the floor and stood at a safe distance while Arthur held the mirror to it. Nothing happened. They tried a bureau, a table, a chair, a jar, but with no success.

“I don’t believe he’s here, either,” said Mhor.

“Oh! come and look,” cried Elizabeth. “What dear little funny drawers!”

In opening a bureau she had touched some spring which made a panel slide to one side, revealing a row of tiny drawers.

“They’re secret drawers,” said Elizabeth; “p’haps there’s treasures in them.”

They were examining the drawers one by one, when Arthur jumped up suddenly and ran to the other side of the room. He came back with a white, scared face.

“What’s up?” asked Mhor.

“The mirror,” he gasped. “I laid it on that table and—it’s gone!”

Chapter XII

A dumb horror fell on the children. Hardly knowing what she did Elizabeth softly pushed in the little drawers and closed the bureau. Then she crept to her brothers. It was strange how the very atmosphere of the room changed. It grew darker. What had been fun and adventure seemed to become grim and earnest. There was something sinister now about the very furniture. They had a feeling that eyes were watching them, turn which way they would.

How long they stood there they did not know. It may only have been a few minutes; it seemed like hours. Suddenly Willie gave a howl and in the silent room it sounded appalling. The other three jumped visibly. Arthur turned fiercely on his brother.

“Chuck it, you young fool!” he hissed.

“I c-can’t help it—it’s alive—it looked at me.”

“What’s alive?”

“The—the elephant,” sobbed Willie.

They turned to the ivory elephant which stood stolid and quite motionless on the table.

“Rot,” said Arthur. “If we stay here much longer we’ll all go silly. I’m going out of this room, anyway.”

Keeping close together they crossed the room without hindrance and reached the top of the stair.

“Simply creep down,” whispered Arthur. “Don’t make a single sound if you can help it.”

“We’d better take off our boots first,” said Mhor. “They’re tacketty, and they’ll scrape on the stones.”

They unlaced their boots and kicked them off. So softly they crept down, hardly daring to breathe, dreading any moment to be stopped. The first landing was safely passed—the second—the now they could see the door still mercifully open. In another minute they would be out in the blessed sunshine.

Arthur going first had his foot on the last step, and they were all preparing for the spring across the hall to the open door, when, without the slightest warning, the little bent old man sprang again from nowhere and barred the road. They sat down helplessly just where they were.

“After all,” thought Mhor, “what’s the good of taking off tacketty boots or anything when enchantments are about.”

The little old man said no word; it really would not have been so eerie if he had spoken. He went across the hall beckoning them to follow with a malignant grin on his face.

They had no choice but to obey.

He led them down a narrow stair with worn uneven steps. They seemed to have gone down hundreds of steps before he stopped and unlocked the door of a dungeon. In went the children and they heard the key creak as they were locked securely in.

It was pitch dark in the dungeon.

“Now we’ve done it,” said Arthur, in sepulchral tones out of the darkness.

“You mean you’ve done it,” said Mhor. “If you hadn’t laid down the mirror——”

“Oh, what’s the good of talking about that now?” cried Elizabeth. “The thing is, we are here.”

“Where are you?” said Willie. “I can’t feel anybody.”

“I’m against the wall,” said Elizabeth. “If you feel round you’ll come to me.”

“I say,” began Arthur, “this floor’s earth.”

“I know that,” said Mhor. “I’m sitting on it.”

Elizabeth giggled feebly.

“I’m not laughing because I’m amused,” she explained, “but it’s so funny to hear your voices coming out of the darkness.”

“It’s all very well,” said Arthur, “but what are we going to do now?”

That was indeed the question. There was a long silence while they grappled with it, then the voice of Elizabeth was heard, very tremulous.

“Arthur, let me hold your coat. I’m thinking of all the people who have come in here and never got out. P’haps they were in this very dungeon. I think I feel a bone—oh! oh!”

Willie wept in sympathy.

“Oh, do shut up,” Arthur implored. “Let’s do something, anything, rather than sit and moon here. Hasn’t any one got a match?”

A muffled murmur came from Willie.

“Here! Can you feel them? I’ve cried on them so I’m afraid they’ll be damp.”

Arthur groped about and grasped the box. There was the sound of a match being drawn—a sputter of light—and again darkness.

“It’s out,” said Arthur. “Bother, there’s only three more.”

“Don’t strike them,” advised Mhor. “We’ll mebbe want them more after a bit.”

They all felt the truth of this remark and relapsed once more into gloomy silence.

“Who’s that crying?” said Elizabeth suddenly.

“I thought it was you,” said Mhor.

“No, it’s not me,” said Elizabeth. “I think it must be some one in the next dungeon.”

“The Princess, I wouldn’t wonder,” said Arthur. “Listen!”

Quite distinctly they heard it again. It sounded horribly lonely and pathetic.

“She’ll be dreadfully lonely,” said Elizabeth. “There’s four of us and only one of her. Can’t we do anything?”

“If we can hear her,” said Mhor, “she can hear us. Let’s shout to her.”

Arthur, who had been feeling round the wall, stopped, with an exclamation.

“My goodness! Here’s a grating. I’ll strike a match.”

One of the few remaining matches was struck and illuminated for a moment the corner of the dungeon. By its light they saw a face pressed close to the bars of the grating. Then the match went out.

“That’s her,” said Arthur.

“Strike another match, quick,” cried Elizabeth.

“It’s the last but one,” Arthur objected. “We can talk to her though we can’t see her. Are you there, Princess?”

“Who are you?” asked a voice.

“Your rescuers,” said Arthur, promptly.

“That’s a silly thing to tell anyone,” said Mhor, “when you’re in a dungeon beside them.”

“Well,” said Arthur, “we came to rescue you anyway, and we would have done it too, if it hadn’t been for those beastly enchantments.”

“Why did you wish to rescue me?” asked the Princess, for it was indeed she.

“For an adventure, and oh! of course, because you are Scots and we didn’t like to think of the Red Etin dinging you with a wand. Does he ding you?”

“Yes,” said the Princess, piteously.

“Too bad,” said Arthur.

“What’ll he do to us,” inquired Willie. “Will we be dinged too?”

“Worse than that,” said the Princess, “much worse.”

“Oh, what?” asked Elizabeth.

“I fear you will meet the fate of others who have come to this Castle and failed to subdue the Red Etin. You will be turned by that monster into stone.”

“Into stone!” gasped the children. “Are you sure?”

“Alas, yes!” said the Princess. “Many brave knights have attempted to rescue me and, failing in the attempt, have been imprisoned here till the Red Etin came, and with a touch turned them into statues.”

“What a beastly mean trick,” said Arthur gloomily.

“It can’t be true,” said Mhor stoutly. “It isn’t sense, things like that don’t happen.”

“Anything can happen in the Red Etin’s Castle,” said the Princess.

“The Wife o’ the Runes said,” moaned Elizabeth, “that if we lost the mirror we would never, never get out.”

“We’ll make jolly poor statues,” said Arthur.

“If only,” sighed the Princess, “I had my Wishing Stone.”

“What’s that?” asked Arthur listlessly, more from a habit of asking questions than because he was interested.

“When the Wife o’ the Runes came to my christening,” said the Princess, “she presented me with a Wishing Stone. With it in your hand you can wish what you please, and immediately the wish is gratified. I was wearing it when I was captured. It was in a leather bag tied round my waist. They took it off when they took off my pretty clothes to dress me in this rag, but little they knew the value of what the bag contained.”

Willie sat up in excitement.

“Was it a leather bag with strings?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the Princess, “with strings to tie round my waist.”

“Then it’s on me,” cried Willie, “but I don’t think there’s a stone in it.”

“Oh, yes,” said the Princess, “right down in the left-hand corner. Do feel.”

Willie fumbled in the bag.

“Yes, it’s here—a round smooth stone—feels like a chucky.”

“Oh, give it me, give it me,” cried the Princess.

But Willie kept tight hold of the stone.

“I found it,” he said. “I want to wish myself.”

“But it’s my stone,” wailed the Princess.

“I know it’s your stone,” said Willie, “but seeing I brought it down here, I think you might let me wish first.”

“That’s only fair,” said Elizabeth.

“Ladies first,” Arthur reminded her.

“She’s not a lady,” Willie objected. “She’s a Princess.”

“Give me hold of it,” said Mhor. “I’ll wish and keep you all from squabbling.”

But Willie rolled over on the floor, keeping tight hold of his treasure, and Mhor, in the darkness failed to find him.

“You are wasting time,” warned the Princess. “Remember, the Red Etin may come any minute.”

“Well, what’ll we wish?” said Arthur.

“Wish!” said Mhor. “Wish that the dungeon door be opened, of course. We can’t do anything in here.”

“All right,” agreed Arthur. “Fire away, Willie.”

No sooner were the words spoken by Willie than the door swung open and a pale glimmer of daylight came into the dungeon. They made a simultaneous rush for the door, but the voice of the Princess stopped them.

“Do not leave me,” she begged.

“Of course not,” said Arthur. “The door of your dungeon will be next to this, and we’ll get it opened.”

Soon the Princess stood beside them. They spoke in whispers deciding on their next move.

“We’d better wish for the mirror,” said Arthur.

“An easier way,” said Mhor, “would be to go up to the room at the top of the Castle where we were before and wish that the Red Etin might take his true shape.”

“And what after that?” demanded Willie.

“Well,” said Mhor, “didn’t the Wife o’ the Runes say he’d die then?”

“I wouldn’t be very sure of him,” said Elizabeth. “Why should not we just go home now we’ve rescued the Princess?”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Arthur. “You and the Princess can go outside and wait, and Willie too, and Mhor and I’ll tackle the Red Etin.”

“No, indeed,” said Elizabeth. “I’d rather see the worst than be outside not knowing what’s happening.”

“And I will also stay,” said the Princess.

“All right, then,” said Arthur, “we’ll all go together; we’ve got our stocking-feet so we won’t make any noise. Come on.”

Arthur took the Wishing Stone from Willie and they set off. There was no one in the hall. They mounted the stairs as they had mounted them before, but this time no little old man barred their way and they passed unquestioned. Again, at the top landing, they were confronted by three closed doors. Arthur threw open the middle door.

“I wish,” he said, in a loud voice. “I wish that the Red Etin may take his true shape.”

There was a breathless pause and then, as they watched, out of the shadows a figure began to emerge—the figure of a gigantic man with a cruel, evil face. They stood, too terrified to cry or say one word—too terrified to move hand or foot—and the figure grew larger and larger until it seemed to fill the whole room. A great roaring filled the air, and the sound of many voices chanting. The Castle rocked like a tree in a gale. The noise grew louder, the roof rent and opened, the walls split, the floor sank under their feet, then—silence!

Chapter XIII

When the children became aware of their surroundings, they found themselves seated on green grass—above them the blue sky. It had all happened with such startling suddenness that they sat too utterly dazed and bewildered to be surprised at anything. Then Arthur stood up and rubbed his eyes and looked all round. There was not a trace of the Castle to be seen, except a few blocks of stone lying about. He sat down again stolidly.

“I’ll wake up soon,” he said, “it’s a dream.”

“I’m dreaming it too, then,” said Mhor.

Then Willie looked.

“The Castle’s away,” he said. “How did we come here? I don’t like magic; you never know what it’ll do next.”

“Then it’s really true,” said Arthur. “How on earth did we do it?”

“The dear knows,” replied Mhor.

“But you can’t be sorry he’s dead,” said Elizabeth, “when you think how many people he killed.”

“He was a terror to the whole land,” said the Princess. “ =There will be great rejoicing over his end.”

“It was a near shave for us too,” said Mhor.

“It was horrible,” said Elizabeth, shivering. “I don’t know how we’re here to tell the tale. But I think we should go back now; the King will be wondering where we are.”

“Oh,” cried Willie, “we’ve no boots.”

It was only too true; their boots had disappeared with the Castle.

“Lost!” said Arthur. “Four pairs of boots. Found—one Princess.”

“What shall we do?” said Elizabeth. “We can’t walk all that long way without boots.”

“You have the Wishing Stone,” the Princess pointed out.

“Of course,” said Arthur. “Boots for four, please.”

Instantly eight boots fitted themselves on to eight feet.

“All laced up and all,” said Willie looking at his admiringly.

They were now ready to start, but the question was what about the Princess?

“I shall accompany you,” she said. “Could I leave my gallant rescuers?”

The children looked at each other in consternation.

“You can’t come with us,” said Arthur gently but firmly.

“You go home to your father, he’ll be glad to see you again.”

“Then you must come with me,” said the Princess, “that my father may thank you.”

“Oh, tell him that’s all right,” interrupted Arthur.

“And,” continued the Princess, “that he may reward you with half his kingdom and my hand in marriage.”

“By Gum!” said Arthur, and for once Elizabeth failed to reprove him for using low words. She went up to the Princess and took her hand.

“It’s very kind of you,” she said, “to want him to go home with you and stay in your house, but you see he can’t. He’s always going to stay with me—he’s promised. But it’s sweet of you to ask him.”

“But I invite you all to come,” said the Princess. “My father will be most pleased to welcome you. And you will have the finest of clothes and jewels and soft cushions to sit on, and you will eat off gold and silver plate, and have servants to wait on you at every turn. Do not refuse.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Elizabeth, “thank you so much, but we really can’t go. We’re staying with a friend just now, a King, and he doesn’t know where we are so we must get back very soon.”

“And how am I to reach my home?” asked the Princess piteously. “I do not know the way.”

What was to be done? Elizabeth looked helplessly at her brothers.

“I wish,” said Arthur, “that some of those knights who came to rescue you would come alive again.” He had forgotten that he held in his hand the Wishing Stone. Instantly the three blocks of stone that had been lying where the Castle had stood became three gallant gentlemen. They came forward and knelt to kiss the hand of the Princess, expressing their joy at beholding her. They did not seem at all ruffled by the fact that they had been turned into stone and then turned back. The Princess explained to them how she had been rescued, and the knights bowed low to the three boys and insisted on kissing Elizabeth’s hand thereby embarrassing her greatly. After some further interchange of courtesies the two parties prepared to depart. The Princess looked wistful.

“Oh,” said Arthur, “I was nearly away with it—your Wishing Stone.”

“Pray keep it,” said the Princess.

“No indeed,” said Arthur. “You must hang on to your christening gifts—especially when they’re such useful things as that. Ours at home are no use, just mugs and silver spoons! I’d give them to the cat.”

Willie reluctantly untied his precious bag and handed it to the Princess. Elizabeth fumbled with the clasp of a string of coral she wore round her neck.

“I know,” she said, “you must have heaps of lovely jewels being a Princess: but will you take this as a keepsake to remember us by?”

The Princess was much touched.

“I shall wear it always,” she said, and kissed Elizabeth. The boys shook hands with her heartily, and they parted.

“Was it mean of us not to let her come?” asked Elizabeth uneasily. “But we couldn’t have, could we?”

“We did enough when we rescued her,” said Mhor. “We can’t go hauling Princesses after us.”

Arthur was considering their route.

“D’you remember,” he began, “which road we came from the Wife o’ the Runes’ hut?”

“I’m not sure,” said Mhor, gazing round, “but we’ll try this one; it looks like it.”

They walked for a time but came to no hut.

“I’m ’fraid we’ve taken the wrong turning,” said Arthur. “We should have been at the Wife o’ the Runes’ hut by this time.”

They wandered on becoming more certain every minute that they were lost.

There were many paths in the wood and they tried first one and then another, but none brought them near any sign of a habitation. To make matters worse, they were hungry and thirsty, and very tired.

The sun went down; it grew very dark in the wood. A chill wind got up and rustled among the tree-tops. Elizabeth sat down on the soft moss and declared she could not go one step further. Willie, speedily followed her example and proceeded to remove his boots. Arthur and Mhor remonstrated, but it was no use so they sat down beside them. They were all too tired to care much what happened next, and in a few minutes they were sound asleep, curled close to each other for warmth. They were resting thus, very peacefully, when a tall thin figure came lightly through the trees and bent over them.

It was Jock the Piper.

He took a long cloak he was wearing and wrapped up the sleeping children cosily, putting back Elizabeth’s curls which had blown across Arthur’s face: and brushing an obtrusive spider from the rubicund countenance of the unconscious Willie.

“Wearied bairns!” he said.

Then he leaned his long length against a tree and played himself a tune, very softly on his pipe. And in their sleep the children smiled.

⁎  ⁎  ⁎

It was broad day when they awoke to find Piper Jock regarding them.

“There ye are!” he said. “And a fine dance ye’ve led us. Up and tell me where ye’ve been.”

Refreshed by their long sleep and cheered by the sight of the Piper’s face, the children jumped up and poured into his ears their amazing adventures.

“Heard ye ever the like?” cried the Piper when the story was finished. “Ye maun come and tell the King.”

“Is he near here?” asked Elizabeth.

“Just close by,” said the Piper.

“Oh, let’s go to him,” cried Elizabeth.

They followed the Piper to a clearing in the wood where stood a charming cottage, which, he explained, the King sometimes used for a night if he were in that part of the forest.

The King came out to meet them and took them into a room where breakfast was ready.

“I’m hungrier than ever I was in my life,” announced Willie solemnly, and straightway they sat down and forgot everything but the food before them. When their hunger was satisfied, they told the King all the story from the beginning to the vanishing of the Red Etin and his Castle.

“I wish you had been with us, King,” said Mhor. “It was a splendid adventure.”

“It’s all very well to say that now,” said Elizabeth. “It wasn’t very splendid at the time.”

“I’m rejoiced to see you all back in safety,” said the King. “Shall we start now?”

“Where’s Piper Jock?” asked Willie as they set off. “He must have left us when we were at breakfast,” said the King.

On their way back to the Castle, Arthur stopped and looked round.

“I say,” he said, “isn’t this somewhere near where Sandy lived?”

“That is his cottage?” said the King.

“Oh, let’s go and see Sandy,” said Willie. “I want to see his cottage since the Redskins burned it.”

Soon they were walking up the gravel walk between the gooseberry bushes.

“You’d never think it had been burned,” said Willie.

“Sandy’s at home,” said Mhor, “the door’s open.”

They went into the kitchen, but there was no sign of Sandy and the place looked strangely neglected. The fireplace was full of dead ashes—a large pot of Sandy’s favourite porridge stood on it, cold and unpalatable. The geraniums on the window sill were dying from want of water. Dust lay thick on everything.

“I’m afraid something must have happened,” said the King.

“The Redskins again!” said Arthur.

Mhor noticed that the big Family Bible lay open on the kitchen table—Sandy always kept it on the “drawer’s head”. He went to look at it. It was open at the family record of births, marriages and deaths. He looked at them idly—the long list of names written in faded ink—then he noticed something odd. On one line was written—“Alastair Macalister, born 18th February 18——” After the name printed in large laborious capitals was the one word—“GRUPPIT”.

Chapter XIV

At Mhor’s exclamation the others crowded round to look, and stared, puzzled, at the cryptic word. Each one had a different opinion to offer as to its meaning, except the King, who stood silent and preoccupied.

Arthur nudged him asking what he thought.

“I think,” said the King slowly, “that Sandy has been overpowered and carried away captive. Seeing no other way of leaving word what had happened, he wrote that hoping someone might chance to notice it.”

“That’s it,” said Arthur. “Lucky we thought of coming round this way. D’you think it was the Redskins again?”

“No,” said the King. “I think this is the work of bandits.”

“Bandits!” said Willie. “What are they?”

“They are lawless men,” replied the King, “who plunder and steal and even murder, and then retire to the high mountains where they know they will not be pursued.”

“But,” Mhor objected, “I’m sure poor Sandy hadn’t much they could steal.”

“Ah,” said the King, “it was not booty they wanted in this case. Sandy once defied the Robber Chief and defeated one of his pet schemes. He swore to be revenged. This is the result.”

“What’s to be done?” asked Arthur.

“We must rescue him, of course,” said Mhor.

Elizabeth gave a weary sigh. “Oh, dear! Another adventure, and I’m so tired of rescuing people.”

But the boys, even Willie, were eager to start and pestered the King with questions and suggestions. Obviously the first thing to do was to get back to the Castle and there lay in a stock of provisions and weapons and other things that might be useful. So they set off with all speed.

Arrived at the Castle they made a rush for the room where the armour stayed to collect the necessary implements of war. Arthur seized a massive sword, Mhor a spear, while Willie hugged lovingly a large shield. Great was the disappointment when the King pointed out that they could not climb hampered by such unwieldy weapons. They might have daggers in their belts but nothing more. Also, said the King, they must have warm clothes as it would be cold among the mountains, and nails in their boots that they might not slip on the rocks.

After a hearty meal they were ready to start. The ponies stood ready saddled at the door. Two serving-men were to accompany them, and on their horses were strapped a rug or two, the provisions and a rope.

“Where’s Willie?” asked Elizabeth. Arthur ran off to look for him, and presently he appeared dragging his young brother by the arm. Under Willie’s other arm was a large untidy bundle.

“What’s that?” demanded Mhor.

“It’s the Cloak of Darkness,” said Willie firmly. “I couldn’t get the shield so I’m taking it.”

“Silly goat,” said Mhor. “What’ll you do with it when you’re climbing?”

Willie scrambled awkwardly on to his pony.

“If a robber tries to kill me,” he said, “I’ll hide under my cloak, and when you’re all killed, you’ll wish you was me.”

“It’s a good plan,” said Elizabeth thoughtfully. “Will you let me under it too, Willie?”

“If there’s room,” said Willie, “but you’re pretty fat.”

The cavalcade started, and as they rode the King explained to the children the position of affairs. The Robbers’ Cave was on the face of a cliff so steep as to be almost inaccessible. For the convenience of the robbers, steps had been cut and iron stanchions fixed in the rock so that it was fairly easy for them to reach their eyrie. To attack the cave was madness. Only one man could ascend the stone ladder, and each man as he appeared would be shot down by the robbers. It sounded very hopeless, and the children felt their spirits rather dashed—at least the boys did. Elizabeth’s spirits had been at their lowest since the start.

The King now unfolded his plan. He proposed that they should go by a road he alone knew and try to ascend the cliff from the other side. It would, he owned, be a difficult climb but not impossible, and they would be able to reach the Cave unseen by the robbers.

“All right,” said Mhor, “we’ll try it.”

“It’s queer,” mused Elizabeth, “what a sudden place this is. We were coming quite quietly home and Willie said let’s see Sandy’s cottage, and the next thing we’re tearing away here and we’ll all be killed very likely.”

“You’re always saying that,” said Arthur, “but you’d get a fine surprise if you were killed, all the same.”

The road lay over the moor for many miles, and the ponies trotted along bravely until the heather stopped and the ground became so very rough and stony that they could go no further and had to be left in charge of one of the men. The other, Neil was his name, strapped a rug and the bag with provisions on his back while Mhor carried the rope that was to help them to climb.

At first it was rather fun scrambling over great boulders, but soon the darkness began to fall and chill mists circled round eerily, and the children became aware of the fact that their arms and legs ached and that they were hungry and tired. Even Mhor’s spirits were flagging when the King called a halt at the place where they were to camp for the night.

Neil, with the rug, in a few minutes made a tent between two boulders. A fire was lit and supper prepared, and they forgot the cold and darkness as they sat round. Then they crowded into the little tent. It was rather a tight fit, but that, as Elizabeth pointed out, made it all the cosier.

“We’re just like young birds in a nest,” she said; “it’s lovely.”

“I never saw a young bird with such a hard head as Willie,” complained Mhor. “He’s hit me right on the nose.”

“It was Arthur,” said Willie. “He nipped me, so of course I jumped.”

“You take up too much room for your size,” said Arthur. “I say, do keep still; you took me in the wind with your elbow that time.”

“I’m rolling up my Cloak of Darkness for a pillow,” Willie explained. “If I wrapped myself up in it you wouldn’t feel me at all.”

“Course we would,” said Arthur. “We wouldn’t see you, but the lumpiness of you would always be there.” Soon sleep descended on the company and silence reigned.

With the first streak of dawn they were awake and sprang up more willingly than usual from their rocky bed.

“Oh,” said Arthur, stretching himself. “I don’t believe I’ll get myself untwisted to-day.”

“I’m sore all over,” said Willie. “That was with you nipping me, Arthur.”

“Just look at my nose,” said Mhor, feeling the injured member, “it’s twice its size and that was your hard head.”

Breakfast refreshed them, and they helped Neil to pack up the things and stood ready for the climb. It was a strange desolate place. A waste of stones with nowhere a blade of grass or a trace of vegetation lay round them, while above jagged rock peaks rose to the grey sky.

“Perhaps,” said the King, “we had better rope now.” Mhor who regarded climbing as his special forte, took control of the party and led the way. The King came next on the rope, then Elizabeth, then Willie, then Arthur, and lastly Neil. Willie chortled with delight and waggled the rope. “Let’s play we’re a big live serpent,” he begged and was promptly sat on by Mhor for the frivolous suggestion. Arthur rather objected to Mhor leading.

“He’s never climbed anything but trees and the wash-house roof,” he complained.

“I climbed the slate quarry,” said Mhor, “right to the top, and you fell down first shot.” Arthur said no more.

The children never knew how they accomplished that expedition. Now hanging on to the rough rock, now down into gullies, sometimes on the face of the cliff, sometimes scrambling up chimneys, until whole, but exhausted, they found themselves at the peak on the face of which the robbers had their cave. While Neil opened his pack to lay out the food, the others, panting, regarded the prospect. They were seated on a broad ledge. Round them rose a circle of needle-like rock peaks. Far down below a small loch glimmered. No sound broke the dead stillness.

“I feel,” said Elizabeth breathlessly, as she fanned herself with Willie’s bonnet, “I feel like the Princess in the fairy-tale who was made to climb the glass mountain.”

The King was looking at the peak that frowned darkly above them.

“We haven’t to go up there, King, have we?” asked Arthur, as he munched an apple.

“Not up it exactly,” said the King. “We have to climb round it and get on to the ledge overhanging the mouth of the cave.”

“Great Scot!” said Arthur. “But it’s smooth rock! There’s nothing to hold or stand on. After all, you know, we’re not flies.”

“I couldn’t do it,” said Elizabeth decidedly. “I’m getting giddy already, just looking at it.”

“And Willie can’t keep his feet any more than a hen,” said Arthur gloomily. “He falls on a level road. He’ll go off that rock like a—like a nine-pin.”

“Then do you want to be left behind?” asked Mhor impatiently. “It’s easy enough. There are lots of cracks for handholds and foot-holds too. It’s glue some of you people want to keep you on.”

“Much you know about it,” said Arthur, stung by his brother’s sarcasm. “Who fell off——?” But the King interrupted Arthur’s reminiscences.

“You need not fear,” he said to Elizabeth. “It is much simpler than it looks. See! There is a ledge to stand on and a good hand-hold to begin with.” Thus encouraged, Elizabeth said she would try. Willie had always been willing, though rather incompetent. So when they were all rested they very cautiously sidled on to the face of the mountain, clinging wildly to cracks, while underneath yawned emptiness. Elizabeth hardly dared to breathe, and looked neither up nor down as she waited for her turn to move. Willie only slipped twice, and Neil had him at once.

At last the worst was over and they crouched on a ledge above the cave, while by leaning over they could see the steps and the iron stanchions in the rock.

“I wonder if they’re in,” said Arthur. “What do you mean to do now, King?” The King was lying peering down a hole in the rock. He looked round at Arthur as he spoke.

“They seem to be all away,” he said. “At least I hear no sound, and they have no fire lit.”

“Is that the chimney?” said Arthur. “Do let me look.” It was quite a large hole and, looking down, a part of the inside of the cave could be seen. “I don’t see anybody,” said Arthur.

“Probably,” said the King, “there will be at least one man left in charge. Neil will let us down this hole into the cave, and we can trust him to get down himself. Are you willing?”

“Rather,” said Mhor. “I go first.”

“Have your dagger ready,” cautioned the King.

“That’s all right,” said Mhor. Neil came forward to hold the rope, and Mhor was lowered slowly into the cave.

Chapter XV

The change from the bright sunshine outside to the gloom of the cave was so great that when Mhor found himself on the floor he could only stand with dazzled eyes seeing nothing. When he became accustomed to the half light, he saw that the cave was a large one and appeared empty. There was a scramble, and the King stood behind him, the others following quickly.

“Is there no one here?” whispered Elizabeth.

“It appears not,” said the King.

“Let’s get off the rope,” said Arthur. Neil unknotted each, and coiled the rope neatly.

Arthur marched into a dim corner to explore.

“Here’s their beds,” he cried, “and sacks full of something— plunder likely—and their weapons, guns and swords and oh, everything.” But there was no trace of Sandy. Had they come on a vain quest? Mhor went to the opening of the cave and, looking down the side of the rock, shivered. What if Sandy were over there! They gathered round to decide what was to be done.

“If he isn’t here, we’d better get away,” said Arthur.

“Let’s shout,” proposed Willie, “and see if he answers. Sandy! Sandy!” As the sound of Willie’s shrill notes died away, there was an answering shout, rather faint and muffled as if it came from behind somewhere.

“Is it you, Sandy?” shrieked Willie.

“Ay, it’s me,” said the voice.

“Where are you?” cried Willie.

“Here,” said Sandy. The sound seemed to come from the far end of the cave. They all made a rush for the place, only to find the solid wall.

“Queer!” said Arthur.

“Most awful queer,” said Mhor. The King was feeling round the wall.

“See,” he said, “there is a boulder fitted into the wall. If we only knew how to move it.”

“Let me see,” said Willie, pressing forward. He tripped over Arthur’s foot and flung out his hands against the boulder. He touched the right place; the boulder moved slowly, leaving an opening in the wall.

“Good for you, Willie,” said Arthur; “you’ve done more than you meant.”

The King slipped through the opening and Arthur followed him. They found a small inner cave and there, chained to the wall was Sandy.

“There ye are,” he remarked. “I thocht ye’d come.” Arthur seized the chain that bound him. “How are we to get this off?” he asked. Sandy stared at it stupidly.

“I dinna ken, and I div not care if ye’ll gie me something to eat. I’m fair starvin’.”

While Arthur wrestled with the chain the King asked Neil to bring what provisions were left in the pack. These Sandy eagerly devoured.

“We must get off this chain,” said Arthur. “If only I had a file.”

“I’ve a file in my big knife that came from India,” said Willie, producing it. Arthur grabbed it and began to file furiously.

“Where are the Robbers, Sandy?” asked the King.

“I kenna, yer Majesty. I heard them gang out a while syne, and they said there was nae need to leave yin to watch for naebody had ever tried to spiel thae rocks.”

“I wish you’d hurry, Arthur,” said Elizabeth.

“It’s all very well to say hurry,” retorted Arthur, hot and angry. “Who could hurry with this silly little file. But there, it’s through now”—and he flung down the chain.

“Thenk’ee,” said Sandy.

“Hadn’t we better go now?” said Elizabeth. Willie, who was sitting on the floor of the cave said suddenly: “I hear music playing.”

“Rot!” said Mhor, “you can’t.” But the King sprang to his feet and stood listening. “It is for me,” he said, “I am wanted,” and the next moment he was gone.

“Where’s he gone?” asked Arthur. “Queer, hearing music up here. Did you hear it, Sandy?”

“No me,” said Sandy, “but I’m kinna hard o’ hearin’.”

“Well,” said Mhor, “I suppose we’ll have to wait here till he comes back. Come on and explore the cave.” So they explored it very thoroughly for, as Arthur said, it wasn’t likely they would ever be in one again, and they asked Sandy many questions about his capturers, but Sandy was strangely reticent on the subject. They had looked at everything and were getting rather tired of the cave, and still the King had not returned.

“Let’s put some wood on the fire,” said Mhor, “and sit round and be comfortable.”

“We’ll be robbers,” said Arthur. “Elizabeth, you’ll be the Robber Chief’s wife, and we’ll all sit round and think what we’ll steal next.”

“And who’s the Robber Chief?” asked Mhor.

“Me,” said Arthur. Mhor grunted. Elizabeth sat down despondently.

“I’m ’fraid the real robbers will come back and find us,” she said. “And the King away and all.”

“No fear of them,” said Arthur. “Sandy says they never come back till sunset, and it isn’t nearly that time yet.”

The fire blazed up brightly, and they pulled forward sacks and sat in front of it.

“Hark ye,” said Arthur as Robber Chief. “Dost know what we will plunder to-morrow?”

“We dost not,” said Mhor.

“Then listen and be as silent as the tomb. Thou knowest the ancient keep that liest four leagues on the sea-coast? There are rich treasures contained in it, yea, many which we will do well to take. Art ready, my merry men, for the job?” Mhor nodded, feeling unequal to carrying on a conversation in this style.

“Then, sirrah, what weapons will we take to conquer the dastards withal?”

“Why are you speaking in that queer scrapy voice?” said Willie, “you’ll give yourself a sore throat.”

“’Tis so that Robber Chiefs speak,” said Arthur with dignity.

Elizabeth, who didn’t care for this game said to Sandy: “Are you glad, Sandy, we came for you?”

“That I am,” said Sandy, “but hoo did ye ken where I was?”

“We were passing your cottage,” said Mhor, “and went in and saw the Family Bible open on the table with “Gruppit” after your name, and the King guessed the rest.”

“Ay,” said Sandy, “I was verra sweir to desecrate the Guid Book, but there was nae ither way. I had nae paper and the beggars were a’ roond ma hoose and I kent I cudna escape. I had juist time to write ae word when they were in on me. But I had a kinna hope at the time that some o’ ye micht see it and understaun’.”

“If the robbers came back just now——” began Arthur.

“But they won’t,” said Elizabeth, “surely they won’t.”

“Oh, I’m not saying they will,” said Arthur, “but if I saw one come in just now I’d take up this burning log and chuck it straight at him.”

“Same here,” said Willie, “but he added thoughtfully—I wouldn’t likely hit him.”

Elizabeth sprang up.

“The King’s coming back,” she cried, “I hear him. They looked expectantly at the mouth of the cave.

“Neil,” said Willie, “give me my Cloak of Darkness, and he’ll think I’m lost.” Neil took the Cloak from where it lay beside the rope and helped Willie to wrap himself in it. The noise of nailed boots against the rock was heard distinctly. Elizabeth ran forward and stopped dead, for the figure in the doorway was not the King, but a great man with a black beard.

The Robbers had returned.

The children stood rooted to the ground staring at this apparition and the robber, no less astonished, stared at them.

“What have we here?” he said at last, catching Elizabeth by one arm.

“Oh, please,” said Elizabeth, “let me go. We only came to rescue Sandy.” Arthur sprang forward followed by Mhor.

“You let her alone,” he cried, “and fight me, if you like, and Mhor.”

“Yes,” said Mhor bravely, “fight us.” But Sandy pushed the children gently aside and confronted the robber. When the robber saw him his face became black with rage. “Who let that man free?” he cried.

“Me,” said Arthur, “I filed his chain.”

The robber made a swoop at Arthur, but Sandy caught and grappled with him.

“There’ll be more coming,” cried Arthur, pulling out his dagger as he ran to the mouth of the cave.

“Come on, Elizabeth,” said Mhor, “here’s a weapon for you,” and he put Willie’s Indian knife into her hand. Elizabeth took it unwillingly.

“You needn’t think I’ll kill anyone; I won’t even try.”

“Look out,” said Arthur, “they’re coming.” He rushed bravely at the first man and caught him round the legs. He fell forward, burying Arthur in his fall. Mhor jumped on to the top of him to help to hold him down, and as they wrestled together the rest of the Robber Band streamed in. Neil did his best, and Sandy fought like a maniac, but they could do nothing against such overwhelming odds: and in a very short time, exhausted and beaten, their hands tied with their own climbing rope, they were flung roughly into a corner while the robbers decided what was to be done with them.

Crouched together the children talked disconsolately in whispers.

“If the King hadn’t gone away!” sighed Elizabeth.

“He wouldn’t have gone if he hadn’t to,” said Mhor.

“We’re pretty well done for now, anyway,” said Arthur.

“P’raps they’ll let us go away home,” said Elizabeth, trying to cheer herself and her brothers. But as Arthur looked at the hard scowling faces of the Robber Band, he thought it most improbable.

“Goodness!” said Elizabeth. “I’d forgot Willie. He must be hidden somewhere under the Cloak. I do hope they won’t tread on him.”

“He’s kept himself pretty safe,” said Mhor. “It wasn’t a bad idea of the kid’s, after all.” They relapsed into silence, too depressed to try to keep up a conversation, and lying in their corner they watched the fierce, dark faces lit by the dancing flames, and tried to read in them some signs of relenting. Then, at a word from the Robber Chief, two men pulled them into the middle of the cave.

“So,” said the Robber Chief, regarding them, “you thought to tackle the Wild Cat and his men.” The remark did not seem to call for an answer, so they made none. The Robber Chief continued: “You came to save your friend. Though you’ve failed in that, still you can share his fate,” and he laughed wickedly. Still they said no word.

The Robber Chief leaned forward and dropped his voice till it was almost a whisper. “Would you like to know what we do with the people who visit us here uninvited?” He pointed with one hand to the mouth of the cave. “We send them home by a quick way, just over the rock with them.”

Elizabeth found her voice.

“You’re a very wicked man,” she said, “and I’m sorry for you.”

“Bring out the men,” said the Robber Chief. Sandy and Neil were brought forward.

“If you have anything to say, say it now,” said the Robber.

Sandy turned to the children and said awkwardly: “I wud juist like to say that I’m muckle obleeged to ye for yer kindness, ye ken, and I’m rale vexed this has happned—not that it matters for me; it’s a’ in the day’s wark, so to speak, but——”

“It’s all right, Sandy,” said Arthur. “We’re not afraid,” and he gave Elizabeth’s hand a tight squeeze.

“Who will go first?” asked the Robber Chief.

“Ye black-hearted scoondrel,” muttered Sandy.

“Oh, you’re never going to put us over the rock,” cried Elizabeth, “you couldn’t be so cruel,” and she began to cry bitterly. As Arthur and Mhor strove to comfort her, they heard the Robber give a startled exclamation. They looked in the same direction and there they saw appear first one leg, then another, then a small body and wildly dishevelled head, while a brown cloak lay in a crumpled heap on the ground.

“It’s magic,” cried the Robber.

“Yes,” said Willie, coming forward. “It’s the Cloak of Darkness I brought from the King’s lumber room. P’r’aps you’ve read about it in fairy tales. I covered myself up cos I was frightened, but I can’t be a coward and be saved without the others, so I’ll just have to be thrown over too, though I do think it’s a mean shame.” He went up to Elizabeth who threw her arms round him.

“Oh, Willie, Willie,” she wailed. “To think we escaped from the Redskins and Red Etin and climbed those awful rocks, just to get thrown down in the end.”

Willie swallowed hard.

“It’ll soon be over,” said Arthur huskily.

“Enough of this nonsense,” cried the Robber Chief.

Two men seized Sandy and hurried him to the mouth of the cave. Elizabeth shut her eyes that she might not see the end, but opened them at an exclamation from Arthur. Then she gave a glad cry, for there, at the cave-mouth, barring the way, stood Jock the Piper. Pipe at his lips, eyebrows lifted, he regarded the scene. He played a note soft and clear, and the Robbers released the prisoners and began hastily to undo the ropes that bound them. When they were all gone, Jock the Piper turned to the Robber Chief—

“I’ve been hearin’ tales,” he said softly. “They werena bonnie tales. See to it that I hear nae mair, or——” He smiled gently and fingered his pipe. The Robber Chief grew pale and muttered something inaudible. The Piper laughed gaily.

“Are ye ready, bairns? We maun away.” And unhindered they went.

“Well,” said Arthur, as once more they stood on level ground. “You don’t catch me visiting up there again. A nastier lot of people I never met.”

“Don’t speak about them,” said Elizabeth shivering.

“My cloak,” cried Willie. “Oh, Neil has it! It was useful, wasn’t it?”

They took an affectionate farewell of Sandy and promised to go to see him very soon, and he took the road that led to his cottage. In the forest they met the King. Elizabeth greeted him reproachfully.

“Oh, King, you went away and the Robbers came back.”

“I had to go,” said the King, “when the music calls me; I know I am wanted and I cannot stay.”

“It was lucky for us that the Piper happened to come,” said Mhor. “If he hadn’t come——”

“Ah,” said the King. “But he came——”

“Here’s the Castle already,” said Willie. “It hasn’t been nearly such a long road coming back.”

“Oh,” said Elizabeth with a sigh of deep content, “it’s good to be home. That’s the nicest thing about adventures, the getting home again.”

“To-morrow,” said Arthur, “to-morrow I’m going to——”

But what Arthur intended to do shall never be known, for as they were entering the door of the Castle, a tall woman stepped in front of them—a woman with a bright scarf on her coal-black hair. Where had they seen her before?

“It’s the Beggar Wife,” cried Willie.

“Ay,” said the woman, “just the Beggar Wife come to tell ye that the time has come for ye to go back home.”

Chapter XVI

Home!

They stared blankly one at the other.

“I’d forgot,” said Willie softly to himself.

“Oh, but,” said Arthur, “I haven’t done half the things I want to do. I haven’t tried the weapons in the armour room nor explored the secret rooms in the Castle—I’m sure it’s just full of them—and one of the men said he’d teach me how to fence, and there’s——Oh, there’s a hundred things I want to do.”

“And there’s the ponies,” put in Mhor; “we were going to have a regular tournament, like Arthur’s Knights used to have—and you would have judged and given the prizes; and all sorts of things we thought of that would have been perfectly ripping.”

“I won’t go back,” said Willie, defiantly. “I can’t, you see; I’m a King.”

“As you came,” said the Beggar Wife, “so you go back.”

Willie sniffed: “Don’t care, I won’t go back—to lessons and catechism and porridge. If you’ll let me stay, I’ll have my ears washed every night and I won’t say a word.”

Elizabeth turned to the King.

“Must we go?” she asked. “Can’t we stay only a little longer?”

The King shook his head. “When the summons comes, you can only obey.”

“I can surely take my crown with me, anyway,” said Willie. Being granted permission he ran and returned slightly comforted, with his crown on his head.

“Jock the Piper will show ye the road,” said the Beggar Wife—and she was gone.

“I suppose it’s all over then,” said Mhor to the King. “It’s been ripping and—and—Good-bye,” and he turned on his heel and set off. Arthur shook hands furiously, but found no words.

“Good-bye, King,” said Willie. “You and me’s not to be Kings together any more,” and he rubbed his eyes with a small dirty handkerchief.

And so they went away back!

Before the darkness of the forest swallowed them up, with one accord they turned back to have a last look at the Castle of Errin. There, where they had left him, looking after them stood the King. There was something so lonely in the watching figure that the children turned away hurriedly and for a few paces saw nothing for the tears that blinded their eyes.

Down-hearted they followed the Piper, who, stepping lightly ahead, played a lilt that seemed to embody all the sadness and loneliness that the children felt. This was what the tune said:

“If fairy songs and fairy gold
Were tunes to sell and gold to spend,
Then hearts so gay and hearts so bold,
We’d find the joy that has no end.
But fairy songs and fairy gold
Are but red leaves in Autumn play,
The pipe is dumb, the tale is told,
So back to realms of working day.

“The working day is dark and long
And very full of dismal things;
It has no tunes like fairy song,
No hearts so brave as fairy kings.
Its princes are the dull and old
Its birds are mute, its skies are grey;
And quicker fat than fairy gold
Its dreary treasures fleet away.

“But all the gallant, kind and true
May haply hear the fairy drum,
Which still must beat the wide world through
Till Arthur wake and Charlie come.
And those who hear and know the call
Will take the road with staff in hand,
And after many a fight and fall,
Come home at last to fairy land.”

Suddenly he stopped and pointing through the trees, said:

“Yon’s yer road and I maun away back.”

“You’re not going away already,” cried Elizabeth, clinging to him as the last link with the life they had left.

“It’s as far as I can come,” said the Piper. “Ye’ll find yer road fine.”

“That’s all very well,” said Arthur, “but will we ever find our way back?”

“Yes,” said Mhor, “that’s what matters.”

The Piper laughed.

“So ye want to find the road back?”

“Oh, yes, do tell us, please,” begged Elizabeth.

“It’s wonderful easy,” said the Piper, “when ye ken. Just follow the King’s Path.”

“But where to?” asked Willie.

“To the End of Days,” said Jock the Piper.

⁎  ⁎  ⁎

When they came to the road pointed out to them by the Piper, they found it was the old familiar road over the Dreva Hill.

“Everything’s just the same,” said Arthur gloomily. “You’d never think we’d been away at all.”

“And oh, look at our clothes,” said Elizabeth. “They’re our own old clothes we had on when we started. It is queer. I say! I wonder what they’ll say to us for going away like that. I do hope Mother wasn’t anxious. It’s queer I never thought of her or Father.”

“Nor me,” said Mhor. “I never thought of anybody at all.” A wail from Willie who was coming last, made them turn round.

“My crown,” he moaned, and held out some withered leaves.

“It’s been fairy gold,” said Elizabeth softly. “Don’t cry, Willie. It’s no use.”

“It’s funny no one’s out looking for us,” said Arthur, as they approached. They slipped in guiltily by back ways and saw no one until they reached the nursery where they were confronted by old Marget.

“Come to yer porridges, bairns,” she said severely. “An’ what wye did ye no come in for nae tea?”

The children looked at her in a dazed way, and then they looked round the room. It was certainly their own old nursery, the same pictures on the walls, the big sofa that was so excellent for playing Rahab-and-the-spies, and Jeremiah-in-the-pit, on Sabbath evenings, and there, too, was the friendly wooden chair that Arthur had bored patterns in with a red-hot wire.

“I say,” said Arthur, “what day’s this?”

“Losh keep us, laddie,” said Marget. “It’s Setterday, as ye ken fine.”

“Which Saturday?” asked Mhor.

“Are ye daft?” said Marget.

“We’ve been away,” said Willie, “in the King of Errin’s land. I don’t quite know how long, but days and days. Weren’t you wondering about us?”

“Get on wi’ yer porridge and let yer meat dight your mooth.”

“But it’s true,” persisted Willie, “and we’ve been fighting Redskins, and the Red Etin.”

“Wheesht, laddie, wheesht,” said old Marget. “It’s no wiselike to be speakin’ sic blethers and the morn the Sabbath-Day.”

“D’you mean to say,” demanded Willie, “that to-morrow’s Sabbath-Day after all, and I’ve my catechism to learn and everything? Oh! it’s not fair—it’s not fair,” and he slapped his porridge vehemently with his spoon and howled in bitterness of spirit.

When Marget had left the room, Elizabeth spoke: “It’s the fern-seed,” she said. “It kept us from remembering, and somehow or other it’s kept them from knowing we were away.”

Arthur nodded.

“It’s no good telling them,” said Mhor, “they’re such unbelieving things.”

“Miss Wilson wouldn’t believe us, of course,” said Elizabeth; “but I’m sure Mother and Father would.”

“We’ll tell them,” said Mhor, “when we’ve found the way again. I’m going on Monday morning, first thing, and I’m sure I’ll find it. I watched Piper Jock.”

“And then,” said Willie, “we’ll go back and stay a long, long time; perhaps always.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, but his tone had no conviction.

The evening passed drearily. After a stormy interview with Miss Wilson, Arthur, with ink-stained fingers and protruding tongue, laboured at a French exercise. Mhor whittled a pencil recklessly on the carpet; while Elizabeth sitting primly on the edge of a chair, read “Stepping Heavenward.” Willie marched up and down the room, babbling softly to himself about Red Etins and Ell-women, but he took good care that Marget should hear no more adventures. Only, when being scrubbed before going to bed, he twisted himself from the soapy hands that held him, and said bitterly:

“Oh, you creature, you! P’r’aps you don’t know it—but you’re hurting the ears of a King!”

Chapter XVII

Again it was Saturday afternoon.

The Great Man came over the heather and sat down by the Wishing Well. It was very warm and still: the only sound the droning of bees among the wild thyme and, now and again, the cry of a whaup. The Great Man sighed with content at the peace and the loneliness, for he was rather old and tired, and people with their talk wearied him. Presently he heard the sound of voices and, looking up, annoyed at the interruption, saw four small figures approaching. Arthur came first with a bundle on his back and, in his hand a long wooden sword evidently of home manufacture, Mhor next, then Elizabeth and, lastly—quite a bit behind—came Willie.

They marched up to the Wishing Well, and ignoring the presence of a stranger, lay flat down and drank. Then Willie rose and, with water dripping from his hair and nose, remarked to the Great Man:

“I’ve wished it again; that makes the third time.”

“Indeed?” said the Great Man.

They sat down before him in a row.

“Have you come far?” he asked them. “You seem tired.”

“We’ve been away since morning,” said Arthur; “we’ve had ‘pieces’ with us.”

Willie produced a small paper bag and turned it inside out.

“Yes,” he said, “there’s one left, sticking to the paper.”

He handed it to the Great Man, remarking:

“It’s an acid drop. We bought them at the little shop in Drumelzier. The woman there gives you more for a penny than anyone in the world. I b’lieve as many as fifty.”

The Great Man accepted the refreshment and looked suitably impressed. Willie watched him put it in his mouth.

“Suck it slowly,” he advised him, “and don’t crunch it and it’ll last a long time.”

The Great Man did as he was told, then he said to Arthur.

“That’s a fine sword you have there. Did you make it yourself?”

“That?” said Arthur. “Oh, yes, but it’s a baby’s thing. I wish I had a revolver; that would be some use.”

“Once,” said Willie, “we were at a menagerie, and there was a man with a revolver went into a lion’s cage. I wish,” he added wistfully, “that I could be something really great—like a lion-tamer. I would be awful proud.”

Elizabeth, who had been studying the Great Man’s face earnestly, nudged Arthur.

“Let’s ask him,” she whispered, “perhaps he’ll know.”

“Ask him yourself,” said Arthur.

“You do it, Mhor,” urged Elizabeth. But Mhor refused. Elizabeth looked up into the rather stern face of the stranger.

“I expect,” she began, “you know an awful lot.”

The Great Man waited gravely for her to continue.

“And—and so, I thought I’d ask you if you could tell us where we’d find the King’s Path.”

“I’m afraid,” said the Great Man, “I don’t understand.”

“We’ve been looking for it for ever so long,” said Mhor, “but we can’t find it. To-day we’ve been away over the hills to the place where King Arthur is buried. We had a sort of idea that the King’s Path might be there. They say there is a horn, and if you blow it Arthur and all his Knights will rise again, but we couldn’t see a horn anywhere. Perhaps we weren’t at quite the right place.”

“And why do you want to find the path?” asked the Great Man.

“To get back to the King of Errin’s Land again,” said Willie.

“Tell me what you mean,” said the Great Man.

“Well,” said Elizabeth, “we haven’t told anyone in case they’d laugh and not believe, but we’ll tell you.”

So they told him, one taking up the tale when the other paused for breath, sometimes all speaking at once, and the Great Man listened patiently to the somewhat ravelled history.

“And,” finished Willie, breathlessly, “Jock the Piper said: ‘Follow the King’s Path,’ and that’s what we’re trying to do, but we can’t find it.”

“We’ve looked,” said Mhor—“we’ve looked everywhere. Sometimes we hear quite plainly the Piper’s tune but we can’t see him, and sometimes in a pine-wood we think we see the Castle through the trees—but it never is.”

“No,” echoed Willie, mournfully, “it never is.”

“The worst of it is,” said Arthur, “that after you’ve been once to the King of Errin’s Land, you want so awfully to go back.”

“You’re homesick all the time,” said Mhor.

“Do you think,” said Elizabeth to the Great Man, “we’ll ever find our way back?”

The Great Man did not seem to be listening but sat looking over the hills as if he saw something very far away. Elizabeth touched his hand timidly, and he looked down at her smiling.

“Ah!” he said. “A long time ago the world began, but once on a time I played by Tweedside as you play now, and I, too, heard the tune of Piper Jock and had the good fortune to live in the King of Errin’s Land. I had lost the way to that good Land but, after all these years, I have found it again—here—this afternoon.”

“Oh, where?” cried Willie.

“I can’t show it to you, though you have shown it to me. But some day, I haven’t the least doubt, you’ll find it for yourselves. Don’t give up and forget. It’s the home of forlorn hopes this country-side; you know what they say—‘When Arthur wakes and Charlie comes,’ and you will add, ‘When we find the King’s Path’.”

There was a silence; the children gazed solemnly at the Great Man. He went on:

“There was a man who wrote about hearing different drummers. He talked of people keeping step to the distant music that they alone could hear. And your world—so it seems to me—will always be a little different from other people’s, for in your ears will always sound the Piper’s tune.”

Willie sprang up suddenly and jumped three times over the Wishing Well and then struck an attitude.

“Just wait till I’m a man,” he said; “the very first minute I’m a man, I’ll start off and never stop till I’ve found the road and then I’ll come back and take you all.”

The others got up to go.

“It must be long past tea-time,” said Elizabeth, “we’ll catch it again.”

“Don’t care,” said Mhor, recklessly.

“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, as she shook hands with her new friend, “p’rhaps we’ll see you again somewhere.”

“In the King of Errin’s Land,” said Arthur, “when we all find our way back.”

“Who knows?” said the Great Man.

The shadows were lengthening as he watched them toil over the hill-top to their home in the next glen.

One by one they stood for a moment dark against day’s golden death, and then passed out of sight. The Great Man turned to go, and “Who knows?” he said again, “Who knows?”

The End

Broughton and Two Broughton Stories

An Upland Village

There is a village on the high road to London by Moffat, through which the S.M.T. buses run many times daily. Brochtoun, the country folk call it, which to my mind is prettier than Broughton.

It is a village that wins and holds deep affection. We used to wonder as children why the railway people went to the trouble of printing the name of the station in big letters on a board; it seemed to us that everyone should know by instinct when they came to the hub of the universe. We saw nothing to laugh at in the story of the sentimental native, who, on going back to his work in the city refused to have his boots cleaned, remarking, “Brochtoun’s dirt’s bonny!”

In our early childhood it was the quietest of villages. If we did not reckon time by “the day the chaise ga’ed through Elsrickle,” at least we could easily have counted all the vehicles that passed in a week. An infrequent carriage and pair, some gigs and slow-moving farm-carts, a baker’s van or two, and—great excitement—the pigman’s cart. The “pigman”, let it be explained, had no connection with swine, but gave “pigs” or dishes in exchange for old clothes.

Somehow, looking back, it always seems to be afternoon. I see the shadow of the houses lying black across the road; I hear the summer sounds, hens clucking sleepily, the hum of the bees among the flowers in the garden, the chink-chink from the smiddy at the burnside.

We endure much noise and smeekiness in the march of progress. I wonder what the old inhabitants would think if they could come back and see their village now, see the stream of swift motor-cars, buses and great lorries which never ceases, while hens fly squawking, dogs shrink aside, and timid pedestrians hug the dyke.

We used to know every soul in the village. At the corner by the burnside the smith lived. A mighty man was he, and greatly feared by us. He certainly did not suffer mischievous children gladly, and if we played pranks in his smiddy he was after us with a horse-whip, while we scudded up the braes beyond the burn like human collies.

Next door lived Peggy Leithen, who gave a ha’penny to every beggar that came to the door murmuring as she did so, “Charity covereth a multitude of sins.” Then came “Grannie”, the tiny mother of many stalwart sons. They all grew up and did well in the world, but she and her man “Tam” would take no help from them, preferring to remain as they had begun. A favourite saying of “Grannie’s” was “I may be sodger clad, but I’m major-minded.” She was a dungeon of learning about the old tales and owrewords of the country side. Once she astonished us by remarking that Tam’s socks were no better than “Penelope’s web”, for what she mended in the morning was a hole again at night. We loved to sit by her fireside, sucking sticks of gundy, while Tam read the Peeblesshire Advertiser aloud to himself, in a sing-song voice, beginning with the advertisements and going right through, and “Grannie” told us stories that had come down by word of mouth from one generation to another. Wonderful tales they were; true, too, about the beautiful lady—Mrs. Murray of Broughton—who had once lived in a braw house at the top of the long avenue that leads past the Old Mill and up to the Green Glen and who “took up” wi’ Charlie an’ his men. . . .

There is no big house now, only a shepherd’s cottage, but there is still a well called “Prince Charlie’s Well.”

And the lady’s husband. . . . He had to fly, but came back to seek refuge with a relative at Kilbuch—disguised as a ploughman. The servants thought it strange that he should sit in the dining-room and drink “claurit”, and they talked; so Murray of Broughton fell into the hands of King George’s soldiers. How he saved his head is known to everyone. . . .

It was generally summer when we were in Tweedside, but I like to think of our village at the time of year, when the snow lay thick on the hills, and the voice of Tweed was stilled, and the roar of the curling stones called from the ponds, mingled with shouts of: “Soop her up, man, soop her up: na, dinna; leave her alane Oh! Ye donnert idiot!”

Here a common taste sets all classes on a level: the laird, the minister, the farmer and the labourer meet on common ground. It is told of a sheriff of the county that his bosom friend on such occasions was one Rob Tait, a most noted player, but an inveterate poacher. “Come on, Rob, ma man,” the Sheriff would say, “show us what ye can do. . . . Eh man, but that’s great—that’s the kind of shot ye read about in books: man, Rob, I love ye. . . .” A few weeks later the speaker would be on the Bench, the player arraigned before him for one of his manifold offences. “Robert Tait, sixty days,” would come the sentence in cold judicial tones, and Rob would take it all in good part, knowing that when the winter returned there would be no estrangement.

And the evenings after the strenuous days in the open air!

Those parties round about the New Year, when they played at “the bools”, and then gathered round the polished table to sing songs and toast each other! Then Airchie Aitken, who knew how to humour a song, would begin:

“Come sit ye doon, ma cronies, an’ gie us yet crack:
Let the wind tak’ the cares of this warld on its back!
When the hoose is rinnin’ round aboot it’s time eneuch tae flit,
But we’ve aye been provided for an’ sae wull we yet”

Chorus, gentlemen, please—

  “An’ sae wull we yet, ay, an’ sae wull we yet. . . .”

I don’t suppose we could give up one of our modern comforts, but that does not keep us from looking back rather wistfully across the years to those spacious, leisurely days when men had that strength born of “toil unsevered from tranquillity.”

The Echo

The odd thing was that Linda Turner was almost entirely English, with only a tincture of Scots blood in her veins. She lived in Clapham, worked eleven months and one week out of every year in an office in the City, spoke with a slight Cockney accent, and in appearance was in no way different from thousands of other girls to be seen any day in London. But the passion of her life was Scotland, and the first day of her holiday saw her start, straight as a homing pigeon, for that “place of all weathers that end in rain”, as someone, quite unjustly, has described our native land.

Every summer she went to a different district, for all parts were dear, and spent her time walking, climbing hills, and visiting every place of interest within reach.

In the summer of 1935 she decided on the Borders for her holiday, and took rooms in Peebles. The weather was kind and she roamed all over the countryside, walked over Minchmoor (accompanied in spirit by Dr. John Brown), picnicked in Manor Valley, worshipped in Stobo Kirk, and spent long happy hours watching Tweed as it went singing past Neidpath Castle. Her evenings were enlivened by the conversation of her landlady’s husband, who appeared to feel that it was incumbent on him to amuse his wife’s summer lodgers.

The first evening Mr. Veitch had ambled into the parlour where Linda sat, carrying a large leather-bound book, and had said in his broad Border accent, “Would ye like to look at the awlbum?” and Linda, having expressed pleasure at the idea, had been shown photographs of the Veitch family in all its branches.

She soon found that Andrew Veitch was a man of intelligence, a great lover of his native town and county, and it pleased her greatly to hear from him stories and rhymes of the countryside that he had heard from his mother and grandmother.

One evening Linda was lamenting the fact that the end of her holiday was in sight.

“Ay,” said Andrew philosophically, “‘a’ thing has an end an’ pudden hes twae.’ Whaur are ye gaun your last day?”

“Can’t think. I’ve been in every direction.”

“Ye hevna tried Broughton?”

“No. Where is that?”

“Aboot twal mile up Tweed. Ye mind where you went to Moffat by the Devil’s Beef-tub ye turned to the left at Rachan Mill? Weel, Broughton’s aboot a mile to the right.”

“Is there anything to see?”

“Aw—mebbe no’ much, but Broughton Place Glen is just aboot the bonniest place on earth.”

“Broughton,” said Linda. “Isn’t that where Murray of Broughton lived? Last winter I read everything I could get hold of about the ‘Forty-five’, and there was a lot about Mr. Secretary Murray and his lovely wife. There was a photo, too, in The Times, only the other day of the place you speak of—‘Broughton Place Glen’.”

“Oh, I daresay . . . Murray o’ Broughton came tae a bad end. It’s as weel to keep awa frae Princes: they’re kittle cattle.”

“Well,” said Linda, “I think I can’t do better than dedicate the last day of my holiday to Broughton. I get a bus, do I?”

“Ay, the Glesgae bus. Get off at the auld mill, efter ye get through the village, and walk up the avenue till ye come to the fairm-hoose—it was built o’ the stanes o’ the auld hoose, I’ve heard tell—an’ gang up anither avenue an’ ye come to where the Big Hoose stood in the glen. There’s a well there ca’ed ‘Prince Charlie’s Well’. There’s a muckle troot in’t.”

So the next day Linda took the bus from Peebles and got off at the old mill as she had been directed. Having her lunch in her pocket, and the day before her, she had time to look about her and was tempted to prowl round the mill, now out of use and silent. The mill-pond was almost dry, and she amused herself by wading waist-deep among the flags and crushing the peppermint that grew there with her fingers to sniff the refreshing smell, while the little water-hens scuttled away over the cracked mud to take refuge in the middle of the pond where there was still a pool and water.

She was getting hungry by the time she had reached the top of the second avenue and found the site of what had been Broughton House, and sat down by Prince Charlie’s Well to eat her “piece”, and feast her eyes on the green glen.

Half an hour later, while she was peering into the well in the hope of seeing the giant trout, she heard a footstep, and turning round found a man standing beside her.

He lifted his hat and made some remark about the beauty of the day, to which she responded politely.

Linda had often promised her mother that never would she be lured into conversation with a strange man, but this looked such a meek little gentleman, elderly, with an almost ladylike bearing, and anxious, evidently, to impart information, so she smiled at him frankly, saying, “I’m told this is the site of the old House of Broughton.”

“Yes,” said the stranger. “It stood where that cottage is. A wonderful situation, is it not?”

“I wish I could find out something about it,” said Linda. “I’m interested in Mr. Secretary Murray.”

“You have the politeness not to give him the cruel name of ‘Evidence’ Murray.”

“Well, don’t you think there’s a lot to be explained? For one thing, he was a sick man, perhaps hardly accountable. And the fact that the Prince years later visited him in London seems rather to prove that to know all is to pardon.”

“I quite agree,” said the little gentleman. “It was bad luck that led Murray to Kilbucho Place that black night.”

Linda looked enquiringly at her companion, who said: “What? Don’t you know the story?”, and eagerly began: “After Culloden, Murray was looking for a place to hide until he could get out of the county. This place”—he looked round as if he saw the walls of Broughton House before him—“was in the hands of the King’s soldiers. His sister, Mrs. Hunter, lived at Polmood, some miles up Tweed, and he was on his way to seek refuge with her. But the night was bad, his horse dead-beat, and he was tempted to stop for refreshment at the house of his aunt, Mrs. Dickson of Kilbucho Place. It would have been all right had his uncle been at home, but there was no one but the aunt—a foolish, talking woman—and her equally witless daughter.”

The little gentleman broke off to suggest that Linda must be tired standing, and they both sat down on the turf, and then he continued his tale.

“Murray, you must know, was disguised as a drover in ‘a jockey coat and blew bonnet’, and ought to have been given a seat by the kitchen fire with a drop of hot whisky and water to warm him, but no, nothing would serve Mrs. Dickson but that he would come into the dining-room and let the servant bring him a glass of wine. And that not satisfying the hospitable instincts she insisted that he should dine with them.

“You can imagine the scene. Poor dapper ‘Mr. Secretary’, ill at ease in his disguise, miserably conscious that every word spoken was fixing his feet more firmly in the slough of suspicion!

“‘Ay, but ye mist just bide, John, ma dear, you that has had sic a long wet ride! I was just lamentin’ to Jeanie here that it was ower guid a dinner for two women—hare soup an’ a gigot o’ guid hill-mutton, and, to follow, a dumpling made wi’ oor own apples frae the orchard, forbye a fine kebbch o’ cheese an’ a farl o’ oat-cakes. . . . Ye must know I was hoping for Mr. Dickson’s company when I ordered the meal.’

“When the serving-maid was out of the room, Murray begged them to try to pass him off as a friend of his cousin, the son of the house, but Jeanie constantly forgot and was reprimanded by her mother with, ‘Hev some nous, lassie; be discreet. Ye wouldna like to set the sodgers on the puir laddie here.’

“He got away at last, and mounting his tired horse, took the road up Tweed, but before he reached his sister’s welcome at Polmood a serving-maid (kin to the sharp-eyed wench who forced Peter to deny his Lord with her ‘This man was also with Him’) had whispered the kitchen’s suspicions to a red-coat, and before five o’clock in the morning Murray was ‘wak’d, the dragoons at the gate.’. . . You know the rest.”

“Yes,” said Linda slowly, “I know the rest.”

She got up and carefully poked the paper her lunch had been wrapped in under a stone, then, eyeing her companion, “You are very much interested in that old story,” she said. “I suppose you have a connection with this neighbourhood.”

He nodded. “I was born near here, but I’ve had to live my life in England. A year ago I retired and came back to Tweedside, and I hope never to leave it. . . . You are English, surely?”

Linda laughed. “Does my accent recall Bow Bells? I am English, but not entirely. My father’s mother was from Scotland, and I think all her married life she felt herself an exile. It must be from her that I get my passion for Scotland. Since I began to earn I’ve managed to come every summer, except last year when we had a lot of extra expenses at home and I had to be content with Brighton and listening to the band on the Pier! This year I’m having my first sight of the Borders. I’ve been down the Tweed to Dryburgh, Melrose, Abbotsford, but I like up the Tweed best.”

“D’you mind if I correct you? Not ‘the Tweed’: only ‘Tweed’.”

“I see. Thank you. Is it far to this place you speak of? Kilbucho?”

“A matter of a mile and a half or two miles. Go down again through the village and when you come to the post-office turn up the road to your right. You can’t miss the house. Kilbucho Place it is called.”

Linda held out her hand. “I’m glad I met you,” she said. “It was good of you to tell me that story. You’re a bit of an actor, I think; you made it all seem so real. Now I can see Mr. Secretary Murray in his jockey coat and blue bonnet.”

“He spelt it b-l-e-w,” said the little gentleman.

“And a very good way too,” said Linda. “Well, I hope you’ll have a long time to enjoy your leisure and your Tweed. Good-bye.”

Linda was a good walker, and she soon covered the short distance to the post-office. Turning up the Kilbucho Road she found herself in a wide strath, with harvest fields to right and left and plantations of young trees between them, and in a short time saw, rising above the roofs of a farm-steading, a whitewashed house. A man with a load of hay was going towards the steading, and she asked, “Is there anybody in Kilbucho Place? Would they mind if I walked round it?”

The man shook his head. “They’ll no’ heed,” he said carelessly. “There’s naething to see onyway.”

So Linda went on up the side road that led to the gate-posts and a short avenue of lime-trees at the end of which stood a tall white house. It was L-shaped, with crow-step gables, and gave an extraordinary impression and dignity, in spite of the fact that it was obviously in a bad state of repair.

Linda stood for a minute and stared, then, fearing that her presence might be seen and resented, she walked softly past the door, and seeing a gate open slipped through, and found herself in a large walled garden. At least, once it had been a garden, now it was a wilderness. One part had evidently been an orchard, and a few fruit-trees still stood there, one of them covered with bright red crab apples. In front of the house was the remains of a flower-garden; she could trace the walks and the box-edgings. A sun-dial was hardly visible among nettles, and a stone figure had lost its head. But in spite of the dilapidation around it, the garden front of the house had no air of desolation: it looked over its ruined garden to the little glen beyond, where a burn ran among gean-trees, with a sort of serene gravity. Much attracted, Linda moved forward until she got up to one of the small-paned windows. There was no one about and she peered in. It seemed to be a good-sized room with a window to the front, as well as the garden one.

Was this perhaps the very dining-room where Mr. Secretary Murray had come, dead beat, and eaten his comfortable meal in such discomfort? As she gazed Linda seemed to see it all: a fire and candles lighting the room; Mrs. Dickson at the head of the table, sonsy in her lace cap with lappets, her silk gown and shawl; the daughter young and glaiket, and the miserable guest trying to pretend he was somebody quite different and being thwarted at every turn by the folly of his female relatives. She saw the glances shot at him by the serving-maid, and imagined the tales she would carry to the kitchen—a drover in the dining-room drinking claret with the mistress!

With a start Linda woke to a consciousness of her surroundings, and looked round hastily, thinking someone was coming, but she only saw a robin with a rusty summer waistcoat, hopping tamely at her feet.

The sun had gone under a cloud, a cold little ghost of a wind shivered over the desolate garden, and Linda shivered with it.

Anything might happen here, she felt. On winter nights, when the rain fell and the wind blew cold and shrill, did the people in this old house never hear the sound of a tired, halting horse on the cobbles? Then a knock at the door, and in would limp a man with a jockey coat and a blew bonnet, a man who was going to deny his master and betray his friends.

It was time, Linda felt, that she was making her way back to the bus for Peebles. She had heard an echo of old unhappy far-off things, and it had been disquieting: she felt shaken. Well, to-morrow she would be in the London train.

Miss Bethia at the Manse

Jane was sitting in Miss Bethia’s kitchen.

She had come back to Glenriska after ten years of London life and was feeling very worldly, and rather bitter and disillusioned. As a child (a most wicked and wayward child) Miss Bethia had been the one person of whom she had stood in awe, and the fact that she had carefully removed every trace of powder from her pretty face, and left her cigarette-case at home before coming to the Manse, testified to the power that decent woman still had over her.

Miss Bethia’s kitchen was a very pleasant place. The bright fire was reflected in glowing pans and dish covers, a rag carpet lay on the flagged uneven floor, and in the low deep window which looked out on the garden stood a table on which lay a great china bowl filled with lavender, some fine muslin, and Miss Bethia’s red-lined work-basket.

Miss Bethia was a small alert woman with snow-white hair. She was far from young (Jane was thinking that she must be very old for she had had white hair since ever she could remember anything), but age had not withered her winter-apple cheeks, or dimmed the frosty blue of her eyes.

“If it’s no Miss Jane,” she had said when she opened the front door, and then: “Eh, my bairn, come in.”

To be called “bairn” again!

Miss Bethia was all in a hospitable flutter.

“I’ll awa and get your tea in the study. Is it no’ maist unfortunate that the minister’s awa to preach for Mr. Lawrie over at Chapel-hill?”

“You won’t put tea for me in the study, Miss Bethia. I’m going to have my tea with you on this table among the lavender. I’m to be here a week, so I’ll see the minister before I go, surely. It’s great luck finding you. Don’t jump about getting things for the tea. Sit down and talk to me and tell me things. D’you know, I don’t think there’s the slightest change in Glenriska all these ten years. It’s the place where time stands still withal.”

Miss Bethia was putting a spotless tea cloth on the end of the table, and she stopped and said:

“Where are you een, lassie? Did ye no’ see Johnnie Amos’ new cow-house? An’ Mrs. Ritchie has got a new door an’ the water laid on, an’ the Parish Kirk’s got an organ and we’ve got a new bathroom wi’ hot and cold an’ a’ manner o’ contrivances. No changes says you!”

Jane laughed. “I meant no disrespect to Glenriska, but as I came through the field to the Manse I might have been a child again. A brown cow came up and spoke to me—I don’t suppose it could have been Gentle Annie, but it was as like her as life, and I stood on the bridge and looked at the burn and could have imagined myself ‘sailing away to Berwick’, as we used to say. And the rowan trees were turning yellow at the Manse gate just as I remembered them, and you came to the door not one day older—even a European War doesn’t touch Glenriska.”

Miss Bethia looked over her spectacles at Jane and said dryly: “A European War wouldna touch a cow, or a burn, or a brig or a rowan tree, or an auld wife. . . . You hevna asked after the laddies ye used to play wi’—Jock Herd, and Jim Amos, and Erchie Leslie. Ye’ll find their names on the muckle whinstane cross that stands on the hillside ayont the schule.”

Jane’s eyes filled with tears as she bowed her head under the rebuke.

“And what about the Minister himself?” she asked presently. “He wrote to me when—when my brothers were killed, but I’m afraid I didn’t answer: there seemed nothing to say. Is he the same dear ‘Father John’ who played with us and laughed with us and taught us all we knew of good?”

“Ay, puir things! You were negleckit bairns, negleckit spiritually, I mean, for your uncle’s was a godless hoose. But I never likit ye to call the minister ‘Father John’; it has a nesty Popish sound to me.”

“But it was friendlier than ‘Mr. Sandilands’, and he didn’t mind.”

“Mebbe no.” Miss Bethia finished setting the tea, infused it and put the teapot under a truly gorgeous cosy before she replied to Jane.

“The Minister’s well, I am glad to say, but he’s seventy past so he’s on borrowed time. He says he’s ower old for his job, but the fact is we canna do without him. Talk about old men! There’s never a young man comes here that can hold the candle to Mr. Sandilands for preaching. We fair grudge him gaun awa to preach, but I must say the supply is a divert to me. I have many a laugh to masel! Puir craturs, they think they’re doin’ fine, but what’s the use o’ yon kinna preachin’? The last time the Minister was away a young man came that we were tell’t was ‘brilliant’. Hech! I never want to hear a ‘brilliant’ preacher again. He was like a Jake-i’-the-box. It began wi’ his prayers. ‘Bless Lloyd George,’ he says—sudden—like that. It gae us a’ a fair start to hear a name comin’ rashly into a prayer. It wasna nice. There should aye be a respectful distance kepit when ye address the Almighty in the kirk: kneelin’ at yer bedside ye can pray for folk by their names. Then he began his sermon. Eh me, me! He was mebbe ‘brilliant’—I’m no a jidge o’ that— but I never yet kent what he was speakin’ about. He yammert an’ he yammert till he had me fair aivart. Puir Mistress Small was in the kirk; she had walkit frae the Hopehead to get a word o’ comfort, for her man was just buried a wee while syne, an’ ma hert was wae for her. ‘Puir body,’ I said to masel, ‘ye’ve come to a bare pasture; ye’ll no get a bite.’ But they’re a’ the same, the young preachers. They gang on about Love an’ the Al-lFather till ye’re fair provokit but they never let on aboot the Wrath to come. Eh, I div like a Minister like Mr. Sandilands; there’s aye something to comfort ye in his sermons, an’ he puts the crown on Christ’s head. . . . Weel, come awa and get your tea.”

“Oh, how good!” cried Jane, sniffing the lavender and surveying the table. “Through the war when we were eating saw-dusty bread and horrible cake stuck full of dates, I used to torment myself by thinking about the Manse teas. The scones and fresh butter and black-currant jam!—and the sponge cakes so light that they almost blow away.”

Miss Betliia looked pleased, but said deprecatingly: “Oh, I’m no what ye ca’ an experienced cook, but I’ve keepit the minister comfortable, I hope, a’ thae forty years. An’ I’ve aye sent him oot snod and weel brushed. Black coats are ill to keep an’ I canna stand to see a minister a’ smaddy doon the front.”

“You’ve made him too comfortable, Miss Bethia, that’s why he’s a bachelor.”

“A bachelor!” said Miss Bethia. “It was long afore your time, but did you never ken that the Minister once had a wife and bairn o’ his ain? Ay, ay. They had been married for two years and hed a baby boy when the diptheery cam’ to Glenriska and an awfu’ heap o’ folk died. Of course the minister was oot and in o’ every hoose helping, and the wife wasna to be keepit away either, so the trouble cam to the Manse an’ the wife and bairn were buried while Mr. Sandilands was lying unconscious. Ay, sad and sad. I never saw her, for it a’ happened afore I cam here, but I’ve heard tell that she was a bonnie bit lassie, aye singin’ and laughin’. . . . There’s a wardrobe in his room and in it there’s a dress, a rosy, flounced muslin dress such as a young lassie would look rale bonnie in, an’ a parasol wi’ ivory tips, an’ a pair o’ white satin slippers, and beside them a wee white frock worked wi’ flowering, an’ a pentit ba’. He’s never mentioned them to me an’ I’ve never let on I know they’re there, but when he’s awa’ preaching I whiles tak them oot and pit clean white paper ablow them, an’ aye in October when the lavender’s ready I pit in fresh bags—that’s what I’m makin’ the noo.”

“Forty years,” said Jane slowly. “And I thought fidelity had vanished from the earth.”

“Ye may say it, the way folk gang on noo. But there’s no many like the minister. D’ye ken what he is in this country side? He’s a sweet savour.”

Jane plunged her hands into the china bowl and lifted handfuls of lavender flowers to her face.

“Like this,” she said, “I know. . . . Well, I must go. Thank you for my lovely tea, Miss Bethia, and thank you for being yourself. I find life a very dreary business now: it’s a wretched world and the sooner we’re through with it the better, so . . .”

Miss Bethia thrust Jane from her and held her at arm’s length. “Thank shame o’ yersel, Miss Jane,” and Jane recognised the tone as the one with which she had been “checkit” as a child. “You a young strong woman with health and mair money than ye ken what to do with. Awa and find some work—an’ if ye canna marry the man ye want for ony favour dinna whinge.”

Jane laughed. “You’re not like lavender, Miss Bethia; you’re like mint. In hot summers we used to be able to walk across the mill-pond with the tall green flags up to our chins, and we used to pull the mint and crush it to our faces—it was like you, nippy and refreshing.”

“Havers, lassie.” They were at the front door now. “Wha’s that comin’ in at the gate? Eh, keep us, it’s the supply! I thocht he wasna comin’ till the eight train. I maun rin and get his tea. . . . I doot it’s the brilliant yin back again.”

Two Long Stories

A Tea-Party at Eastkirk

I

The little town of Eastkirk buzzed like a bee-hive on a flowerful summer afternoon; indeed the whole of Eastshire buzzed; everybody asked everybody else to tea and said “Have you heard?” On the face of it it did not seem a very wonderful piece of news, simply that The Neuk, a pretty house standing in a good garden, was let. The Neuk was quite a small house and in ordinary circumstances the letting of it would not have roused a ripple on the surface of Eastkirk society; its tenants would have languished uncalled upon except by ladies in smaller villas who wished to extend their calling-lists, and by the wives of the local clergy and doctors who regard all newcomers with a professional eye.

But these were no ordinary tenants. At first Eastkirk could hardly believe it. Lady Scott of Birkshaw and her daughter coming to a villa in Eastkirk? Impossible. Birkshaw was in the next county to Eastshire, and the Scotts of Birkshaw were widely known. Eastshire was sadly lacking in what is known as Our Old Nobility. It had not always been so, but in these later days Eastshire had proved stony ground for those who owned houses and land in it, and one by one the old families had given it up and gone away, and their places had been taken by new people of a stranger, coarser breed who might be depended upon to make anything pay that they took in hand.

So now the society of Eastshire and the county-town of Eastkirk was very much on a level. They were more or less all engaged in climbing, but there seemed nowhere for them to climb to, so they had a barren existence climbing over each other, like bait in a can.

The Neuk was watched by eager eyes. It was odd how often people found it necessary to take the road that led past that modest villa. The progress of the painters seemed provokingly slow, surely the charwomen dallied even more than usual; but at last the windows were cleaned, the painters departed, and The Neuk was occupied.

A week was given to the tenants to settle down, then the whole of Eastshire precipitated itself upon the doorstep, and in another fortnight Lady Scott and her daughter were the most popular people in the place. Their popularity was not to be wondered at.

To begin with they came trailing clouds of glory from Birkshaw which was their home, and yet they were poor and could be pitied and condescended to by the rich. They were charming to everyone and proved very soothing to the feelings of the “little” people in Eastkirk who were accustomed to being flattened out by the chariot wheels of their opulent neighbours.

“Quite an acquisition,” Mrs. Stromach-Carr pronounced them in conversation with the Episcopal parson. “I called at once. I was asked to call. A great friend of mine, Lady Browne-Smyth, a charming woman, wrote and said: “Do go and see the dear Scotts. They literally haven’t a penny and are going to poke in Eastkirk in a tiny villa. Of course they know no one and they are such lambs.’ Lady Browne-Smyth told me all about them. Victims of the war, like so many of us.” (Mrs. Stromach-Carr’s share of the War plunder had been a gready increased fortune and the O.B.E.). “Both sons killed, and losing them killed Sir Patrick Scott. It is an old baronetcy but they were always poor for their position, and things got so bad they had to let Birkshaw and go—very tragic. I mean to see a lot of Lady Scott. She is the type of woman one feels one can make a friend of. I say nothing against Eastshire, but there is no doubt that there is a lack of what I call nice people in it. One’s neighbours are dear kind souls, but, as I have said to Mr. Stromach-Carr last night, one feels more at home with gentlefolk.”

The Vicar said nothing, but he may have reflected that Mr. Stromach-Carr was more at home with the rougher kind of farmer than with anyone else. It was the great trial of Mrs. Stromach-Carr’s life that her husband would make no attempt to rise with her.

“To see dear Lady Scott in that horrid little house quite broke my heart. You know, of course, that her sister is the Duchess of Barberton? When one thinks what she had been accustomed to!”

“Touching,” said the Vicar. “Touching. My wife and I shall call.”

“Maggie,” said kind, vulgar Mrs. Rattray to her daughter as they drove away from The Neuk after their first call, “I hardly ever mind seeing people that I liked so much. I’m awful awkward with strangers, as you know. It’s fair purgatory to me to go and see new people. I always think they look as if they wonder what I’m doing there, and I’m not very sure of myself. But the way Lady Scott took my hand and held it and said, ‘I’m sure you like a high chair, Mrs. Rattray,’ and got my name pat the very first time! I blessed her for the thought of the high chair, for most people seem to take a delight in seeing me sink into one of those down-cushioned things that are near on the floor. If they only knew it, I stay far longer when I get stuck in one of those chairs, for no matter how little I’m enjoying myself I stay because I cannot think to rise. This world’s a struggle for stout folk! But what I was saying was that Lady Scott put me into a high chair with arms, and she talked away—talk that didn’t need answering—until I got my breath, and I just somehow felt so much at home that before I knew where I was I was telling her about Alick. . . . What’s the daughter like to speak to? I didn’t get speaking to her, but she had a bonnie face.”

Maggie hitched her fur on to her shoulder and said in her slow pondering way, “Oh, she’s nice and awful frank. But she’s queer too. She laughed at nearly everything I said, and I’m sure I wasn’t trying to be funny. She’s so free that after ten minutes you feel you’ve known her all your life, and yet in a way she’s not free at all . . . I feel sort of depressed. In time we might manage to get manners like Mrs. Stromach-Carr and that lot, for their manners are just put on, but we would never be in the least like the Scotts. They made me feel so sort of common, though I wouldn’t give tuppence for all they had on. They have everything that we haven’t.”

“Only,” Mrs. Rattray pointed out, “we’ve the money, Maggie.”

“Ugh!” said Maggie, “the whole of Eastshire smells of money. I’m fair sick of it. There isn’t a place that hasn’t been ‘improved’ out of all its charm. Everyone has the same perfect bathroom and pantries, and the same thick stair-carpets and expensive rugs.”

“And very nice I’m sure, Maggie,” said Mrs. Rattray, feeling bewildered.

“Oh, some are done in very good taste, and people like the Hastings’ really know all about pictures, but it’s just a commercial caring. They buy them because they are a good investment and sell them again when the right moment comes: they don’t love them for their own sake. The Scotts had to sell most of their family portraits; it must have been like selling their own flesh and blood, and people like us will buy them and hang them up in our ancestral halls.”

“You wouldn’t let your father buy any ancestors, Maggie,” Mrs. Rattray broke in. “I think you were wrong. That dining-room of ours has a gaunt look, I sometimes think.”

Maggie tucked her arm in her mother’s. “Would you like a few yards of ancestors, Mother? It’s too bad that my snobbishness should deprive you, so we’ll tell Father to look out for some. What’s the good of swallowing the cow and choking on the tail?”

“Well, I think they’d be an improvement. Maggie, do you think we could ask the Scotts to lunch one day and send the car for them? I want to show her all the photos I have of Alick: she was that interested—and it might cheer them up to come.” The whole of Eastshire felt it their duty to “cheer up” the tenants of The Neuk.

Mrs. John Hastings, on whose library table lay all the more thoughtful magazines and who liked to quote from The Hibbert Journal or The London Mercury, said to Mrs. Tim Thomson, who was smart and Londonish and laughed at Eastkirk and asked condolences from everyone on having to live in a dull hole like Eastshire for even a few months in the year: “My dear, the very atmosphere of the house! When the door was opened I felt it.”

“Cabbages?” asked Mrs. Tim flippantly.

Mrs. John Hastings looked down her large pale nose and waved her hand vaguely. “Ah, probably you would never have noticed it. Some things are spiritually discerned—how true that is, how wonderfully true. It was only that one knew this was the house of gentlefolk, that a lady’s mind, if you understand me, had thought about the placing of the furniture and the pictures—ancestors of course, dear gloomy ancestors in tarnished frames.”

“Regular ancestors,” quoted Mrs. Tim.

Mrs. John Hastings knew by the tilt of Mrs. Thomson’s nose that she was being impudent, but she decided to ignore it and went on: “And the drawing-room was like a shrine for the lovely spirit of my hostess. Quite a common little villa drawing-room made perfect—unique—by . . .” She allowed her voice to trail away as she always did when she had no idea how to finish a sentence.

“And the daughter?” said Mrs. Tim. “Is she a lovely spirit too?”

Mrs. John Hastings shut her eyes as if to summon before her mental gaze the image of Bridget Scott. “An imprisoned Naiad,” she said. “The golden hair, the ineffable droop of the slender shoulders, the wistful eyes.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Thomson, “you are most poetical, dear Mrs. Hastings. You make me quite curious, I assure you. I must go at once to call at The Neuk. Perhaps the imprisoned Naiad will join the Badminton. Does she play Bridge, I wonder?”

“Ah, that I cannot say. I asked no questions, indeed we said little—our hearts talked to each other, if you understand me. But do go and suggest games to dear Bridget—I can’t call her Miss Scott. We must cheer them. We must make them forget their troubles. We must smother them with love and sympathy.”

“Oh, the poor souls!” Mrs. Thomson protested. “Don’t let’s be too overpowering. Eastshire doesn’t realise its own weight.”

II

When Lady Scott and her daughter Bridget, broken by the War, decided to give up the unequal contest, sell Birkshaw and retire to a small villa in Eastkirk, they thought they had found peace.

As they drove away for the last time from the place that had been their home, Bridget turned to her mother and, in as cheerful a tone as she could muster, said: “Well now, that’s that done. A chapter closed, Mother. You and I are going to begin an entirely new kind of life. I must say I’m rather looking forward to it.” (All the time her eyes were searching through the trees for the last glimpse of the grey pile.) “We’ll have more time to ourselves than we had, and get all the things done that we have always wanted to do and never had time for. I hated parting with the old servants, but it will be fine to have a little house that is really our own. I don’t expect the couple of infants that we have got will be anything but pliable, and we shall be able to have tea at any moment that we think fit, and not have to wait till five o’clock or risk the frowns of Benson, and I shall pull all your clothes to pieces and do them up again without fear of superior sniffs from Julie. Let’s be cheerful, Mother!”

“Yes, darling,” said Lady Scott obediently. “It will be very nice to have lots of spare time. We shall be able to read again all the old books I used to love. I have often wanted to do that, but we were always so flooded with new ones. And we shall . . .” Quite suddenly Lady Scott broke down. Through her tears she said: “It’s not leaving Birkshaw I mind so much, not the beauty and the space of it, I mean; it’s the leaving the place your father and the boys loved. While I was there I hadn’t quite lost them. I used to sit and make myself imagine I saw the three of them coming across the lawn to me after a day on the hills; I could go into their rooms and see their treasures round me, look from the windows at the scene they had so often looked at—but anyway, we have still each other, Bridgie.”

And the mother and daughter sat hand-in-hand as they drove on to Eastkirk and their new home.

III

When the Scotts had been settled in Eastkirk for about two months they sat one afternoon in their little drawing-room enjoying the company of two old friends—Jean and Bobbie Kirkpatrick. Major Robert Kirkpatrick had come home from India on short leave—urgent private affairs was the plea—to ask Bridget Scott to be his wife, but only two weeks remained of his leave, and he had not managed it! They had played together as children and were just grown up when the War began—the war that brought Bobbie rapid promotion and a D.S.O., and laid Bridget’s two brothers in hastily-dug graves. He had only seen Bridget once or twice during the war, and from India he had sent her short letters at long intervals, but he had loved her devotedly every minute of the time. What Bridget thought about it he had no idea. If she knew what he felt she gave him no encouragement. She had stayed for a week-end with his people, but somehow he had never managed to be alone with her. If only, he thought, she had been in her proper place at Birkshaw he could have seen her at any time!

He sat in The Neuk drawing-room and hated it. “Have you a garden?” he suddenly asked Bridget.

“Yes. Why?”

“I should like to see it. I’m frightfully keen about flowers.”

“You are rather late in the season,” said Bridget primly, “the flowers are over. But why this sudden passion for gardens?”

“Oh, don’t rag, Bridget,” said Bobbie miserably. “I’ve only two more weeks in this country, and I’ve never had a word with you. Take me to see the garden. I can’t talk to you indoors. Say you will, Bride.”

It was the old childish name her brothers had called her. Bridget’s eyes softened. After all, it wasn’t Bobbie’s fault that he was alive when so many “light-foot lads” were gone. She looked at his honest eyes and nice ugly face. He was very smart and well-brushed looking, but one lock of red hair stood up defiantly. Bridget remembered that lock well; it gave him, she thought, an innocent little-boy look. She nodded. “Later,” she said, and turning from the sudden illumination in Bobbie’s face, she cried: “Oh dear me, how right Robert Louis was when he said that the kindest friends are the oldest friends and the new are but a trial. How comfortable it is to see you two people sitting there and to know that we needn’t make the slightest effort to entertain you! We needn’t even talk unless the spirit moves us.”

“My dear,” said Jean Kirkpatrick, “you’re mistaken if you think I’ve motored forty miles in a bitter east wind to sit like a post and say nothing. I’m simply longing to hear about everything, and we can’t stay very long. So proceed, my child.”

“Mother,” said Bridget, “what shall we tell about first? Oh, I’ve just taken a dreadful fear that some of the Eastkirk people may take it into their heads to come and see us to-day.”

“Say you’re not at home,” said Jean.

“I’ve tried that,” said Bridget. “Never again.”

“What happened?” asked Bobbie.

“Well, Mother and I were very anxious to be undisturbed one afternoon, so we said to Agnes (our minute housemaid), ‘If anyone calls say we are not at home.’ Agnes looked scared, and I explained that I wasn’t asking her to perjure herself, that it was simply a way of saying we were engaged which everyone understood. I happened to be crossing the hall when the first caller came, and I heard her say ‘Is Lady Scott in?’ Now if she had said ‘Is Lady Scott at home?’ Agnes would have said ‘No, Mum,’ but this staggered her. She glanced furtively over her shoulder into the hall and looking, I am sure, an obvious liar, said: ‘She’s away from home.’ The caller’s next remark was: ‘How long will Lady Scott be away?’ and Agnes, after another guilty glance over her shoulder, became completely abandoned and said firmly: ‘Ten days.’ Why she should have fixed on that length of time I don’t know: Agnes’s mind works darkly.”

The Kirkpatricks laughed. “What a jewel of a housemaid,” said Jean. “Where did you get her?”

“We have two of them,” Lady Scott told her. “Twins. One as cook and one as house-table-maid. They are the eldest of twelve. Their father is a shepherd in a far away glen at Birkshaw, and the mother was very anxious that these two girls should enter what she called ‘genteel service.’ We took them because we thought they would at least be clean and honest. They knew absolutely nothing when they came, but Bridget took them in hand and she has worked marvels with them.”

“Teenie, the one that cooks,” Bridget said, “is quite quick and clever. She said when she came ‘I can make ham and eggs, an’ I’m rale kinna guid at makin’ an apple dumpling.’ We found she had quite a notion of cooking with a good cooking book with plain directions, and she does quite well. But Teenie has a comparatively easy task. She has only to remain in the kitchen whereas poor Agnes has to face the fierce light that beats upon a house-table-maid waiting at table and parleying at the door with callers. We thought at first we would never be able to do anything with her. D’you remember, Mother, when she announced to us our first caller? ‘There’s been a wumman here an’ she’s left a ticket.’ She was so amused because Mother insisted on her never coming into a room without a clean cap and apron, and said to me, shaking her head good-naturedly at such vagaries, ‘Yer Mamman’s an awfu’ yin’.”

“Oh, poor Lady Scott,” said Jean, “you were never called ‘an awfu’ yin’ before!”

The door opened and the redoubtable Agnes appeared. Her face was round and earnest, her decent cap and apron spotless, and she looked neat and modest and about as unlike the butterfly damsels with their impudently short skirts, high heels and vegetable silk stockings who pose as “domestic helps” as could well be imagined.

Very carefully she brought in a folding table which she planted firmly in the middle of the room and covered with a lace-edged table-cloth. Then, breathing heavily, she carried in a silver tray with china which she set out with mathematical precision, and left the room to return with a tray covered with dishes containing all manner of good things. Again she left the room and brought in the spirit-kettle and teapot and a covered dish of hot toast. Then she looked at her handiwork, gave a long, satisfied sigh, and retired.

“And all very good,” said Bridget, as the door shut. “Isn’t she a duck? The first time she set the tea she put the cups all round the table, one at each place, like a church soirée. When I told her she paid no attention and simply did it again. I knew it wasn’t meant for impudence for she seemed anxious to learn, so I said to her, ‘Agnes, don’t you hear what I say? Are you deaf by any chance?’ And she replied startlingly, ‘No, I’m no deaf! It’s you that’s that English’.”

Miss Kirkpatrick laughed and looked at the inviting tea-table. “Agnes does you credit now. What a delicious looking tea. It is so nice to see the dear green dragons again, and Agnes keeps the silver almost as well as Benson, the immaculate.”

“Oh, we aren’t to be pitied,” said Bridget, “are we, Mother? Now let’s have our tea and thank all our gods that we are allowed to enjoy it alone.”

“Why this fervour of gratitude?” Bobbie asked, as they settled themselves in comfortable chairs round the tea-table. “Are you not often alone at tea-time? Are the Eastkirk people pleasant?”

Bridget threw up her hands. “Is it pleasant? Dear Sir, they are almost destroyingly kind. They seem to think that they have a mission to cheer us, and fear that if left alone we might sink into a Slough of Despond. It is all so unlike what we expected.” Bridget pensively poured cream into her tea. “We were looking forward to delightful long empty days when we would read and work and talk to each other, and tell old tales and laugh. I’ve always understood that when people lost their money they also lost their friends (except of course really nice friends like the Kirkpatricks). I’m sure the song says ‘I’m sitting on the stile, Mary, for the poor make us no new friends,’ or something like that. But it isn’t like that—far otherwise. Indeed being the New Poor would be quite good fun if it weren’t for the kindness of the New Rich. Of course, it is largely Mother’s fault. You know what Mother is—much too good to be true, and her charm is a positive revelation to Eastkirk. They have never met anybody like her, and I don’t blame them for not being able to keep away from her.” Bridget shook her head reprovingly at her mother. “‘Fie, Honey-pot,’ as John Kirk is reported to have said to poor Queen Mary.”

“Bridget exaggerates,” said Lady Scott placidly, as she poured out tea.

“Bridget always did,” said Jean. “But dear Lady Scott, you are really very bad for people. After being with you I come away saying, ‘I’m sweet, I’m kind, I’m clever. I must be for Lady Scott thinks I am.’ You always bring out the best in people, but that’s no reason why you should be victimised.”

“Oh, but they mean to be so kind; some of them are delightful.”

“Of course they are,” said Bridget. “And they would be all right at Birkshaw. But when they file into this little room and crowd it to suffocation, my face gets so flushed and I babble in confusion of mind. There are four women who never let us alone: they simply infest us—Mrs. Stromach-Carr, Mrs. John Hastings, Mrs. Tim Thomson and Mrs. Rattray.”

“Darling, I like Mrs. Rattray,” said Lady Scott.

“Oh, so do I. She’s much the best of them, but she’s entirely the wrong size for this room. I don’t know where to put her. If I put her near the window she shuts out the light and air, and if I put her by the fire she melts visibly. And Mrs. Stromach-Carr is almost as overpowering. Jean, she’s so grand; all the front of her is covered with diamonds and ruby bumble-bees.” Bridget broke into irrepressible chuckles at the thought, and her mother said reprovingly, “I’ve never seen her with more than one diamond bee.”

“Well, then,” said Bridget quite unabashed, “one enormous insect, and a pearl necklace, and a diamond cross, and rings on her fingers.”

“And bells on her toes,” finished Bobbie for her.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Bridget, “but, Mother, I don’t think even you could think of anything nice to say of Mrs. Tim Thomson.”

“She’s a vulgar little woman,” Lady Scott owned, “but I think she has a kind heart.”

“She’s London,” Bridget explained, “low London, and she’s more like a little hopping impudent Cockney sparrow than anything else. The first time she came to see us she lolled in a chair and smoked without being asked, and told us the most drearily vulgar stories I ever listened to. She has a sort of debased sense of humour.”

“Poor little woman,” Lady Scott said, “we should be sorry for her.”

“I’m much sorrier for myself having to put up with her,” said Bridget. “But really, Mother, I think Mrs. John Hastings— decent woman that she is—is in some ways the most trying of them all. She keeps the conversation at such altitudes that we have to walk on tiptoe all the time. Bobbie, I would like to . . .”

With that the door opened and Agnes announced in her high shrill voice—“Mistress John Hastings.”

Bridget was sitting with her back to the door, and before she rose to greet the visitor her eyes met Major Kirkpatrick’s with a wicked twinkle.

Mrs. John Hastings came into the room like a tree walking with a high head and a rustling. She carried in one hand an impressive-looking volume, and in the other some hot-house flowers. The latter she pushed archly into Lady Scott’s face, saying cooingly: “I thought the sweet things would cheer you. They will remind you of happier days when you had your own glass.”

Lady Scott smiled her gentle acquiescent smile, and holding the bouquet vaguely in one hand, with the other she rang the bell for Agnes, and Mrs. John Hastings turned to Bridget.

“To you, Miss Scott, I have brought the book I spoke of. I know you will find it enthrallingly interesting. It makes the veil seem so thin, so thin. . . .” She waved her hand.

Bridget took the book rather doubtfully and Bobbie, gazing at the title, said: “I didn’t know you were interested in Spiritualism, Bridget.”

“I’m not, really. I’m afraid I don’t believe in it at all, but Mrs. Hastings . . . Let me introduce—Major Kirkpatrick—Mrs. Hastings has very kindly brought me this book to read and perhaps it will convert me.”

Major Kirkpatrick drew a chair forward for Mrs. Hastings and, sinking into it, she said intensely: “Major Kirkpatrick, I live very near the Unseen.”

“No, by Jove, do you really?” muttered Bobbie. “Have a scone.”

Bridget went to help her mother at the tea-table and on returning found Mrs. John Hastings fixing Bobbie with an eye as cold and glittering as that of the Ancient Mariner as she said: “Do you dare to make light of the wonderful messages that have come to us from the Other Side?”

“What? Oh, I’m not scoffing at anything, but what I mean to say is that it isn’t fair to decent chaps to make them look silly fools when they aren’t here to call you a liar. These messages they’re supposed to send makes you think they must have lost their minds over there. But of course,” he added cheerfully, “they never send them; it’s all rot.”

Mrs. John Hastings seemed to be about to swoon. She shut her eyes and her large pale nose appeared to droop. Both Bridget and Bobbie watched her apprehensively, but in a minute she revived and again fixing her compelling gaze on the unbelieving Bobbie she said, “You call it ‘rot’ what has simply made life bearable for many, what has made religion real. Oh, how can you? How can you?”

“But,” said Bobbie, his eyes very blue and puzzled in his freckled face, “for the matter of that how can you? How can celestial whiskies and sodas and obscene messages about the fifth book in the fourth row make life more bearable for anyone?”

Mrs. John Hastings’ only reply was a sort of moan, and Bridget put in her word. “That idea about whiskies and sodas in the next world seems to have given untold comfort to some people. For myself I think I prefer the Bible way—‘They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more’ . . .”

Again the door opened and Agnes announced “Mistress and Miss Rattray.”

”More cups, Agnes,” murmured Bridget as she made her way past the prostrate form of Mrs. John Hastings to greet Mrs. Rattray who stood, draped in sables, waiting to be set in a chair. Mrs. Rattray like the beaver, was “unaccountably shy” and needed to be soothed when she came into a room, and Lady Scott was holding her hand and reassuring her, whilst Mrs. Rattray kept muttering: “I just thought I’d come. I’ve brought Alick’s photo to show you. Maggie didn’t want me to, but I just brought it. . . .”

Presently Mrs. Rattray was lowered into a seat and Miss Rattray, stolid and unsmiling, was placed beside Mrs. John Hastings who vouchsafed her a perfunctory greeting, and more tea cups were brought.

Bridget glanced round the room. All comfort had gone from it; the dainty tea-table was now a hopelessly inadequate island in a sea of people. Jean was sitting on the sofa beside her hostess telling her little bits of gossip about friends and making her laugh. Mrs. John Hastings was sullenly drinking her tea and avoiding conversation with Miss Rattray. Bobbie was sitting beside Mrs. Rattray. He carried food to her at intervals, but any sustained conversation between them seemed impossible.

Something had to be done. Bridget cast her mind rapidly over possible topics. Politics? Books? High prices? Then leaning forward and addressing Mrs. John Hastings she said fervently: “Isn’t the price of butcher’s meat awful?”

Mrs. John Hastings’ large white nose stiffened. She resented the question. To one who was all soul (and a vegetarian as well) it was almost an insult. What’s Hecuba to me or me to Hecuba? She had wanted to talk of things spiritual and had been repulsed. Talk of butcher’s meat she would not. “Indeed,” she said in a voice of ice.

“Yes,” said Bridget, unabashed, “I housekeep now, and the butcher has ‘the face ett off me’.” She laughed and turned to Mrs. Rattray. “Butchers and butchers’ shops always scare me. Don’t they you?”

Mrs. Rattray looked hopelessly confused. Had she understood Miss Scott to say that the butcher had bitten her? “He’s never touched me yet,” she faltered, “but of course he’s a tempery kind of man.”

Bridget saw Bobbie suddenly become consumed with silent laughter. There is nothing so infectious. In a second Bridget had succumbed and was coughing affectedly and saying something about a crumb, when again the door opened and Agnes announced “Mistress Stromach-Carr.”

Bridget sprang to her feet and almost cried aloud “Oh no,” as Mrs. Stromach-Carr bounced into the room. Bobbie’s laughter passed, and a look almost of awe settled on his face.

Mrs. Stromach-Carr was tall and wide (why were Eastkirk women so well-grown, Bridget wondered, and The Neuk drawing-room so small?) and so tightly girt that it seemed as if she might at any moment overflow from her clothes. She had a loud, booming voice, and her words came out like a series of miniature explosions! “Dear Lady Scott. So glad to find you at home. I ran in for I simply felt I had to be in your sweet presence, if only for a few minutes. I seem to need comfort to-day. . . .” Lady Scott looked perplexed but murmured a welcome. Mrs. Rattray seemed to be wondering admiringly how Mrs. Stromach-Carr did it; and Mrs. John Hastings looked profoundly disgusted. “No, nobody must rise.” (Bobbie by this time had put his cup on the piano and was leaning sadly beside it.) “Well,” taking Bobbie’s chair, “just for a few minutes. Tea? Oh, may I?” She beamed round the room. “Isn’t there something about this room too restful? Already I feel refreshed.”

Bridget gasped helplessly as she surveyed the ill-assorted party. Jean Kirkpatrick still clung to her seat beside her hostess, but Mrs. Stromach-Carr had pulled her chair round (thereby hopelessly rumpling a rug and giving an air of dishevelment to the room) to claim some of Lady Scott’s attention. Poor Mrs. Rattray hugged a large photograph and looked wistful.

To Bridget came the remembrance of a little girl’s dream: “And there were no visitors in that country, only chocolate ladies and tall white lilies.” “Oh, for such a country,” sighed Bridget as she threw remarks here and there like shuttlecocks, and at last, both hot and hoarse, came to anchor beside Bobbie at the piano. “Open that other window, Bobbie,” she implored, “open it wide out. I can’t stand this. . . .” And just then the door again opened and Agnes, flushed with much running, her cap awry and a note of desperation in her voice, announced: “Mistress Tim Thomson, and—and——” There was a sound of scuffling and laughing and barking, and Mrs. Tim Thomson with a jade-green hat pushed down over her tomato-coloured face skipped into the room followed by her two little girls dragging between them a reluctant puppy.

“We’re not a circus,” shrilled Mrs. Tim, “though we look rather like it. I promised the children I would bring them to tea with you (Doris, don’t pinch Edna. Edna, if you put out your tongue again I’ll smack you), and they wanted to bring their new treasure to show you—an Alsatian wolf-hound. Isn’t he a darling? We thought he would cheer you up.”

A silence fell on the congested room.

Bridget looked round wildly. There were no more chairs: there were no more scones. Oh! awful Mrs. Tim Thomson with her children and the Alsatian wolf-dog.

“Bridget,” said Bobbie in her ear, “you promised to show me the garden.”

“Garden!” she glared at him. “Now? Look at poor Mother.”

“You can’t help her,” said Bobbie, “she’s hemmed in. Jean’ll see her through, and here comes the heroic Agnes with fresh tea. . . . We could slip through this window and nobody would notice.” He snatched a sable wrap that had fallen from the shoulders of Mrs. Rattray. “Put this on. I’ve such a short time now, Bridget. . . .”

“It’s not cold,” said Bridget, pushing away the sable wrap.

For a moment she stood undecided, then she laughed softly and put her hand in Bobbie’s, and they went out together from the clatter of tongues and tea cups into the misty stillness of the November garden.

Two Pretty Men

“Robin and Richard were two pretty men. . . .”
— Nursery Rhyme

Chapter I

Robin Dalgleish was walking home to Greystanes from Eliot where he had been dining. It was late—after eleven o’clock—but it was July and the light still lingered. A great golden moon shone on the Water of Tweed; Greystanes lay in shadow looking across the valley at Eliot flooded with silver light.

Never, thought Robin, had he seen such a night of beauty and peace and innocent magic. His own countryside, how exquisite it was with its solemn round-backed hills; its wild glens so green; its burns that ran shining clear in twists and turns and sudden waterfalls; its villages smelling of wood-smoke and honeysuckle.

The memory came back to him of an evening in France when they had whiled away an hour of mud and misery by giving themselves the painful pleasure of remembering happier things.

Cecil Lucas had pictured himself in London on an October afternoon; a touch of frost in the air, the lights beginning to twinkle out: tea and hot toast at the club, then bridge; with, to follow, a good dinner, a play, a dance. London, he said, was good enough for him, and, once back, he never meant to leave it. He had only a week to live then, decent lad. . . .

Guy Campbell had talked affectionately of a lodge on a lochside in Mull, a white-washed house with fuchsias growing round the door; an August morning, with Ben B. rising above swathes of mist, Cruachan in the blue distance; gillies, fishing-rods, packets of sandwiches; guns and dogs, all the pleasant morning bustle and over all the scent of bog-myrtle.

Robin had listened, and smoked and nodded, but in his heart was hidden the thought of a village among the quiet hills of the south country, a village with a burn and a wooden bridge, where the hens clucked sleepily and the shadows lay black across the white road, where women with soft Lowland voices cried to their children “Come tae yer tea, hinny”; a place where it was always afternoon.

As Robin stood on the bridge, dreaming, his eyes were fixed on a light that shone out from a window at Greystanes.

Richard, his brother, must be in the library, with his pipe and his disreputable old dinner jacket. He had been asked to dine with Robin at Eliot, but had refused. He said he hated dining out: he hated seeing people at all: he was becoming, Robin feared, a recluse. He had quite snarled at Robin that evening when he had come into the library, dapper and neat, had jeered at him for his love of society—ladies’ society—and had said: “I wonder you can be bothered—a man of your age!”

The words had rankled in Robin’s mind as he walked down his own hill, over the river and up to Eliot. After all, he was only fifty. That was nothing in these days. Why, constantly in the newspapers one read of people living to ninety-odd; it was no uncommon thing to attain the century; and hadn’t there been photographs in all the papers and a man said to be a hundred and forty-five—but he had been a Turk and Turks were given to overdoing things.

Robin told himself that he was strong and vigorous, not fat, not even bald. Richard himself was forty-eight, but he looked much more. All he had suffered with the leg that was smashed at Ypres had aged him.

The three Dalgleishes had all gone to France, and Gilbert—-the youngest—had remained there, on the racked and battered ground of the Somme. When peace came, the two elder brothers returned to an empty house. Old Colonel Dalgleish had felt the war so acutely, had so anxiously and fractiously noted mistakes, had rejoiced so whole-heartedly in successes, that the strain had been too much for an already weak heart. His wife, who had got through life placidly by agreeing when she could with whatever her husband said and holding her peace when she thought otherwise, found life too savourless without her kind—if irascible—companion, and slipped out of it after an attack of bronchitis. The only daughter was married in India, and Robin and Richard had settled down together.

That was eight years ago, and Robin acknowledged to himself that they had been happy years. Richard and he had always been great friends. They liked the same things and disliked the same people, and both loved a quiet life. But somehow, lately, Robin had found himself apt to be critical and captious, an attitude Richard had been quick to resent.

It dated, Robin told himself, from the arrival of Miss Laura Johnson, who had taken Eliot for six months from May. Since he had begun to visit so frequently at this beautifully-run establishment, he had found much that came short at Greystanes.

They had comfort, certainly, well-cooked meals, good fires, abundance of hot water for baths. What more did anyone want? asked Richard, but Robin found himself thinking about a woman’s refining touch, and remembering rather wistfully the flower-filled rooms at Eliot, the soft lights, the polished surface of the candlelit dinner table. Mrs. Beaton, the cook-housekeeper at Greystanes, had odd streaks of economy in her disposition; she hated large laundry-bills and thought a table-cloth should last a week. Annie, the parlourmaid, also hated waste, and was most saving in the use of plate-powder; the same mustard remained indefinitely in the pots, and flowers were only renewed when they fell to pieces. When Robin, who hated messy mustard and stained tablecloths and wilted flowers, growled about it, Richard would say easily, “Oh, let live,” and add: “Man, Robin, you’re as pernicketty as a maiden lady.”

Robin had called on Miss Johnson at once, as her nearest neighbour, and she had been so kind and hospitable, so sweet in her appeals for advice, so admiring of his knowledge, that he had continued to call at frequent intervals. Richard, unfortunately, had taken a violent dislike to the lady the first time he saw her, when she came to tea at Greystanes and told him how quaint and lovable she found the Scots people, and it made things uncomfortable for Robin, who naturally resented his admired lady meeting with disapproval.

This moonlit night Robin was returning to Greystanes to drop a bomb into that peaceful household. Miss Laura Johnson had promised to come and reside permanently across the valley and make Robin Dalgleish the happiest of men.

“The happiest of men,” Robin repeated the phrase to himself somewhat defiantly. Laura was charming. How pleasant it would be to have someone so bright and good-looking about the old place. She had said Greystanes was full of possibilities. Richard would soon become reconciled to the new order of things. Anyway, it was largely his own fault; he shouldn’t have talked about a man of your age. . . . He had dared Robin, and Robin had done it.

They had dined alone, Laura and he, as the people who were coming to stay, whom he had been asked to meet, had been obliged at the last moment to postpone their visit.

“Perhaps I should have put you off,” Laura had said. “It is too bad to bring you over here on false pretences, but I was selfish—and lonely, so I let you come. Forgive me.”

She was looking her best in a dress of soft rose-colour, the dinner was excellent, the wine all that could be desired. Never had Robin felt himself so entertaining, never had his stories met with so much appreciation. Laura’s admiring eyes made him feel no end of a fellow. Old? He felt like one-and-twenty, and as they sat together on the terrace in the long July twilight—at twenty minutes past nine to be exact—he had asked the lady to brighten by her presence the rest of his life, and somewhat to his surprise she had consented. It was wonderful. He felt as Kipps had felt under similar circumstances “dynamited into bliss.” It was unbelievable luck. He was not really worthy of such a woman. Good and kind and pretty, quite reasonably young (she looked much less than the forty-five years she had told him were hers); rich, too, and inclined to be old-fashioned; what a blessing it was to see skirts of a decent length, and braided hair (Robin was not quite sure what braided meant, but he took it to be the opposite of shingled!); that such a woman should condescend to him was indeed an honour.

And what a difference it would make in Greystanes! Things really had been very muddled for a long time. Mrs. Beaton, decent woman and good cook as she was, was hardly fitted to run such a house. Annie the parlourmaid had no manners. She hailed from Wishaw and said “What’s that?” when asked a question, and stretched in front of people when she waited at table. Jessie was an untidy-looking girl, and the shaving water she brought was never really hot. Yes, there was much that needed putting right, and Laura with her gentle tact was the woman to do it.

There would be an explosion from Richard, of course. He was bound to make a fuss and would probably curse him as an arrant idiot, but if he, Robin, was patient the storm would pass. As a matter of fact, Robin told himself, it was really more for Richard’s sake than his own that he had done this. Richard suffered a lot with his lame leg, he ought to have comfort; he would soon see it was all for the best; he would enjoy the new state of things and they would, all three, be happy together.

Meantime, the news had to be broken to him, and rather reluctantly Robin left the beauties of the night and entered his own house.

He found his brother in the library as he had expected. It was a room that needed a fire. On a winter night with log fire halfway up the chimney, no one could have desired a more comfortable sanctuary, but on a summer evening it was somewhat gloomy and smelt strongly of stale tobacco. The writing-table was heaped untidily with papers; broken pens cumbered the inkstand; the ink-bottles had not been emptied and washed for many months. Large, worn leather chairs were drawn into the empty grate which was littered with matches and cigar ends. The mantelpiece was decorated with a variety of articles including a bottle of liniment, and the dust lay thick on everything. Laura certainly was needed here.

Richard was lying in one of the big leather chairs reading Punch. He looked up when his brother came in and grunted affably. He had felt remorseful all the evening about the irritable way he had spoken to Robin before he left, and he tried to convey that fact in a grunt.

“Fine night!” he said.

“Perfect!” said Robin. “I never saw anything like the moon on Tweed.”

“Get a good dinner?”

“You never get anything else at Eliot.”

“I suppose not. Did you like the people—what was their name?”

“Didn’t see them. They wired at the last moment that something had happened.”

“Oh, so you and Miss Johnson dined alone?”

“Yes, and I say, Richard, I may as well tell you now and get it over. Miss Johnson has—has promised to be my wife.”

Richard pulled himself up in his chair, half rose, and stared at his brother. He was a tall man, gaunt, very unlike the neat and dapper Robin.

He wanted to shout at Robin, to say, “You’re going to marry that woman with the hard Cockney voice; silly—common—mindless?” But he bit back the words. It was too late to say anything.

“My God!” he murmured, and then “Poor old Rob!”

Robin had been waiting for an outburst, with his fingers, metaphorically, in his ears and his teeth clenched, and he was more than astonished to find his preparations unnecessary. Richard was not making a fuss. He did not seem so much angry, or amazed, or scornful as sorry. Sorry for him, Robin, the successful suitor, the luckiest of men. Absurd!

Robin mixed himself a drink and sat down in the arm-chair opposite his brother. It was difficult knowing what to say now. It would be ludicrous to begin and talk about another subject. He looked round the untidy room and found there matter for conversation.

“High time something was done about this house,” he began. “I never saw such a mess. These women aren’t fit for their job.”

He paused, but Richard only looked round the room and remained mute, so he continued:

“Miss Johnson—Laura—is a wonderful manager. I never thought much of Eliot—there’s nothing special about it when the Bethunes are there—but she has made it the most comfortable, delightful place. She says Greystanes has great possibilities. . . .”

Richard stirred in his chair, but said nothing. He still seemed a little dazed by the news.

“So,” Robin went on, “in time she may make something out of it. . . . We’ve been too slack, Richard, in every way. We need pulling up. It doesn’t do to let things slide as we were doing. We’d become old men before our time. One of us had to do something. You wouldn’t: it was up to me. . . . I know you’re prejudiced against Laura, but you will like her when you know her, I’m sure of that. And she wants to make friends with you. She asked me the other day why you never came to Eliot. She put it down to your leg: I didn’t undeceive her—it will make a big difference to your comfort having a lady in the house; and it’ll make no difference in the world between you and me, Richard. This must always be your home.”

Richard got up and knocked the ashes from his pipe into the empty fireplace. He looked over his shoulder at has brother as he said: “You didn’t think, did you, that I would stay on here after you had brought a wife?”

Robin’s jaw dropped. He had never thought anything else.

Chapter II

It was true what Robin Dalgleish said—Laura Johnson was a most capable manager. She knew the art of making a man perfectly comfortable. It would have been odd had it been otherwise, for she had been many years at the job. She was the younger daughter of a London business man, who had ruled her with a rod of iron. The elder daughter had defied her father, married the man of her choice and set off with him to Australia. Joseph Johnson never forgave his daughter, indeed, he simply ceased to remember her existence. He brought Laura home from school and told her to make herself an efficient housekeeper just as soon as might be. That was more than twenty-five years ago, and until her father’s death in the spring of the year that brought her to Eliot, her whole time had been devoted to the task.

Joseph Johnson ought to have lived at least a hundred years earlier. With his whiskers, his white waistcoat, his thick gold chain, his contempt for women, and his blustering, pompous manners he might have been Mr. Osborne in Vanity Fair. Laura trembled at his frown. She never protested when he spoke to her as he would not have dared to speak to the cook.

All the year they lived in a large dull house in Clapham, except for the month of August when they went to the seaside. Once Laura hinted that she had a great desire to see Scotland, but as she had expected, her father poured scorn on the idea.

“Scotland!” he said. “I’m not going there to be cheated. Aberrrdeen! The lost ten tribes are there,” and he laughed uproariously.

“But, Father,” Laura protested, “it’s so beautiful,” and she quoted:

“Land of brown heath and shaggy wood
Land of the mountain and the flood . . .”

“I’ve seen pictures of it.”

“Stick to the pictures my girl, they’re the best of it. We’ll go to Southend where there’s a pier and a band.”

Amassing money to Joseph Johnson was both business and recreation. It was his life. He allowed Laura enough to run the house well, for he enjoyed good food, but he never bought a book or a picture, he never went to a play or a concert; he rarely allowed himself the luxury of a taxi, preferring to stand in a queue waiting for a bus. The thought of a shilling saved gave him keen enjoyment. On the whole he enjoyed his life immensely, and it was bitter to him to leave it. Not that he was much perturbed about what was to happen to him next—he had not imagination enough to fear—but he could not bear to leave his fortune to his daughter. If he had had a son as keen and hard-fisted as himself, there would have been some comfort in thinking about it, but a silly creature like Laura. . . . And to Laura who had never had her allowance increased since she was eighteen, it seemed an overwhelming inheritance. At first bewildered and afraid, she soon found that a large part of the human race seem to exist to help the rich to get what they want. She sold the Clapham house and all it contained—having no wish to be reminded of her life there—and went to live in a quiet but expensive hotel in Albemarle Street. She bought a lot of good clothes, procured a capable maid and began to enjoy herself. Often, going to bed in her fireless room, and rising on foggy mornings to breakfast at eight o’clock with her father before he left for the city, she had tried to imagine what it would be like to lie abed as long as she pleased, to have a breakfast tray brought to her, a bath made ready for her, fragrant with bath salts, to put on silken underclothes before a blazing fire—and she found the realisation quite as delightful as she had expected. The only thing she missed was a companion to do things with her. Her father had not encouraged her to have friends, indeed he had made his dislike to visitors so obvious that there was not one woman in London with whom Laura was intimate, but one day she got a letter from her sister in Australia, whom she only dimly remembered but to whom she had cabled the news of their father’s death, saying that her only child was just sailing for England.

Laura had heard at long intervals from her sister, and had often longed to see the unknown niece. She knew practically nothing of her except that her name was Amber Austin and that she was twenty-five years of age.

In due time Amber arrived—a tall, upstanding girl with a pair of remarkable brown eyes: amber-coloured, Laura decided they were. She had seen little of the girls of to-day, and her niece’s calm self-sufficiency rather staggered her at first, but she liked the girl and found her excellent company. They spent some weeks together very happily, and Laura was much disappointed to find that her niece had made arrangements to go with some friends on a long Continental tour.

“Nearly four months, Amber!“ she cried. “And I did so hope you would go with me to Scotland.”

“Are you going to Scotland, Aunt Laura?”

“Well, it’s the place I’ve wanted to see, and I thought it would be so nice to take a house there for six months—only I don’t know how to go about it.”

“That’s easy enough. What are house-agents for? We’ll get a list of places this very day. D’you want the seaside or what? Wouldn’t you be better to go to an hotel and not be bothered with servants?”

“Oh no, that’s not what I want at all. I want a house and grounds—a place, you know, right in the country. It’s no bother to me to manage a house. I love it. To be able to have things just as I like there would be such a treat. Your grandfather——”

“Yes, I know all about him,” said Amber grimly.

“He liked things his own way, poor dear. Now that I’m on my own I could fiddle happily all day long about a house.”

“Then we must get you one to fiddle with.” Amber spoke as if to a child, and indeed this aunt—so gentle and fussy, so limited in her intelligence, so innocently garrulous—seemed very young and childlike to her twenty-five years of worldly wisdom, and Laura looked up to and admired her niece, and was perfectly willing to be guided by her.

A list of houses in different parts of Scotland was submitted to Miss Johnson, and she wavered between a castle in the north and Eliot in the south, deciding finally on the advice of her lawyer on the latter.

As if by magic a staff of servants was procured, a motor-car bought, a chauffeur engaged. So delighted was Laura with her new purchase that she decided to go all the way by car, and deplored the fact that she would have nobody on the journey to tell her raptures to.

“If only you were to be with me, Amber, it would be perfect; for it would be new to both of us, every step of the way. And I wouldn’t be nervous meeting new people if I had you beside me. And think what fun we would have had exploring Eliot.”

“Oh, I know; I’m terribly sorry, but you see this trip was arranged before I saw you. I’m crazy to see France and Switzerland and the Italian Lakes and all the rest of it: all the same I’d have loved to go with you to Scotland. I used to know wads of The Lady of the Lake.”

“Do Scotsmen all wear kilts, I wonder?”

“Oh yes,” said Amber, “all I’ve ever heard of—Roderick Dhu and Harry Lauder. . . . Isn’t there a MacJohnson tartan? You should get a skirt made of it at once, and learn to dance a reel. They’ll expect it, I warn you.”

Laura merely smiled. “I think my clothes are quite right,” she said placidly. “They took such an interest, those nice people at Peacocks, in making me suitable things. I suppose people will come and call? I would so like to give some dinner parties. I always longed to, but your grandfather didn’t care for company. . . . Really the only books I care much about are cookery books. I can study them by the hour together, and plan out menus. Now that I’ve got all this money I would like to be hospitable.”

Amber gave her aunt a careless hug. “Funny old thing!” she said. “Give as many dinner-parties as you like, the neighbours won’t object; but don’t be too good to them or some kilted Scot will want to have you as a permanent housekeeper.”

Laura did not reply. Amber was a little inclined to be vulgar, she felt, but she was a dear kind creature. She said good-bye to her with regret, but soon forgot everything in the excitement of starting in her own car on what to her was a brand new road, with Scotland at the end.

Her first caller had been Robin Dalgleish, her nearest neighbour, and to him she had told all her perplexities—and, to begin with, there were many—and he had straightened out the tangles for her, explaining things so patiently that she had been filled with gratitude. They became very friendly. To him Laura seemed a gentle, womanly creature; the slight Cockney accent which worried the fastidious Richard went unnoticed by him; what his brother thought silly, he found sweet, and so he drifted on until that July night when he asked her to be his wife.

They agreed, this middle-aged pair, that they would not make their engagement public until the marriage day was fixed, but they did not in the least deceive the neighbourhood, who had watched Robin’s visits to Eliot with interest. High and low knew all about it and were mildly amused or highly indignant as the case might be.

Mrs. Beaton, cook-housekeeper at Greystanes, belonged to the latter class. As she sat in the kitchen fanning herself with a newspaper one hot August evening, she delivered her mind on the subject. Miss Johnson had that afternoon taken tea at Greystanes.

“Weel, this day’s ower an’ I’m no wantin’ ’t back. Ye micht hae thocht it was the Queen that was comin’ tae the hoose. Sic a palaver! Speirin’ if the silver was cleaned, an’ wantin’ scones an’ pancakes an’ Guid kens what a’. Sangwidges tae! Set her up!“

“He asked me,” said Annie, “if the tea-cloths were fresh on. The cheek! I told him yes, for they’d only been on twice before. There was just a wee jelly mark on one and I put a plate on it. And he told me to fill the room with flowers! Who could be bothered doing that? I put some sweet peas on the piano and a jug of gowans on a table. I heard her goin’ on at an awful rate about them. I was like to laugh. All the same she’s good-looking and dresses lovely.”

“Weel, Annie,” said Mrs. Beaton, “it’s mebbe your idea of good looks, it’s no mine, and mind you, I got a good sight o’ her through the passage door. I lookit at her an’ I said to masel, ‘Oh, so you’re Miss Johnson, are ye,’ I said, an’ I juist felt repulsed. There’s something aboot her face—sly, I’d ca’ it. I tell ye I felt wae for puir Mr. Robin, for though he’s ta’en this daft turn aboot clean silver and floors in the hoose, he’s a canny sowl for ordinay. Ay, she’s got him like a weasel gets a rabbit: Mr. Richard wadna been sae easy catch’t. . . . It’s awesome to think what a harm a wumman can dae. As faur back as the Bible— ye mind puir Samson and that ill body Delilah? . . . Weel, I’ve been here for mair nor seeven years an’ comfortable enough, but bide wi’ a mistress I wud not. I’ll gie notice.”

“Same here,” said Annie. “There’s plenty jobs. A girl can pick and choose, and I’m about fed up wi’ the country, anyway. I don’t know when I saw a Picture House: I think I’ll try the toun. . . .”

August burned itself out in still blue days, and September came. Robin dined at intervals at Eliot, met Laura frequently at neighbouring houses, and twice she took tea at Greystanes. Richard was very civil on these occasions, and Robin hoped that he had thought better of his resolve to leave Greystanes before the marriage; probably he had spoken in the heat of the moment.

One evening he came in after a day’s shooting, full of small items of news for Richard which he fed him with at dinner, much as a mother bird feeds its young. First came details of the day’s sport, then the people he had seen.

“I’ve got a lot of messages for you. Jim Carruthers wanted to know if he might dine here on Tuesday—he’s sailing for East Africa at the end of next week, and he’s keen to see you before he goes. Bob Bertram’s at Blackshiels; he’s coming to lunch on Sunday: and Lady Naesmith wants to know if you’ll stretch a point and dine with them one night next week—they’re all off at the end of the month.”

“I seem to be in demand to-day,” Richard remarked. “It’s very kind of Lady Naesmith. I’d like to go . . . leaving at the end of the month, are they? I expect I’ll be going about then myself.”

Robin felt a cold clutch at his heart as he said: “Going?”

“I told you,” Richard said, “that I couldn’t stay here when you were married.”

“But—I thought you were getting on all right with Laura——”

“I’m saying nothing about Miss Johnson, but you can see for yourself a third in a household’s a rotten arrangement.”

“I don’t see it,” said Robin doggedly. “Where’ll you go, anyway?”

“London,” said Richard. “I’ve heard of good rooms near the Club.”

“But you hate London. What’ll you make of yourself?”

“Oh, I’ll read the papers and gossip and play cards and see some plays and enjoy myself. I may go to Egypt and get some sun. It doesn’t do to allow oneself to become a vegetable.”

“In that case,” said Robin with dignity, “I have nothing more to say.”

“For the matter of that,” Richard went on, “I don’t expect you’ll be allowed to vegetate either. I don’t see your wife letting you sit the winter through at Greystanes. It will be the Riviera for you.”

“Laura likes the country,” said Robin indignantly. “Dash it, wasn’t that the whole point of me marrying? It was for you as much as myself. . . .”

The entrance of Annie with the coffee stopped the conversation for the moment, and Robin was too hurt to resume it, sitting silent and dignified like an unjustly chidden child all evening.

It was miserable after that at Greystanes. Robin thought Richard was behaving in a small and pettish way and putting him, Robin, in the wrong, and he cherished the feeling of resentment because he was aware if that went there would come regret and misgiving. It had begun to dawn on him almost at once that all there was in Laura Johnson was what appeared on the surface. She was a comely pleasant woman with a knack of making things comfortable, of listening with an appearance of interest; laughing with likeable readiness at very small jokes. She did not read, she did not think, she hardly felt. He realised—hating himself for doing so—that living with her would be rather like living with a musical box; you set it off and it tinkled out its pretty little tunes. Of course that was all that many men wanted in a wife. That was the thought that kept him morose through the day and awake at nights. He had been a fool to let a passing discontent betray him into this tangle. To exchange Richard for any woman! But there was no way out. He had to go to Eliot and listen to Laura talking prettily of her preparations, and the improvements they would make in Greystanes, and every word was like a fresh cord binding him.

Laura was charmed when she heard from her niece that she was back in London after her foreign tour, and expected to reach Eliot on September the fifteenth. How delightful, she thought, to have Amber to talk to. What fun to show her round, for everything would be new to her. And the neighbours too: those charming Hepburns at the Castle, the Naesmiths, the Carruthers, the Burnets—and Robin. What would Amber think of Robin? It really was terribly exciting.

Amber arrived, calm as ever, sure of herself. Yes, she had done thoroughly France, Switzerland and Italy: they were all fine. She had taken a glance at Germany and proposed to see more of it another time. Sweden, too, she thought she would visit. No, she hadn’t written much, but she had kept a diary for her mother and sent it every week, telling her of the places and people. Odd people? She thought they were—and the English the oddest!

“When they heard I came from Australia,” said Amber, “they seemed surprised that I was comparatively presentable. One fool woman said to me in a patronising voice: ‘You did help us so splendidly in the War.’ As if it weren’t our War! . . . I’ve taken hundreds of snaps and I’ve been almost drowned in beauty; I’m about ready to go home. . . . And tell me what you’ve been doing, Aunt Laura. Your letters didn’t say much. I like this place about as well as any I’ve seen; it’s lovely with the woods and bracken and heather, but my word I it must be pretty dead in the winter.”

“Why no, Amber,” her aunt broke in, “they say it is even prettier in winter, for the bare trees are so lovely, and the . . .”

“Who said it, Laura?” drawled Amber. “Someone who wants you to stay?“

To the girl’s surprise her aunt flushed crimson and looked coyly down.

“Oh Amber,” she said, “you are so quick. You’ve guessed at once, and I didn’t mean you to know anything about it for I wanted you to give your opinion of Robin quite frankly.”

“I’ll promise to do that in any case. But who’s ‘Robin’?”

Laura drew her niece to the stone parapet that ran along the terrace and pointed to Greystanes lying on the opposite hill-side. “He lives over there, Amber—Robin Dalgleish. He’s the ‘laird,’ as they say here. Isn’t it a delicious title? So unlike ‘landlord’ which makes you think only of rent and repairs.”

“Is he poor?” Amber asked. “I’ve always had a notion that ‘lairds’ as a class were impoverished.”

Laura looked surprised. “No, I don’t think the Dalgleishes are poor, but . . .”

“Dalgleishes? How many are there of them?”

“Two brothers, Robin and Richard,”

“Ho,” said Amber, and quoted—

“‘Robin and Richard were two pretty men.’

“Don’t you remember the nursery rhyme?”

Laura shook her head. “I don’t think I was ever taught any nursery rhymes. ‘Robin and Richard were two pretty men’— how amusing! But I’m not going to tell you anything more about them. We are dining at Greystanes to-morrow evening, and you will see for yourself. Come, now, and I’ll show you the house.”

“ But, Aunt Laura, do you actually mean to live here for the rest of your life? To give up . . . Oh, very well, show me the house now—we’ll talk of it anon.”

The next day Laura took her niece round the cottages on the place, showing off the occupants with glee.

“You know, really, they are just like a Scotch play. You remember in Marigold when the meenister’s wife is making ‘raspjeely’. When I went in to see Mrs. Geddes at the Lodge there she was making ‘raspjeely’. Wasn’t it sweet? And they go to the ‘kirk’ and sing psalms and they eat ‘parritch’ and ‘neeps’ and ‘tatties’. So amusing!”

They knocked at the door of the honeysuckle-covered Lodge, and Laura greeted the woman who opened it with, “Oh, Mrs. Geddes, I’ve brought my niece, Miss Austin, to see you. She comes all the way from Australia.”

Mrs. Geddes, with a resigned look, dusted two chairs and set them out in the middle of the kitchen. “D’ye tell me that,” she said.

“Yes,” Laura went on, as if she were talking to a child, “she came over the sea in a big ship.”

“It’s the only way to cross the sea,” said Amber, “unless you go by aeroplane.”

“What pairt dae ye come frae?” Mrs. Geddes asked. “I’ve a gude brither in Hobart, an’ a sister mairrit no faur frae Melbourne.”

“Ah, I come from near Sydney,” Amber told her, “but I know both Hobart and Melbourne.”

“Ay? They ca’ ma gude brither Sandy Geddes. He’s daein’ weel they say, but what his job is I dinna ken. . . . Ma sister’s man’s ca’ed Hardie an’ he keeps a shop, a kinna Johnny-a’-things.”

“How delicious!“ said Luara. “What does it mean exactly?”

“Well,” Mrs. Geddes said patiently, “he seels newspapers for one thing, an’ baccy, an’ sweeties, an’ I henna what else; an’ ma sister hes a fine wey for a shop, there’s a lot in that.” She turned to pull the girdle further from the fire.

“There is,” Amber agreed. “I say, aren’t we interrupting your work?”

“Oh, I was juist bakin’ a wheen oat-cakes. Ma man aye likes yin wi’ his tattie soup——” Laura cast a triumphant glance at her niece as if to say “What did I tell you?” “The bairns and their faither come in for their denner at twal.” Mrs. Geddes took a look at the old clock in the corner. “It’ll sune be twal.”

Amber did not quite make out some of the words, but she realised that they were in the way, so she rose and swept her aunt out before her.

“Isn’t she Scotch?” said Laura in a pleased voice.

“What else would she be? I liked hearing her talk. I never knew the Scots language was musical before. I’d only heard Harry Lauder on the gramophone. What a jolly cottage that was, with its print frills and scrubbed white wood. I mean to come back from Australia when I begin to go down, and I’m going to settle and die in a cottage like that. That bed beside the fire struck me as a good place to finish. Australia’s the best place to live, but I’d rather die at home.”

Laura’s placid face clouded: she hated any reference to death.

“Don’t talk like that, Amber, please. It’s not a subject to joke on. . . . Now I’m going to take you to see Miss Hendersyde.”

“Who’s she?”

“She keeps the village shop and is rather a character. The people round made quite a pet of her. And she really is wonderful. Ask what you like, the most out of the way thing, and she has either got it in stock or gets it for you immediately. You’d be surprised.”

The shop in question was not imposing and the small lattice window made it rather dark inside, but Amber saw that her aunt was right; it contained a marvellous selection of articles, ranging from paraffin oil and onions to exotic tinned viands.

Miss Hendersyde herself was a small round woman with bright curious eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. She lived for news, news of any kind, but specially she liked—and owned her preference—for news of “the gentry”. The doings of the people in the houses round had a fascination for her, and her interest was so real that people could not help being rather touched and flattered by it, and Miss Hendersyde was a privileged person.

She greeted Laura with enthusiasm, remarked admiringly on Amber’s height, said she “favoured” her aunt (at which Amber smiled unbelievingly) and straightway began to show them a photograph which the post had just brought her of one of the young girls in the district in her presentation gown.

“Isn’t she lovely?” said Laura.

“Quite a good-looking girl,” Amber said, glancing at it carelessly.

“It’s Miss Joan at the Castle,” Miss Hendersyde explained to her, a hint of rebuke in her tone. “She was presented in May and they came in and told me all about it when they got back.”

“They’re away at present,” put in Laura.

“In the North!” said Miss Hendersyde, “at Strathgair with Lord and Lady Grantoun!” She seemed to smack her lips. “Lady Grantoun is Colonel Hepburn’s sister, you see, and Miss Joan’s aunt. . . . We’re quietenin’ down early this year, Miss Johnson, with Mrs. Burnet shutting up already, and Lady Naesmith taking Miss Janet to India. They were in yesterday telling me all about the trousseau, and I’m to have a photo of the wedding group from Bombay. She takes her cake out with her and everything, but they’re leaving a lot of the presents as they hope to be home in eighteen months. . . . And I was hearing that Mr. Richard at Greystanes is going away for the winter. . . .”

The small light eyes behind the glancing spectacles were fixed on Laura’s face, but she learned nothing from that lady’s casual: “Really! His brother will miss him.”

“What a quaint,” said Amber, as they walked home along a road with high beech hedges. “It must be wonderful to be able to take such an interest in people.”

“You should have seen her parlour. It is hung round with large framed photographs of people in presentation dresses, and wedding groups, and babies at every stage. Miss Hendersyde is quite an institution.”

Amber asked: “Does her interest extend to her neighbours in the cottages, or is it confined to ‘the gentry’?”

“Well, I think perhaps she prefers the gentry.”

“Oh well, it’s an amiable weakness, and few would own to it in these democratic days.”

Laura was silent for a minute, then said thoughtfully: “I wonder if it’s only a rumour about Richard Dalgleish going away. Robin’s said nothing about it, but he’s been looking rather down and depressed lately. I would think a wife would more than make up for a brother, wouldn’t you?”

“Depends on the wife,” said Amber, “and the brother.”

“Richard is gruff and large, with alarming manners—so unlike Robin. But you’ll see them both this evening, Amber.”

“Yes, I’m quite looking forward to the ‘two pretty men’.”

⁎  ⁎  ⁎

Robin always looked back on the day of the dinner-party as one of the most miserable of his life.

He broke the news to his brother after breakfast that there were to be guests to arrive, and Richard had grunted.

“The niece’s name,” said Robin, “is Amber Austin.”

“Sounds like a motor car. I don’t like her name.”

“There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.”

Richard looked up from lighting his pipe and remarked: “You don’t often quote Shakespeare.”

“It was unintentional,” said Robin stiffly.

Later in the morning Mrs. Beaton sought an interview with Robin and announced that if it were quite convenient to him she proposed to leave in a fortnight.

“But it’s not convenient for me,” Robin protested.

Mrs. Beaton merely compressed her lips.

“You’ve been here—how long?”

“Seeven years come Martimas.”

“Well, and you want to leave me in the lurch like this?”

“If you please, sir.”

“All right.”

And she had been followed by the other women servants.

Robin went to the garden, trying to tell himself that it was all for the best that the entire domestic staff should leave in a body. Richard and he had often dallied with the thought of sacking Mrs. Beaton, but he doubted if they would ever have had the courage. Besides, she had her points. Her soups and vegetables were excellent, and no one had a more cunning way with the grouse-bird. She was weak on sweets, but that didn’t matter: he and Richard preferred a savoury. It was a blessing, anyway, to get the rude and adenoidal Annie out of the way, but Jessie he regretted. She was the most incompetent of housemaids, but she was mannerly; she had a fresh round face, and her people were thoroughly decent. Bad or good, they all belonged to the old life, and their going seemed of a piece with the general disintegration that was taking place.

By this time Robin was in such a state of depression that to him the years behind seemed to lie bathed in sunshine, while before him lay a desert unlightened by a single gleam.

He could not face life without Richard. . . . Things kept coming back to him out of the past—Richard, a little chap, brought to see him at his preparatory school. He had been given a watch by his godmother and was wearing it proudly. When Robin arrived on the scene (he had warned his brother beforehand not to greet him with any show of affection) Richard had beamed on him, speechless, for a minute, and then dragged out his new watch and chain and said: “That’s for you, Robin.” It was the only way he could express his emotion.

As Robin recalled this touching incident he mentally kicked himself for a sentimental ass. . . .

They had both gone into the army and met but rarely, but years and distance made no difference to the understanding that existed always between them. . . . Gilbert had been a lot younger: the best looking; the most popular: the expert at games and sport, and they had been proud of their young brother, proud and very fond; but Robin owned to himself that Gilbert’s death had hardly hit him as Richard’s would have done. . . . When he had come home after the War to a house quiet and desolate—his father, mother, Gilbert gone—his one consolation had been that Richard was left to him—-a short-tempered, sometimes querulous Richard, but more thought of than ever by his brother. They had lived together for eight years now, often quarrelling, constantly arguing, but solidly content and happy. . . .

It was a perfect September morning. It had been a dry summer and the leaves were yellowing early; strong-coloured autumn flowers flaunted in the borders; rime lay white on the lawn where the sun had not yet reached. Robin had always liked the “back-end “, It meant that winter was coming, and winter had no terrors for him, with lots of pleasant dawdling tasks to do, a day’s shooting now and again, motor runs to Edinburgh, with luncheon at the club or a gossip, and always Richard with his crooked smile and caustic word—Richard with his pipe and his books to come home to, to tell things to.

And he had given up that companionship for—what? Looking back on that July night it seemed that some midsummer madness had possessed him. Because he had been aggrieved with Richard, because the table cloth at luncheon had been rather stained and Eliot struck him as uncommonly comfortable—he had asked a lady to marry him. A mad—a dastardly thing to do. Esau had sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, but he had injured only himself, whereas, not only had Robin made himself supremely wretched, he had injured Richard, the being he cared for most on earth, driving him away from his home, and worst of all he had injured Laura, who was marrying him under a misunderstanding, who thought, poor innocent lady, that she was going to make him happy and be happy herself, while to Robin it seemed that there was nothing before either of them but abject misery. How could it be otherwise when he would regret Richard every minute of the day? No woman, though she was as beautiful as Venus and as entertaining as a circus, could take the place of his brother.

As he stood puffing savagely at his pipe he saw Richard come out of the side door, moving carefully with the aid of his stick. The sight enraged him. How could he, lame as he was, get about London streets on dark winter days? He—Robin—would have to go too, wife and all, and look after him, and dashed silly fools they would all look!

Old John Kerr—known as John Grumble—came sauntering down a garden-path. He had been head gardener at Greystanes for many years and was now pensioned off, but he kept a vigilant eye on his successor. He stopped now to have a chat, and complain a little as was his wont.

“Useless, thae young folk,” he said. “I tell’t Jims tae hae a’ thae things liftit, but he’s never heeded me. He’s been at the job twenty year an’ I’ve been sixty-five sae I suld ken better. . . . Ay, I’m seventy-nine the day.”

“As much as that?” said Robin.

“Aye, in anither year I’ll be an octogeranium.”

“And what d’you think of life as a whole, John?”

John looked up at his master, leaning heavily on his stick. “No’ muckle,” he said. “On the whole I’ve had a meeserable existence; I stertit to wark when I was thirteen an’ ye may say I’ve never quat sin syne. An’ what wi’ ae thing an’ anither, cauld Mays, an’ rabbits an’ pheasants—ye were unco lax aboot the game, sir—an’ blight, it’s juist been a lang fecht.”

“Surely you had your happy times?” Robin suggested. “At home?”

“Na; I was aye happier at ma wark than at hame. Tibbie hed an awfu’ tongue, a tongue tae clip clouts as the sayin’ is; an’ when ma sister came tae live wi’ us the twae o’ them got on tae me.”

He shook his head at the recollection, and went on: “It’s hard tae say which was the warst, Tibbie my wife, or Leezie ma sister; they baith feucht like wild cats.”

“But why did you keep your sister if she behaved like that?” The old man looked honestly astonished as he asked: “Mercy me, was’t no mair like the thing for me to help ma sister than a frenet wumman? Tibbie was ma wife, but she wasna a drap’s bluid tae me. . . . Weel, the Lord’s ta’en them baith tae Himsel’ an’ I’m gettin’ some peace, an’ the queer thing is, I kinna weary noo tae hear their tongues clippin’——“

Robin laughed as he walked on, but the old man’s words remained with him. A frenet woman, a stranger. That was what Laura was, and Richard was his own flesh and blood. Grumbling John Kerr was more loyal than he. . . . Well, he had to go on with it now—and this awful dinner to-night I What sort of repast would Mrs. Beaton produce?

He need not have worried about the dinner. Mrs. Beaton rose to the occasion, as much for her own credit as for the credit of the house. She would show them what she could do; they would see to-night what they were losing.

“I’ll gie them a guid denner whatever I think o’ them,” she announced in the kitchen. “Hare soup—an’ naebody make them like me. Tweed salmon: a gigot o’ guid hill-mutton: grouse, a trifle, an’ that savoury Mr. Richard likes sae well—ye ken, bacon wrappit round a prune. Ay, an’ coffee o’ the best. That’ll surely dae them. Be sure an’ hearken, Annie, an’ tell me if they mak’ ony remark. It’s a peety it’s no men-folk that are comin’ tae sic a guid denner. Weemen juist fiddle.”

Amber looked forward with some excitement to her evening at Greystanes. She had been amazed and more than a little anxious to hear of her aunt’s engagement to this Robin Dalgleish, for Laura seemed to her no more fit than a child to cope with the world. She had never been allowed to have a mind of her own; she was easy to sway, to persuade. If this man was a fortune-hunter he would get short shrift from her, so when she followed her aunt into the library at Greystanes she held her head higher than usual, rather like a dog on strange territory.

The room appealed to her. She liked the so evident signs of usage: the piles of books and periodicals: the pipes and tobacco jars: the large bottle of peppermint bulls’ eyes that stood beside a collection of Famous Trials: it was a man’s room.

It was a man’s dinner too, with lavish helpings; but the conversation was not as good as the food.

Laura talked to Richard who, for him, was positively urbane. He listened attentively to her remarks about the beauty of the district. Certainly, he did not once contradict her.

Amber found Robin a kindly, depressed little gentleman, and as she talked to him her wonder grew why he wanted to marry Laura. She looked round the rather gloomy dining-room, and thought how utterly out of place her comfortable, suburban aunt, with her Cockney accent and her well-worn platitudes, would be dispensing hospitality here.

“You must be very quiet here in winter,” she said. “Do many people remain?”

“We’re pretty well alone most of the time,” he told her; “but the winter’s never long enough for me. I like the long evenings.”

“What d’you do?” Amber was frankly curious.

“Oh—we’re both keen on reading: we play chess. I—it sounds silly, but I play the flute: we have the wireless if we want it. We’re never bored for a minute.”

“And all day, what d’you do?”

“Oh, I’ve always a lot to do. And then my brother can’t use his leg much so I take him about to sheep and cattle sales, and things like that; it amuses him. We’re a bucolic couple these days, Miss——”

“Aren’t you going to call me Amber?”

Robin looked startled. “Eh? Oh certainly, if I may,” he stammered.

“If you’re going to be my uncle—I’m just wondering where Aunt Laura comes in in this menage. She’s very London, you know. I hardly think she will appreciate muddy roads and sheep and cattle sales, and long evenings in the house.”

“No,” said Robin, dejectedly, “perhaps not, but things will be different. For one thing, my brother won’t be here——” As he spoke he looked across at Richard: “He has taken a notion to go to London this winter.”

“You should go abroad,” said Amber. “Aunt Laura would like that.”

“Yes, I expect we’ll do that,” said Robin, but there was no expectation in his voice.

Amber had caught the look he had cast at Richard across the table, and at once she jumped to the explanation of his depression. He had become enamoured of Laura, as any middle-aged bachelor easilymight, for she was a pretty woman still; the brother had taken it badly and was going off in a huff; Robin was realising that he had made a poor exchange.

Poor Robin! Poor Richard! Amber felt sincerely sorry for them both. But what was to be done?

The question was how much did Laura care? Would it spoil life for her if this marriage did not come off? Amber doubted it. She was flattered and pleased to have so quickly secured quite an eligible husband, but it went very little deeper than that. She knew her aunt. In the weeks she had spent with her she had seen how lightly she took things; disappointed in one thing how easily she turned to another. She was a dear soul in her proper environment, but at Greystanes she would be little short of a tragedy.

And yet the marriage would go on, for it would never occur to Laura to draw back, and however much it might occur to Robin he was incapable of doing such a thing.

They sat in the library after dinner; the drawing-room was so little used that it was a chilly apartment.

Conversation was general, but try as they would, pauses were apt to fall. Amber suggested that Robin would perform on the flute; this he obediently did, and as he stood in the shadow playing wistful little airs on his meek instrument, that young woman felt, in spite of a strong desire to laugh, a curious ache at her heart. Men, she told herself, were, after all, such innocent things; then she almost laughed out as she pictured their wrath did they guess her thought.

In the middle of a bad pause Richard suggested hearing the day’s news on the wireless, and Robin turned it on.

The weather forecast told of a triangular depression off Iceland, and as Amber looked at the three listening faces she thought they need not go as far as Iceland for that. . . . The thing was not working well.

“What’s it saying?” Richard asked irritably. “Is that still Baldwin’s speech?”

Robin fumbled with knobs to get the sound clearer, succeeding frequently in making it cease altogether.

“Isn’t it wonderful,” said Laura, “that a voice should be speaking in London and sound as if it were in this room?”

“Wonderful,” Richard agreed.

“I’m so glad I live in these days,” she went on perseveringly. “Things are all so much more interesting now. We have such unique experiences, haven’t we?”

A baritone voice suddenly broke into song.

“Stop that blighter,” said Richard.

When the ladies had thankfully departed at ten o’clock, Richard lit his pipe and, holding up the mantelpiece with his shoulders remarked, “Of all the rotten ways to spend an evening! It’s so long since I went out to dinner I’d forgotten the boredom.”

“The dinner was good,” Robin said.

“Beaton can cook when she likes. When’s the wedding to be, Rob?”

Robin reddened. “Don’t know. Laura hasn’t said anything lately. She was waiting for this niece: she seems to rely on her a lot.”

“She looks a managing young woman.”

“The servants have all given a fortnight’s notice,” said Robin. “I didn’t ask why. Must have heard a rumour. Nothing’s a secret in this dashed place.”

Richard whistled. “That means we’ll have to turn out too. As a matter of fact it suits me all right. And you’ll be wanting to get the place done up, anyway.”

“What’s wrong with the place?”

“Oh, it’s all right for two old bachelors: but so many rooms have been shut up, and a bride likes things new and fresh. It can be done when you’re on your honeymoon. Will the wedding be in London?”

“Lord knows,” said Robin, turning away.

Chapter III

The two ladies drove in thoughtful silence, but once home, in low chairs drawn up before a blazing fire, Laura turned to her niece crying, “Oh, what a dismal evening! I tried my hardest to talk . . .”

“You were noble,” Amber assured her. “Little Tommy Tucker sang for his supper.” She knelt on the hearth-rug and made tea in a little silver pot, then drew forward a table on which was laid ready everything for the usual bedtime tea, and said, “You’ll feel better when you’ve had this. A cup of weak tea is the best night-cap I know.”

Laura accepted the tea and a tiny sandwich, and sighed luxuriously.

“Amber,” she said, “how much nicer women are than men!” Amber laughed and they drank their tea gratefully.

“What large helpings!” Laura was still thinking of the house they had just left. “I do dislike being helped: why couldn’t they pass things round? It was a good dinner, but oh! what a gloomy room! Those smoked-looking portraits staring at one! Of course it would be quite different if I lived there. I’d have everything changed and made bright, and Richard would be away——. But to-night I must say my heart failed me. Robin has got so morose, somehow. I can’t understand it, for what attracted me most to him was his sunny, good-humoured way. I sometimes feel he’s not the man I became engaged to. . . . Amber, I don’t know what to think.”

Amber leant forward and met her aunt’s puzzled, troubled eyes.

“My dear,” she said, “do you want to know what I think? Of course you will do exactly what you please, but it seems to me Greystanes is no place for you. Bleak and dull, it’s only fit for those two men. It’s what they’ve been brought up to, you can see that they love it. You would never be happy there, and Robin would never be happy away. And another thing, he’d always be regretting his brother. I know for myself I’d hate to marry a man who kept thinking of somebody else—— I can’t bear the thought of you spoiling your life. You had such a long time shut up with grandfather, and now that you are free to have a really good time to shut yourself up again seems silly.”

“But Amber—I’m fond of Robin.”

“Of course you are; in his way he’s quite a dear, but are you fond enough of him to live his dreary round of a life? . . . I thought you might have come home with me for a year to Mother and we’d have shown you something of our country—I promise you, you’d enjoy yourself, Aunt Laura. . . . And I want you to do Europe with me properly. Why, you’ve seen nothing, my dear, and you and I’d have fine times together, for we both love comfort; but, of course, if you feel yourself bound . . .”

“Oh, I don’t know, Amber; it’s so difficult. . . . There’s one thing nobody in the place knows, noteven Miss Hendersyde. Anyway, I needn’t decide anything in a hurry; we’ll see what it looks like in the morning.”

Amber shook her head. “This isn’t a thing that morning will shed much light on. You know in your heart that you’ve had about enough of Scotland. The winters are awful here. You aren’t in the least interested in sheep and cattle and game and fences and things that amuse men, and I’d hate to leave you here cooped up in a dreary house, with all the neighbours away, and nothing to look at but the raindrops chasing each other down the panes. . . . If I were you I’d write to Robin to-night and tell him it’s all off.”

“To-night! Oh, Amber, I hate writing letters and I can’t bear to hurt anyone. . . . And this is so difficult. How could I put it?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Amber. “Here’s a writing-pad and my fountain pen. You’ll sleep better for having it off your mind I knew you were worrying about something whenever I saw you. . . . Just say——”

“But how am I to begin?”

“How do you usually begin? Dearest——? Well, ‘Dear Robin’ will do. Now, how could we put it?

“‘Dear Robin, I fear what I am going to say may hurt you, and I don’t want to do that because I like and respect you so much, but I feel that our engagement was a mistake. We were too hasty. We would be happier merely as friends. It would be better not to meet again, I think, and my niece and I are leaving Eliot in a day or two—I want to thank you for all your kindness and courtesy to me, and to ask you to forgive me.

“’Always your friend,

“‘Laura Johnson.’“

Laura looked discontentedly at the epistle when finished.

“It’s so cold,” she said, “and why should I have to take the blame? Wouldn’t it be better if I said it was because I thought he’d be happier with his brother? It would make me look more unselfish.”

“Oh no,” Amber said hurriedly. “I wouldn’t put it like that. Let him feel injured; that’s the really unselfish thing to do. And now you and I’ll have a really good time.”

Laura sighed as she sealed the envelope. “It was my very first proposal,” she said sadly; “it seemed almost wicked not to accept it.”

“It won’t be your last,” Amber prophesied. (She seemed in oddly high spirits, her aunt thought.) “Why you are only making your debut. You’re as young really as the youngest débutante, for those dull, dull years in Clapham preserved you, so to speak. When we get back to London I want you to have your hair shingled.”

Laura clapped her hands to her head as if to shield her locks.

“But it’s so long,” she wailed. “I can sit on it.”

“But why should you? I hate those coils of hair. They make me think of a nest—a two years’ old crow’s nest. You’d look a pet shingled. Your hair has a kink in it and such pretty lights: and your skirts want to walk up half a yard or so. Why, I feel like your big sister already. Let’s get back to London. You’ve had as much of Scotland as you can stand. There’s a triangular depression, you heard to-night, making its way here, and that will mean rain, rain, rain. Tell the servants to pack up and you come off with me to-morrow or the next day. London’s lovely in the autumn, with the shops full of new winter things, and new plays and—— Come on, Aunt Laura. . . .”

⁎  ⁎  ⁎

Robin and Richard were at luncheon when the note from Eliot was brought in by Annie.

Robin opened it when she had left the room, and sat silently regarding the sheet of blue paper with its monogram in gold. Something in his face made Richard ask. “Anything wrong?”

Robin handed his brother the note.

“I say,” said Richard, when he had read it. “I say, that’s a bit of a facer—— I’m sorry, Rob.”

Robin spent the whole afternoon, which was a wet one, walking hard. Everything seemed to have a new meaning for him; he looked at the hills and the fields and the river as if he could never look enough. He was rather speechless all evening, and Richard, looking up from his book and finding his gaze fixed absently on the log-fire said to himself, “Poor old Rob, he’s thinking of what he’s missed!”

But Richard was wrong; Robin was thinking of what had been given back to him.

The Wintry Years

The First Eight Chapters of a Novel

Now each man’s mind all Europe is:
Boding and fear in dread array
Wage every heart. . . .
— Walter de la Mare

For almost the first time in her nineteen years Belinda Oliver doubted if life was all she had thought it.

So far she had taken everything for granted—the happiness of her home, the love that surrounded her, the good times she had always enjoyed; they were her right.

The death of her father when she was seven years old had hardly saddened her: he had slipped so quietly out of his children’s lives, and their mother—their providence—remained.

To Belinda home had always been such a satisfying place that school had seemed an unnecessary interruption. She had gone back at the beginning of each term with reluctance, and returned home with joy. Not that there was anything wrong with school; it was quite all right, and at the end of the last term she had felt almost sorry to leave. Saying good-bye gave her the dismal feeling one part of her life was finished, a door shut that would not open again. But it had been marvellous to come home to Hopehead, knowing that it was not a case of six weeks or so and then packing off to school again, but of settling down, digging herself into the beloved place for ever and ever.

Then—most unexpectedly—had come the invitation for her and George from their Uncle, their father’s brother, to spend a holiday in Canada with him and his family; the excitement of getting new clothes, and setting off on a great adventure.

They had sailed on the Empress of Britain in the middle of July, and now on the 24th of August they were sitting in a train on the way to Quebec, their holiday broken off because—of all mad reasons—Russia had made a pact with Germany.

Five weeks of exploring a wonderful new country, camping, sailing, swimming, enjoying such a free and open-air life as they had never dreamed of, and then to be swept away from it, as if a sudden blast had blown them out of their proper course.

It was tough.

That was what Jack Lambert had said, “Yes, it’s tough,” and Belinda repeated the words to herself as she looked out on the morning freshness they were passing through, the flowery stations, the silver spires of the village churches shining in the sun.

Belinda, feeling thoroughly disgruntled, thought of all the things they had missed. What they had had was perfect; but there was so much that she had been looking forward to, for their Uncle had arranged to take them to the World Fair in New York, motoring all the way. They were to have seen something of the States—Vermont, Connecticut—as well as the wonders of New York: it was dizzying to think of.

She sighed as she remembered the evening they came back from a camping expedition—was it really only four days ago?— and the luxury of a deep, hot, scented bath and a perfect dinner after roughing it for several days. They were so full of all they had been doing, so anxious to pour it all out, that dinner was nearly over before someone—George, it was; the others didn’t care about news—had asked if anything much had been happening.

There had been a pause before their Uncle said, “Quite a lot, I am sorry to say. Germany and Russia have made a pact.” They had all been impressed by the gravity of his tone, but only George seemed to realise the importance of the news.

“Then we’d better be off,” he said. “This probably means war, doesn’t it?” And Uncle George had agreed.

Things had happened quickly after that. Cabins were booked on the Empress, sailing on Saturday, clothes were packed, gifts bought to take home, regretful good-byes said, and they were off.

Belinda tried to comfort herself with the thought that even if war came it couldn’t last for ever, and she would come back to Canada. Uncle George had promised she would, and Jack Lambert—who had shared all their expeditions and, to Belinda, had added interest and a spice of excitement to everything—had said, “You’ll come back Sure?” and added, “Anyway, if there’s war I’ll be over.”

That thought was a ray of light. No sane person wanted war, but if it brought Jack—— She made up her mind to write and invite him to Hopehead. He had said he would like to see Scotland, his grandfather had been born in Perth.

“Breakfast!” said George, laying down his paper as a waiter came through the carriage.

Belinda rose with alacrity. “I’m glad I’d only time to swallow a cup of tea as I dressed, and that was at 6.30. I’m going to have peaches and cream to start with. George, don’t you like the darkie waiters? They look so clean in their white coats, and they’re very quick and clever, but I wish they hadn’t such sad eyes.”

“You’d have sad eyes too,” George told her, “if you spent your days watching people guzzling food,” and Belinda agreed that it was possible.

They had to change into the boat train at Montreal, and fears that the morning light had dispelled again attacked the girl.

Before going to bed in the Ottawa Hotel they had listened to a thoroughly alarming broadcast. Peace, it said, was hanging by a single thread: suppose the thread snapped when they were on the Atlantic, was there not danger of being torpedoed?

Belinda shivered as she looked round at the other passengers. There were a lot of young men who seemed to have come a long way in a hurry, talking excitedly in groups. French they were; several stolid British couples sat side by side, speechless—she doubted if even a torpedo would rouse them. A pretty fair-haired girl with painted toe-nails was being arch with an adoring young man, obviously a honeymoon couple. Several mothers with daughters, and middle-aged women travelling alone made up the rest.

Not much of a crowd to drown with, thought Belinda. Quebec was reached, and they leaned over the rail and watched the Empress take off. How different it had been six weeks before when they left Southampton. Then all had been bustle and excitement, crowds on board and crowds seeing them off; coloured streamers snapping as the great ship moved. Now there was only a handful of people. The paper streamers were there, but there was little spirit in the throwing of them, indeed Belinda imagined that the watchers on the Quay looked as if they regarded the voyagers as doomed.

With its few passengers the Empress seemed embarrassingly spacious, and as the brother and sister stood sunk in depression gazing at the shores of the St. Lawrence, Belinda said:

“Don’t you feel as if you were in a sort of nightmare? As if a giant was playing chess with the world, and had picked you once up and dumped us down on this ship?”

“If war comes,” said George, “it won’t only be persons that are picked up, but kings and queens. Once it begins there’s no saying where it’ll end.”

“Anyway, it won’t be so bad once we are home. The Germans aren’t likely to notice Hopehead.”

“I shan’t be at Hopehead. It was a bore at the time, but I’m glad now I was in the O.T.C. I’ll join up whenever I get home.”

“Yes,” said Belinda, bleakly. “I’m going to my cabin.”

The voyage passed—not unpleasantly; the chief events of each day being the broadcast after tea in the Lounge, and the cinema after dinner which everyone attended, thankful to occupy themselves with something which had nothing to do with what was uppermost in all their minds.

For a day or two the news seemed more hopeful, and Belinda wondered if they had not been hurried away much too quickly.

On the last day of the trip she was watching the French passengers getting off at Cherbourg, and a lot of English holidaymakers with children and much luggage coming on, when George who had been scouting round came up, remarking: “Things look pretty bad. I was talking to a man who says war is inevitable.”

This solemnised them till they heard another man say: “ War hasn’t come yet, and I don’t believe it will come.”

“And he,” said Belinda, “owns a newspaper so he should know.”

At Southampton there was the usual endless wait before getting off, the usual wild search for luggage when they did get off, and it was after midnight before they reached London, and nearly one o’clock before they arrived at the Langham, the only hotel they knew well. The man in attendance at the office said there were no single rooms left; they had all been taken by members of the B.B.C. as the evacuation of children next morning would make travelling impossible.

As they proceeded to their rooms notices everywhere pointed the way to air raid shelters.

“Haven’t you got gas masks?” the lift man asked.

“We’ve got them,” Belinda told him, “but they’re four hundred miles away at the moment. You surely don’t expect an air-raid to-night?”

“I don’t myself,” the man’s tone was cheerful, “but you never know. What I say is air-raids can’t be as bad as they’re called. Look at Spain. You’d have thought Spain was bombed off the face of the earth, now wouldn’t you? And yet there are any number of Spaniards left. So you see?”

Belinda crept into one of the beds in her spacious double room, looking anxiously at the ceiling, but a good sleep and a bright morning raised her spirits, and when George and she met for breakfast in the familiar dining-room and the waiter, bringing the menu, welcomed them back, it seemed absurd to think that anything terrible was going to happen.

They had decided not to attempt to go north that day owing to the evacuation, and George announced that he had rung up his friend Henry Fielding, and arranged to lunch with him.

“And if Philip’s in London I’ll ask him to dine here. That all right? What are you going to do?”

“Oh, I’ll have a look at the shops. Goodness knows when I’ll be in London again. George, be careful, will you?”

“Why? D’you think Hitler’s spies are waiting to kidnap me? You look for the traffic, and don’t run backwards and forwards like an excited hen. I’ll send Mother a wire saying we’re all right and that we’ll be home to-morrow night.”

“Yes. Oh, George! Imagine seeing Mother and Cug (her young brother) again! Any news in The Times?”

“Well, there’s some talk of negotiations. If we can keep them talking there’s a chance.”

But, later, as Belinda made her way up Oxford Street a poster caught her eye. “Germany invades Poland.”

So that was that.

She walked on to Marshall and Snelgrove’s where she wanted to get some small presents for her Aunt and Cousin.

The great shop was almost completely empty of buyers, and evidently rumours were flying round for the girls stood in groups talking excitedly.

While having a coat fitted, Belinda said to the tall young woman who was attending to her: “I’m afraid things look pretty bad.”

The woman made no reply for a minute, then she said: “Twenty-three years ago my husband was killed, and now my only son has been called up.”

Belinda, feeling that sympathy was impertinent, murmured something and got away as quickly as she could.

She walked down Bond Street and Piccadilly, looking idly at the shops which at the moment had little attraction for her, lunched in a deserted luncheon room, and by three o’clock was back in the hotel, with nothing to occupy her except her own confused thoughts.

It was a relief when George came in with Philip Snell. Not that she had ever cared much for that somewhat staccato youth, but he was associated with happy secure times in Oxford in the summer terms, when war had been unthought of.

Belinda had expected a quiet evening in the hotel, but Philip scouted the idea.

“Do nothing when you’ve only one night in London? Feeble. Let’s go to The Spy in Black at the Odeon. Conrad Veidt. They say it’s good.”

“Leicester Square’s a long way in the black-out,” Belinda objected, but was told there were lots of taxis.

They had no difficulty in reaching the Odeon which they found almost entirely empty. One man shared the balcony with them. It was a sort of nightmare, Belinda felt, sitting in lonely splendour watching a film of spies and submarines, knowing that even now Germany was hurling her might against Poland.

When Conrad Veidt, in the little lonely school-house, gloated over the butter—“Butter!” he cried—she remembered being told that the Allied blockade, continuing for some months after the Armistice, had kept the Germans so short of food that their children had grown up lacking strength and stamina. Surely blockades must be all wrong. But was anything right in war? Her father had been gassed on the Somme and had died ten years later more or less as the result. Her mother’s brother had died at Arras, and she had often looked at the picture of the boy of nineteen and wondered what it must have been like to the so young. Had he really felt as he looked—gay and determined, or was it only what the artist thought he ought to look? Her mother had often told her of his quietness; how, then, had he gone out to kill?

She wished the film would finish. Things were black and dangerous enough without looking at spies and submarines. Conrad Veidt’s face was dark and sad. To the as a spy must be horribly lonely.

The other occupant of the balcony got up to go and Belinda began to feel quite frantic, almost hating George and Philip for sitting there obviously enjoying themselves.

When at last the film was finished and they got out into the inky darkness they had to strike matches to find their way. Luckily Philip bumped into a taxi, and in time they reached their hotel. There they found minute blue lights and A.R.P. officials walking about in a commanding manner.

“Let’s go to bed,” said George. “Everything’s in a mess because they haven’t got used to the black-out.”

Belinda yawning, replied: “I never thought I’d be glad to get away from London.”

Next morning at Euston they found that the evacuation was by no means over. Crowds of labelled children were being herded by teachers, and the trains were packed to the luggage-vans. But after Carlisle the Scots express was comparatively empty, and at Symington—where our travellers got out—there was hardly a hint of anything unusual. Tint lay serene in the evening light, the cows in the fields barely lifted their heads as the trains thundered past; only a poster at the little bookstall reminded the world that it was on the brink of a precipice.

“I’ll see about the luggage,” said George. “Look, if Amos is there,” but even as he spoke Belinda was clutched from behind, and cried, “Cug! you donkey!“

Cug it was, otherwise her youngest brother, Charles; and beside him, wearing his usual pleased smile was Amos Watt, chauffeur and very old friend of the Oliver family.

“Hullo!” said Cug, in his ridiculously deep voice. “How’s Canada?”

As they drove home through the familiar country-side he told them various small items of news.

Belinda asked about the evacuees.

Cug chuckled. “Our lot didn’t turn up. We were to take four, and everything was ready for them, and the little blighters stayed in Edinburgh.”

“For this relief much thanks!” said George. “Let’s hope they keep on staying there.”

“It depends on Hitler,” said Cug, “a few bombs would send them all flying out. But I’d rather stay and be bombed at home than be parked out with people I’d never seen.”

The road lay, unfenced, among low green hills, and to Belinda, breathing in the peace of it, the thought of war began to seem an utter absurdity. The nightmare would pass. Hitler was only trying to frighten Poland: something was bound to happen to stop it.

“Isn’t it lovely, George,” she said, “so gentle, somehow. Why do they put up notices ‘Beware of sheep’? If they’d say instead ‘Take care of sheep’.”

“But beware only means Be aware,” George pointed out.

They had mounted the winding drive to their own house, and were stopping before a white-washed house with many small paned windows. In front a wide lawn swept down to the Logan Water, beyond, a green hill rose steeply. On the left, down in the valley, Tweed ran among water-meadows, a small young Tweed not far from its source; and on the right was a walled garden. To the Olivers Hopehead was the loveliest place in the world.

Janet Oliver was standing on the doorstep as the car drove up. “My darlings,” she said, “you’re actually here. We’ve been so worried about you. How well you both look. Belinda’s grown, I do believe. Had you a very hot journey? I expect you both want a bath before dinner; there’s just time if you hurry. Run along now. Well, Amos, it’s a relief to see them back.”

Amos had been her husband’s batman in the last war, and both she and her husband had regarded him as one of the strong props of their home. He now laid down the last piece of luggage and said:

“It is that, mum. They took a risk going to Canada at a time like this, but they’ve had their jaunt and enjoyed it, so it’s been all for the best. Anything in the six o’clock news, mum?”

“Nothing fresh, Amos, but now that Germany’s moved against Poland I’ve little hope.”

“No, mum. It’s a bad business any way ye like to look at it, but it would be an awful affront if we let Poland down. We’ve done a lot of letting down this while back; it’s made Hitler and his gang think he could get away with anything. We’ve got to learn them.”

Mrs. Oliver sighed as she turned to go upstairs, but it was a very contented smile with which she surveyed the dinner-table an hour later.

“Cug and I have felt like pelicans in the wilderness sitting here alone. And now it seems as if you had never been away.”

“It’s so strange,” Belinda said, “that everything should be the same.”

“What did you expect?” her mother asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. But we’ve been so far and seen so much, and there you were wearing the same old tweeds.”

“But, my dear, you’ve only been away about seven weeks, and tweeds are practically ageless. Besides, if there’s going to be a war I’ll have more reason than ever for wearing old clothes.”

Belinda laughed. “As if you needed any excuse! You should see Aunt Greta’s clothes. She doesn’t share your passion for wearing old duds, and the girls have lovely things. Well, it’s a good thing I got such a lot of new clothes for Canada, though if tweeds are to be the only wear I shall never get them worn up. I took the chance of getting a new coat at Marshall’s passing through. Mamma, Cug says we are having evacuees.”

Mrs. Oliver nodded. “We expected them yesterday, but they didn’t materialise. They may arrive any day, I suppose. I couldn’t but agree to take them seeing we have room, but I’m not surprised that so many mothers refused at the last to part from their children. In danger a family wants to keep together, and a mother is always convinced that she can take better care of her children than anyone else. I expect it is the careless mothers and the very good mothers who are parting with their children—the careless because they’re quite relieved to get rid of them, and the very good because they put their children’s welfare before their own feelings.”

“It’s a silly scheme,” said George. “They had plenty of time and timber to make camps, and it would have given employment to thousands of unemployed. The children of different schools would have had their own teachers, and been all together, not spotted about in all sorts of unsuitable places, and often forced on people who don’t want them.”

“They wouldn’t do any harm here,” Cug put in, “and they might like it. Rachel’s got puppies and there are some new kittens.”

“Poor Cug,” said Belinda, “he’s disappointed. Never mind, they’ll turn up yet.”

“I’m not disappointed,” Cug began indignantly, but his mother broke in:

“I’ll think very poorly of you all if you don’t welcome children turned out of their homes in war-time. It may not be a good scheme, but if it does nothing else it gives city children a taste of the country.” She rose from the table, saying, “Come along, Belinda. I’m longing to hear about everything. Your letters were good, but I felt you were much too happily occupied to put much into them. Come and fill up the gaps.”

The mother and daughter settled themselves comfortably on a large sofa in the drawing-room. The windows were wide open but a small bright fire burned on the hearth, and Belinda said: “One of the nicest things about Scotland is that a fire is welcome practically every night of the year. This is a dear room, shabby enough to be thoroughly comfortable, but with lovely things in it.”

“You’re glad to be home?”

“I’d always be that, but it was sad to miss so much. You can’t imagine what a lovely time we were having. Uncle George couldn’t have been kinder, and Aunt Greta believes in giving young people every single thing their hearts desire. She really is very sweet. Unlike you, Mamma, she thinks her children perfect——”

Janet Oliver smiled. “And are they?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t think so, perhaps, but they’re quite wonderful to have been brought up by such admiring parents. They’re not selfish, but very sporting, and always cheerful and pleased with things, but they do anything they like, and Aunt Greta only laughs.”

They talked on while George and Cug walked up and down together on the lawn, also deep in conversation.

“Look at them,” said Belinda, “so pleased to be together again! Cug drinking in every word George says—Mamma, have you thought, if it’s war George’ll go at once?”

“I’ve thought of little else.”

They all gathered to listen to the nine o’clock broadcast. It sounded somewhat confused and unintelligible.

“I don’t know what they’re talking about,” said Cug, “but I hope we’re not going to rat.”

“Fire eater!” said his sister. “Perhaps there’s still a chance of peace.”

But at eleven-fifteen next morning the tired voice of the Prime Minister put all end to hope.

The Oliver family walked to the twelve o’clock service in the village church.

As they settled into their capacious square pew Belinda was again amazed by the fact that everything was exactly the same. The same people in the same clothes were standing holding their hymn-books in the same way as they had done that Sunday eight weeks ago, when she was looking forward to going to Canada, and wondering what would happen to her there.

Now the trip to Canada was a thing of the past, and Peace was a thing of the past, and no one knew what was going to happen in a world at war. It might be terrible, she told herself, terrible beyond words, but it would be exciting, different: she hoped she would be given grace to behave decently.

As they all stood up to sing O God, our help in ages past, Janet Oliver thought of her wedding-day in the spring of 1918. They had married with war-clouds thick around them, Charles home for a few days’ leave before the expected German offensive. A few weeks later she had got him back, gassed and badly wounded. He had recovered so far, and they had had ten happy years, but it was the old wound that had taken him from her in the end.

Chapter II

“They’re all at war!—
Yes, yes, their bodies go
‘Neath burning sun and icy star
To chanted songs of woe. . . .”
— Walter de la Mare

The next morning they heard of the sinking of the Athenia, and Belinda, solemnised, said: “It might have been us!”

“Rotten game, attacking passenger ships,” Cug growled. “How are the poor Poles getting along?”

George told him: “Hard pressed, the papers say. I wish they’d get a move on in the West and create a diversion. It’s not much use saying we support the Poles if we only stand and stare. But the R.A.F. have been at Wilhelmshaven and bombed the German Fleet, so we’ve made a beginning.”

In the middle of the morning a car drove up and from it stepped a large woman with an uncontrolled figure, three boys and a little girl.

Cug happened to be playing with the dogs at the front door. “Gosh!” he muttered, “it’s the evacuees,” and looked round for a way of escape, but a young woman emerging from the car at once took charge of the situation.

“This is Mrs. McMorran,” she said briskly, “and her children.” After a glance at the paper in her hand she continued: “Is Mrs. Oliver in? I’d better see her.”

Cug dashed into the house, making shrill inquiries as to his mother’s whereabouts. When he found her he breathlessly announced: “A great big women called Mrs. McMorran and her children are standing on the doorstep. Come and cope with them.”

Having welcomed her guests Mrs. Oliver thanked the young woman who had brought them and asked if her task was nearly finished.

“Just about it. Only about half the number expected turned up—rather a nuisance, because if the bombs do begin to fall they’ll probably come rushing out expecting to be taken in. Well, Mrs. McMorran, I hope you’ll settle down happily. You can’t expect picture houses and ice-creams and fish and chips in the country, you know.”

“Away,” said that lady pleasantly, “who’s expecting them. D’ye think we’ve never been in the country afore. When we lived in Glasgow we used to go to Arran at Fair-time to bide wi’ ma auntie, and the only shop was a mile away through a field wi’a bull in it. Uchay, but as I said to Jake—he’s the bairns’ faither, ye ken—better bulls than bombs, says I, so I gave ma name and we’ll try it and see what it’s like—Jimmy, let that dog alone; it’ll bite ye as soon as look at ye.”

“This is Jimmy,” said Mrs. Oliver, laying her hand on the biggest boy’s shoulder, “and what are the others called?”

“That’s Tommy there. Blow yer nose, Tommy.”

“I havna a hanky. See’s a len’ o’ yours, Jimmy.”

“Here, tak that.” Handing him a grimy rag, Mrs. McMorran continued:

“Ay, Jimmy’s the eldest, ten he is, and Tommy’s next, eight. Bobby’s five and wee Mary here’s three—Mary, I tell’t ye no to sook yon sweetie; ye’ve dribbled on yer best frock.”

Mary, who was feeling rather sick, having eaten bananas and sucked sweeties almost continuously since leaving home, began to cry.

“Mary’s tired,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Come and see your rooms, You’ll all feel better when you’ve had a wash and a rest.”

Cug, who accompanied the party, carrying various bundles, thought that Mrs. McMorran might have shown a little appreciation when she saw what comfortable quarters had been allotted to them, but all she said as she looked round the bright airy rooms was: “Weel, it’s no hame, but we’ll need to mak the best o’t.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Janet Oliver. “I know it isn’t easy to turn out of one’s home and many things here won’t be to your liking, but if you try to make the best of us and we make the best of you, I expect we’ll get on well together.”

“Oh well,” Mrs. McMorran said, looking out of the window, “it’ll mebbe no’ be for long. They say the Germans’ll soon be starved, and ye canna fight on an empty stomach.”

“You will want to unpack?” Mrs. Oliver suggested, moving towards the door.

“I didna bring much, ’deed I hadna much to bring.”

“Perhaps your husband isn’t working?”

“Oh he’s workin’ right enough, but he’s got a gey wee wage, and after ye’ve paid the rent and taxes and fed four weans there’s no muckle over for clothes.”

The door opened and a maid came in with a tray.

“Well, here is Jessie with some tea for you: the children will get milk and biscuits.”

“We got tea at the hall when we came oot o’ the train, but I can aye do a cup-a-tea. D’ye want mulk, Jimmy?”

“I want to gang oot. See’s a chocolate biscuit.”

“Cug,” said Mrs. Oliver, “you go with them and show them round, and bring them in to dinner at half-past twelve.” Turning to her guest she added, “I thought it would be better for you to take your meals with the maids to-day. After this you’ll cook your own food as you’re accustomed to. We’ve put an oil-stove into that small room, and there is a sink with hot and cold water and lots of cupboards, so it will be quite convenient.”

“And whit am I to cook?”

“Just what you cook at home.”

“Mercy! I dinna bother wi’ cookin’ at hame, excep’ mebbe at a time a sausage or a kipper. We get baker’s rolls for breakfast, and whiles, if we canna boil the kettle for want of a penny for the gas, we drink Kola.” She gave a hearty laugh, and finished: “And there’s aye potted head and fish and chips and such like, so whit’s the use of dartin’ wi’ pots and pans?”

Mrs. Oliver said, “I see,” and indeed Mrs. McMorran’s remarks explained much—the grey, ill-nourished look of the children and their sketchy attire. “I thought,” she went on, “that you and the little girl would sleep in this room; there are three small beds in the larger room for the boys.”

“D’ye aye keep the windays wide open? I doot we’ll a’ get the cold.”

“Shut them, of course, if you’d rather, and be sure to ask for anything you want. The fires are laid ready to light. Poor little Mary’s asleep. We’ll put her on the sofa and cover her up.”

Mrs. Oliver went straight to the kitchen where she found the cook alone.

“They’ve come, Mum,” she said in a mournful voice.

“Yes, Kate, they’ve come. I know you’ll do your best for them, but it won’t be easy. Mrs. McMorran isn’t like the people we know about here—thrifty, clean, self-respecting women. She’s of the city slums, with very little idea of cleanliness or anything else. You’ve only to look at the children to see that they’ve never been properly fed. We’ll have to start at once to make them new clothes. The boys seem to have nothing but jerseys and ragged trousers.”

Kate shook her head. She was a middle-aged woman, with a stern cast of countenance, who demanded a high standard from herself and others.

“I’ve seen her kind standing about close-mouths, but I never expected to have anything to do with them. I doubt she’ll make a sad mess of our bonnie fresh rooms.”

“She will, but we must put up with it, and when you think of all the unhappy, persecuted people in the world at present, how trifling our small worries seem. Now, Kate, you’ve a lot of influence with the other maids, so if you champion our evacuees it’ll make all the difference. They’ll take their cue from you. Let them see that you regard it as your war-work, making a good job of this little family. You are so good with boys, Kate—how patient you have always been with our two—and I know you’ll get to like Jimmy and Tommy and Bobby.”

“Yes, Mum. It’s not the boys . . .”

The first meal was not a success. The new arrivals refused to touch the soup—good broth made with beef and fresh vegetables. They sniffed at the meat and potatoes and didn’t like the milk pudding and stewed fruit; indeed, “wee Mary” wept when confronted with this dish.

“This means,” said their mother, “they’re no’ used wi’t.”

Kate’s lips folded grimly, while Jessie asked what they were used to.

“Fish and chips and potted heed,” said Jimmy.

“Ay, that’s whit they like, but I tell’t them they’d hev to eat queer things in the country. At ma auntie’s in Arran we were eating wild beasts a’ the time for her man was a game-keeper. I said to her, I says, “If I stay here long I’ll be runnin’ wild masel’. How far are ye from a station here?”

“About a mile,” said Kate.

“Mercy! And are there nae shops near?”

She was told there was a shop in the village, and ejaculated: “One shop! Whit a place! As bad as ma auntie’s. Whit d’you girls do when ye git out? D’ye no weary for the town?”

“I had ten years of the town,” Kate told her, “and I’ve been here twenty.”

Mrs. McMorran was quite overcome. “Are ye telling me ye’ve been in one place for twenty years? Keep us! And ye might have been seeing the world in Glasgae or Edinburgh. . . . Where are ye goin’, Jimmy?”

“Bobby, come on, Tommy.”

The three boys vanished and their mother said, “They’re new-fangled about the country. Ye see they’ve aye been in streets.”

“Is your man joined up?” Jessie asked.

Mrs. McMorran gave her hearty laugh. “No’ him. He does na want to be a sodger and they wouldna tak him onyway for he has a queer leg ever since they drappit him as a wee ane.”

“Then where is he?”

“Where wud he be but at home?”

“Managing for himself?”

“What for no? Hev I no’ the weans to look after? Besides, I wanted a holiday; it was time I had yin.”

“And ye left your man to be bombed!”

Mrs. McMorran was certainly unashamed.

“Ach, he’s no’ feard for Hitler; he says he’s daft. So he is, of course, but as I tell’t Jake daft folk are whiles dangerous. Him and his bombs! I was the only one in the close that came away, the neebors said they werena going to be turned oot o’ their hooses by any auld Hitler.”

“Were you feared?” Jessie, the tablemaid, asked.

“No, I wasna, but the woman that comes round from the Society said I should try it; it would be a change for me if it was nothing else, so I came. It would have been all right if we’d been sent to Rothesay or Millport or somewhere cheery, but I ne’er thocht I’d be sent to the deid country, miles frae a shop. And here! the leddy says I’m to do ma own cooking! I was tell’t I’d be a guest and no need to do naething.”

There was a pause and Kate asked with an obvious effort if the guest would like a cup of tea, an offer that was graciously accepted, and presently Mrs. McMorran removed herself and Mary to their own quarters.

Belinda helped Cug to amuse the little boys until her friend Agusta Boyes arrived.

Agusta was a round little creature, popular with her many friends. Belinda was fond of her and admired, rather wistfully, her engaging softness and charming colouring, not realising that her own face, full of character as it was, would be interesting and arresting when Agusta’s doubtful prettiness had passed into heaviness.

“Darling!” said Agusta. “Welcome home. I’ve missed you simply dreadfully. Did you get the letter I wrote you? I loved your picture postcards. Please tell me everything, and, oh darling, the most dreadful thing has happened. Dick Hendry has proposed to me! Would you believe that such a thing could have happened? If a sheep had got up and attacked me I couldn’t have felt more surprised—Dick, of all people, who hardly ever speaks to a girl. Of course, in a way, it makes it more of a compliment, doesn’t it?”

“What made him do it?” Belinda asked.

Agusta gave her soft gurgling laugh.

“Darling, you aren’t very complimentary, are you? The poor pet has fallen in love with me. So tragic for him, for he’s not my type at all.”

“He’ll get over it,” said Belinda.

“Darling, don’t be so callous. Dick is really a great dear, and what makes it so hard for me is that he’s going off at once to his regiment. I feel such a brute—but I needn’t really, for it isn’t my fault at all.”

“It’s the war,” Belinda declared. “At a time like this people aren’t themselves. I’ve felt very queer myself since I heard Mr. Chamberlain yesterday. It’ll mean such a lot of changes; I don’t really see how anything can be the same again.”

“I know. Mummy says it’s terribly hard on me and all the other young girls, for there won’t be any fun for us now. No one’ll give dances, and it wouldn’t be any use any way with all the men away. And we’ll be expected to get into uniform and drive ambulances, or nurse or something. I know one thing; I simply can’t nurse. I get sick when I see blood and smell disinfectants. Mummy says I’m not really very strong.”

“You look all right. But don’t worry, there’ll be lots of women willing to do the dirty work. I wouldn’t mind being one of them. You’d make a grand ministering angel, Agusta, comforting convalescents and making sunshine for returned warriors. They’ll want something nice to look at.”

“Isn’t it ghastly? When we might all have been so comfortable and happy. That selfish old Hitler not caring in the least how he disturbs everyone. Tell me, have you got evacuees?”

Belinda nodded. “Came this morning—four children and their mother. I’ve been playing hide-and-seek with Cug and the little boys.”

“Are they awful?”

“How d’you mean ‘awful’? I’ve an idea that they’re not very clean, and they’ve got no clothes except what they stand up in and no manners at all. But—no manners are better than bad manners, a good scrub will improve their appearance, and we’re going to set about making them some breeks and jerseys. I believe Mamma has started already. The mother—-Mrs. McMorran—is a Falstaffian person, with a rollicking laugh—I’ve read of such a thing, but never met it till now. I expect that’s why her family, in spite of her size, don’t hold her in awe. They don’t obey her at all, and that makes her laugh more. Cug is good with the little boys and is enjoying showing them things. Everything’s new to them, for the poor little fellows have always lived in a street.”

Agusta got out a mirror and looked at herself, a favourite trick of hers when she found the conversation boring.

“How is George?” she asked.

“All right. He’s in Edinburgh to-day seeing people about getting into the army.”

“No!“ said Agusta, in an outraged tone. “D’you mean to say George is going too?”

“What did you expect?”

“Well, he’s not a soldier, like Dick; he’s a booky person. Why should he go?”

“Because he can’t stay out. When the country’s at war you simply lay down whatever you’re doing and start off learning to be a soldier. George was in the O.T.C. at Oxford, so he may get a commission. If he doesn’t he’ll join up as a private.”

Agusta sighed. “It’s all terrible. Erica’s going to be a F.A.N.Y. I believe the uniform’s quite becoming, but it means going out through the night, and Mummy wouldn’t let me do that. I think I’d better do Red Cross, make bandages and help to get up entertainments; then I wouldn’t have to leave home.”

“I don’t want to leave home either,” said Belinda; “it would mean Mother being left alone. I daresay I’ll be able to pick up some jobs, and at the moment I can help with the evacuees. D’you suppose they’ll really bomb us?”

“Oh, I don’t know: don’t talk about it. Did you hear about that ship being torpedoed?”

“Yes, the Athenia. The poor people! On the Empress I often tried to picture what it would be like if we had to take to the boats.”

“Darling, you haven’t told me anything about Canada—— Were your clothes right?”

“I think so, but as it happened I didn’t really need anything except slacks and pullovers and washing frocks: my afternoon and evening things were hardly ever on. We had to rush home just when I was beginning to want them. We were at Uncle George’s country place all the time. It was sad to miss so much of Canada, as well as the States and the World Fair.”

“Hitler again!” said Agusta. “There’s no end to his mischief. But you loved what you did have. What were your cousins like?”

“Oh, great fun. Twin girls of seventeen and two boys younger. The girls were terribly pretty and smart, and as kind as they could be, so anxious to give us a good time. Both George and I loved every minute.”

“I expect you met a lot of people. Anyone exciting?”

“Well,” said Belinda, “they were all rather exciting, because they belonged to a new world. It is a new world, Canada, you feel that all the time. I liked all the people I met—some more than others, naturally.”

“Who was the ‘more’?”

Belinda laughed and begged her friend not to be ridiculous.

“You’re so secretive, darling,” Agusta reproached her, “and I told you about Dick——”

“I’m not secretive, there’s nothing to tell. We all played about. I liked them all in the happiest way, with no silliness to spoil it. Love-making’s nothing but a nuisance.”

“Belinda, you’re almost as boyish as Cug. Mummy says in some ways you’re terribly young for your age, and in some ways too old. She says it’s being so much with your mother——”

A spark lit in Belinda’s grey eyes, and she began, “What——?”

Then stopped, and said: “Let’s go up to my room. I brought some things from Canada, and you might see if there’s anything you care for.”

“Darling, how lovely! I adore a present,” cried Agusta, rising with alacrity.

At dinner that evening the talk turned on Agusta’s visit.

“How is the Butter-ball?” George asked. (A cure for a child’s cold in the Oliver household had been a ball of butter rolled in sugar, and George insisted that Agusta reminded him of that soft sweet morsel.)

“Just the same,” said Belinda. “I gave her a pair of moccasins, and if I had given her a mink coat she could hardly have made a greater fuss: she is a dear little Butter-ball. What’s Edinburgh like?”

“Still standing where it did. I think I’ve a fairly good chance of getting into the Border Horse.”

“Oh!” said Belinda, and gave a quick glance at her mother.

“Lucky beggar,” growled Cug. “What d’you suppose school’s going to be like now?”

“There will be fewer masters,” his mother reminded him; “you’ll have to work much harder than you’ve ever done, and be as little trouble as you can.”

Cug gazed reproachfully at his mother as he said, “Of all the dreary prospects! No excitement, nothing but grinding hard work. You needn’t rub it in, Mother. Why wasn’t I born two years earlier?”

Janet Oliver laughed. “Poor Cug! I know, it’s very unsettling. But don’t grumble because you’re safe and dull. Think of the awfulness of being a refugee! Think of the poor Poles flying from their home, and thank God that we live on an island.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Cug began in an argumentative tone, but Belinda broke in with:

“You’ll be glad to know our guests have gone to bed clean. Mummy and I scrubbed them very thoroughly. And did they need it!”

“What of Mrs. McMorran?” asked George. “Has she been persuaded to wash?”

“Well, no, we couldn’t quite summon up courage to suggest it, and the necessity didn’t seem to strike her. If she were an ordinary size, but that vast bulk in a bath——”

“Like the Queen Mary in the Clyde,” Cug put in.

“Belinda, we’ll have to be very busy making clothes,” said Mrs. Oliver. “The boys have nothing to sleep in, and I doubt if they have a shirt to change. Their mother says she can’t sew, but she might knit. Poor soul, I expect she feels very far from home to-night. I asked Jessie to go up and sit with her. She’s a kind creature and not so set in her ways as the others.”

“Well,” Belinda reminded her, “Kate and Jessie and Agnes are all pretty old. Kate’s rebukative face as she looks at Mrs. McMorran is a study. If I were Mrs. McMorran, it would spur me on to further efforts. . . . I wonder what we’ll hear in the nine o’clock news.”

Chapter III

As the days drew in thought had to be given to an effective black-out, and the Olivers found out how lucky they were to have shutters on all the windows.

“The man who made them little thought what they would be used for,” said Kate, the cook, in lugubrious tones.

“That’s true,” her mistress replied, “but they did us a good turn making them so well that not a chink of light shows. I’m quite sure that few of the modern houses and bungalows have shutters, and what a worry trying to cover large windows.”

Kate shook her head, remarking: “Ay, war’s a peety any way ye like to look at it, but”—more cheerfully—“this is a gey canny war so far.”

It almost seemed as if people were thirsting for carnage the way they complained of this odd war in which nothing happened. True, Poland was being crucified, but Poland was far away; a country few people had visited or knew much about. What everyone seemed to be waiting for was some really spectacular happening in the Maginot and Siegfried lines. Almost everyone devoured newspapers and listened avidly not only to radio bulletins, but to what “a friend of ours in the Foreign Office” or “a man we know who’s a great friend of Mr. Chamberlain” was reported to have said.

Janet Oliver started a weekly Red Cross work-party at Hopehead. They met in the library, a comfortable place on an autumn afternoon, with a blazing log-fire bringing out the colours in the book-lined walls, and lighting up the face of the Raeburn portrait of a youth, an Oliver ancestor with an obstinate mouth and a heavy lock of hair falling over his forehead. The attendance was good, for, as Mrs. Boyes said, “It makes one feel one is doing something, and it’s a chance to see people and have a talk.”

And talk they did. Belinda, who was rather a silent creature, marvelled at their tireless tongues, especially when the subject was evacuees.

“I couldn’t have believed,” Mrs. Boyes confided to the woman next her, “that in this enlightened age, and considering all we pay for social services, anyone lived like that. Dirty? Simply filthy, and with habits like the beasts of the field.”

“You’ve been unfortunate,” said Lady Petrie, a newcomer to the district. “Ours are really quite all right. They have what is meant to be the nursery wing, and the mother does everything for them. The father comes to see them on a motor-bicycle every Sunday. Quite ideal.”

“Oh,” said a tired-looking woman, “if you can give them a wing to themselves it may work, but I’ve got two boys and two girls—from ten to fourteen—and it’s utterly exhausting. In my small house I have to have them with me practically all the time. My two maids have been years with me, conscientious women, anxious to help their country, but I’m wondering how long they’ll hold out. The difference it makes in our placid household. Doors banging, coats thrown down, muddy boots everywhere, and all their clothes to be washed and mended. We get them away to school and almost at once, it seems, they are back for their mid-day dinner. We tidy the house and back they are for tea. The lovely quiet evenings I so much enjoyed—gone with the wind. They need to have ploys found for them all the time, for they never think of opening a book: I can’t get letters written or anything. It isn’t that they are not nice children, they are, but they oughtn’t to be there. It’s too much to ask of middle-aged and elderly people.”

“It’s positively cruel,” agreed a gentle voice. “I only offered to take one girl and she is quite happy with the maids who make a pet of her, so I can’t complain. But you know Mrs. Honeyman at Greenways? She has been given two boys who are little better than gangsters. Nobody has any control over them. They actually set fire to things! They meddled with a beautiful old clock—a great treasure—and it chimed on for two hours then stopped for ever. They’ve cracked the wash-hand basin in their bedroom—newly put in it was—and broken several windows with catapults. Poor house-proud Mrs. Honeyman! But she takes it very philosophically, says it will get her into training for being bombed.”

“That’s the spirit,” said a deep voice, belonging to a comely elderly spinster, by name Caroline Sandeman. “When we think of other countries we should be ashamed to be so well-off.”

“I’m told,” said a stout comfortable lady who was knitting a helmet—“that Germany is on the point of starvation. Already they’re having food riots and revolution is expected quite soon. And,” she added with satisfaction, “they’ve practically no petrol.”

Someone asked how in that case Germany was rushing tanks into Poland.

“Oh, I don’t know, but anyway their tanks are no use. I read somewhere that everything they have is ersatz—bombs and tanks and planes and everything. Of course they’ll be using all they have against Poland. They’re annoyed, you see, at a small country daring to stand up to them. I think myself it would have saved an awful lot of trouble if Poland had compromised.” She looked at Miss Sandeman. “I’m all for compromising, aren’t you?”

“No, Mrs. Smith, I’m not. All along out leaders have been too fond of trying to dodge things and talking appeasement.”

“You mean at Munich?”

“Long before Munich. But all that is past. Britain has gone into this war as the dragon-slayer, and win we must.”

“Oh! we’ll win,” said Mrs. Smith. “And I’m not going to be sorry for the Germans even if they are starving. It’s all very well to say we’re not fighting the German people, only their leaders, but the leaders wouldn’t be there if the people hadn’t put them.”

There were murmurs of assent to this statement, and a small dark woman, sitting in a corner, said:

“That’s true in a way, but look how often we disagree with our leaders and are ashamed of their policy, but are helpless. The fact is we aren’t nearly careful enough what men we send to represent us. How many of them are merely yes-men who vote automatically for their party? Very few of them think for themselves, and some are just incapable of thinking at all.”

“Of course,” said Lady Petrie, “you aren’t talking about the Conservatives: they are all highly educated.”

The little dark woman laughed. “Well, I expect they were all at school and college, but——”

She stopped, glancing at her hostess who shook her head at her, and a good-looking youngish woman drew her chair near Lady Petrie and said: “You mustn’t mind Merran Strang. She’s a darling, but inclined to be Left! She writes, you know.”

“Ah,” said Lady Petrie, as if that explained much. “Writers are often rather affected, don’t you think? Trying to be original. . . . I’ve heard of Mrs. Strang, but arriving in a strange neighbourhood at such a distracted time we aren’t yet very well acquainted with our neighbours.”

“No, indeed, may I introduce myself? I’m Barbara Jackson. We live at Rutherford, about fifteen miles down Tweed. It belonged to my uncle, Sir Walter Rutherford, and when he died and his two sons were killed in the last war, my aunt—Lady Jane Rutherford—sold it to Sir Andrew Jackson whose son became my husband. Odd, isn’t it, how things work out? My parents-in-law found they didn’t care much for living in the country, and were glad to give the place over to Andrew, their only son, and go back to Glasgow. You must come over to Rutherford when you can spare the time and petrol: it’s rather a dear old place. I am longing to see what you have made of Goldielands. I expect it’s lovely.”

“Well—you will see for yourself. But please don’t think of paying a formal call. Could you come to lunch one day? Thursday, say?”

“Thank you very much. Yes, I’d love to.”

“That will be nice. One-thirty, Thursday. Now do tell me who everyone is. I feel quite lost among so many strangers.”

Barbara Jackson looked round the room.

“Many I don’t know myself,” she said, and her tone implied that they were not worth knowing. “Mrs. Strang, I told you, writes novels. Her husband was killed in the Boer War, and her only child in the last war. She has a pretty little house and garden. Some people find her amusing. Yes, she must be older than she looks.”

“Oh! Who is that rather masculine-looking woman talking to Mrs. Oliver?”

“Miss Sandeman. She lives in an old house in the village, the last of a family that has been in this part of the world for centuries. She is a great friend of Janet Oliver and my aunt, but I’ve never known her intimately. She says that one of the compensations of age is that one needn’t trouble about irrelevant people, and I rather think she regards me as such. . . . The woman beside her is Mrs. Hope of Kingshouse. Haven’t you met her? She’s wonderfully pretty, isn’t she? With her white hair and bright colour and blue eyes, for seventy-odd. Yes, I assure you, she must be, for she’s been married ever since I remember, and I’m forty.”

“Well,” said Lady Petrie, “there’s no reason why a woman shouldn’t keep her looks into the eighties with a little care. It is lamentable how some women let themselves go, simply because they put comfort first.”

Barbara laughed. “It’s a temptation, you’ll admit. Naturally stout women who keep their figures in iron control deserve a medal.”

She squared her own slender shoulders self-consciously as she knitted, and then cried, “At last! Tea. Belinda Oliver and her friend Agusta Boyes have taken on tea as their responsibility, and here they come with their trolleys. I’ll get a small table so that we can be comfortable. Hey, Agusta! Bring something to our corner.”

Agusta wheeled her trolley over and said importantly: “Belinda and I made the sandwiches ourselves.”

“You did?” said Barbara. “They look most professional. What will you have, Lady Petrie? The scones look good and the shortbread here is always excellent.”

Mrs. Oliver moved about the room looking after her guests.

“Do, please, all help yourselves. Lady Petrie, are you getting anything?”

The lady addressed, having put two lumps of sugar into her tea and accepted a sandwich, said: “Yes, indeed, and I’m so glad I came. It makes one more cheerful to feel that we are really getting down to it, supporting the Red Cross I mean. It was certainly very upsetting at first, thinking we were going to be bombed right away, but I don’t believe they’ll ever come near us. It will all be on the Continent, the fighting. Of course,” she gave a resigned sigh, “it means that there will be no Riviera for us next spring, but we have much to be thankful for. I was just saying to Sir George to-day that it was lucky we happened to buy a place so suited for this time; I mean so well away from the sea, and no military objectives anywhere.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Oliver, “and seeing that we are so safe we ought to do our very best for the evacuees. This seems a good moment to talk about funds. We must raise some money to buy material. Have you any suggestions? A Bridge Tournament? Yes, and perhaps a Whist Drive in the village hall? That is always popular. The Priorsford Players might give us an evening—or is drama rather beyond us?”

Merran Strang pointed out that it was a question of expense. “A dramatic entertainment generally means costumes and a certain amount of scenery.”

“But is that necessary?” asked Lady Petrie. “Surely a curtain is all that is needed as a background, and costumes can be run up at home for little or nothing.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Strang, “but I doubt if the Priorsford Players are true Elizabethans. They have high ideals about the staging and dressing of a play. If drama isn’t possible, at least we could get up a good variety concert; there’s quite a lot of talent in the county; and a lecture might be interesting.”

“Then what shall we try first?” Janet Oliver looked round the room, and Lady Petrie was the first to speak.

“I am willing to give a Bridge Tournament and provide for tea. The reception-rooms at Goldielands are well suited for a thing of the kind.”

“That is very good of you, and we accept gratefully,” Mrs. Oliver said.

“But,” Lady Petrie continued, “I must insist that there is no promiscuous selling of tickets which would give a lot of undesirables a chance to enter my house, which they would not otherwise have. Only the proper people must be asked to buytickets.”

No one spoke for a moment, then Barbara Jackson, addressing her hostess, said: “If it would be any help I could send out the invitation cards, Janet. I have my list, and Lady Petrie would know exactly who was coming. It’s a wide district, but there is still petrol, and everyone will want to support a good cause, so that I think we ought to have quite a gathering. What date will suit you, Lady Petrie? And how would you like the card worded. Shall we decide when I lunch with you next Thursday?”

Half an hour later the library was empty but for Miss Sandeman, Merran Strang and Jean Douglas, who had waited to have a talk with their hostess.

Belinda and her friend, Agusta Boyes, had collected the tea cups and removed them to the pantry to be washed, it being understood that they took full charge of the tea.

“Well, we’ve made a start,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Did you think it went all right?”

It was Jean Douglas who answered her. “I think everyone was happy and comfortable and glad to be doing even a little to help. These country work-parties are excellent things; we must get one started in each parish. The Red Cross Depôt in Priorsford is in working order now. Work is being given out on Tuesdays and Fridays at present. You’re on the committee, Janet.”

“Yes, I am, but I missed the first meeting so I’m rather hazy about the arrangements made. You must put me wise. Had you met Lady Petrie before?”

“No. Where does she come from?”

“I don’t think I ever heard. I gather that her husband was knighted recently. They seem very well off. It’s good of her to offer her house for a Bridge Tournament.”

“Not a bit, Janet, my dear,” said Merran Strang. “It’s a chance for her to give a house-warming, which she couldn’t very well have done in war-time, even if she knew the people to ask.”

“Barbara Jackson sprang at the chance like a cock at a grosset,” said Miss Sandeman.

“She would,” said Jean Douglas. “Barbara likes a finger in every pie and to do her justice she’s a grand organiser. Nothing she takes up is a failure.”

“I somehow didn’t feel drawn to Lady Petrie,” Merran Strang said. “That large arrogant face crowned by that absurd little hat (I can just hear the milliner saying, ‘That’s Moddom’s hat’) and her anxiety in case ‘undesirables; should enter the sacred precincts of Goldielands. Do you suppose she meant gangsters or only what Jane Austen called ‘less worthy females’? No, Janet, I’m not backbiting, so don’t look so rebukative.”

Janet Oliver shook her head at her friend, but Miss Sandeman said:

“Say away, Merran. There’s nothing I dislike more than a cautious talker. It’s so dull. . . . Did Barbara Jackson say anything about the Rutherfords, Jean?”

“Yes, indeed she did. Great news. The Harbour House has been requisitioned for something, and Lady Jane and Nicole are coming to Newby; they arrive to-morrow.”

Exclamations of pleasure followed the announcement, and Miss Sandeman said, “That’s one good turn the ill wind of war has done us. I always felt that the Rutherfords were too far away in Fife. Not that Newby’s next door, but if there is no petrol for private cars there will still be buses. By the way, has anybody heard from Lady Jackson lately?”

“I asked Barbara for news,” Jean Douglas said, “and it seems she is so heavily engaged in war-work that she can’t be lured away from Glasgow. Whether Barbara has tried very hard to lure her mother-in-law to Rutherford is open to doubt.”

Chapter IV

“This is no’ ma ain hoose
’Ken by the biggin’ o’t . . .”
— Old Song

With Cug back at school Belinda had to give a good deal of her time to entertaining Mrs. McMorran’s boys, who were now happily at home in their country quarters. Already they looked less pinched and colourless.

It had been found impossible to let Mrs. McMorran do her own cooking.

“Just a waste of good food,” said Kate the cook, who, while continuing to look ill-used, was beginning to take a pride in the improved condition of the children, and an interest in producing dishes which they appreciated.

Far from being abashed at having the cooking taken out of her hands, Mrs. McMorran was frankly glad to be relieved of a job she detested. Indeed, she had no desire to work at all, and did things so badly that the servants in disgust took over the cleaning of her rooms.

“That handless cratur,” said Jessie, “she canna work. Her way of making a bed is just to spread up the covers. I go in now when they’re down at their breakfasts and pull everything off, and turn the mattress, so that she has to do something about it. And sweep a room! I wish you saw her! Then she flaps a duster without lifting a thing. I wonder what a woman like that is for?”

“There’s one thing she likes,” said Bessie, “knittin’ scarves; as long as the mistress gives her wool she’ll sit gorblin’ away.”

“Oh aye, anything that’ll keep her sitting. No wonder she’s the size she is. It’s sheer laziness and drinkin’ tea. What she’s going to do when sugar’s rationed I don’t know, for she likes her cup half-full of it.”

Bessie laughed. “Ach, but she’s a good-natured soul—and wee Mary’s no a bad bairn, and it’s a treat to see the laddies gang off to school well-clothed and well-fed looking. Ye’ve great credit by them, Kate.”

Kate sniffed resignedly. “I do ma best for them. As the mistress says it’s us that bears the brunt of the evacuees. It’s not the same now with them all at meals and Mrs. McMorran sitting with us of all evening: her talk’s always frivolous and whiles it’s down right low.”

“She’s low all right,” giggled Bessie, “but she’s comical too. I enjoy her stories, and mind you, she’s a good singer. They can all sing. Tommy was singin’ me a song he learned at school, and it was lovely. He says he’s never going back, he likes the country that well.”

“That’s what I say,” said Kate, “we’re just unsettling these bairns. They’re so well off here that they’ll never be content with their own home. Think what they’ve got to go back to—a room and a kitchen, no place to play but the street or a back court: a mother bone-lazy, who can’t cook and won’t mend their clothes. I canna take any pleasure in seeing the poor things looking well and happy, for it canna last.”

“Don’t be ower sure o’ that, Kate,” Jessie broke in. “This war may last long enough. It’ll be a business if we get Mrs. McMorran for keeps.”

“She’ll no stay,” said Isa, a new recruit to the kitchen. “She was tellin’ me this verra day that she’s fair tired lookin’ at thae hills, and would give anything to see a row of shop-windays instead of fields. And I don’t blame her—I get gey sick of them masel’.”

Kate looked coldly at her young helper, but all she said was: “It’s high time you were gettin’ the vegetables done, Isa.”

⁎  ⁎  ⁎

It was a quiet mild autumn. As a rule Hopehead had relays of visitors in September and October, but this year few people cared to leave home.

“It’s dull for you, Belinda,” Janet Oliver said one morning, as she and her daughter sat at breakfast.

Belinda smiled at her mother, and laid down the letter she had been reading.

“Not a bit dull,” she said. “I’m having you to myself as never before. In the holidays the house was always full of people wanting you all the time. Besides, I’ve got heaps of things to do, what with the children, and the V.A.D. classes and working for the Red Cross. I’m wondering what we’ll do if we’re rationed for petrol. Bicycle, and use the buses as much as possible, I suppose.”

“Well, there won’t be much entertaining, if any, so we won’t be tempted to use petrol. Did you hear the news this morning? I am thankful Warsaw is no longer being tortured. It was no good holding out: there was no one to come to its rescue.”

Belinda drew down her brows as she said: “It’s ghastly the way we sit here comfortably saying, ‘Those poor Poles!’ and not really caring much. We’re far more taken up about how the Budget will affect our pockets. Mrs. Boyes was mourning yesterday about being ruined; she’s afraid the income tax will soon be 10s. and she says all her dividends are going down. Agusta pointed out that in that case she wouldn’t have to pay so much income tax.”

“And did that comfort her?”

“Not much. It’ll make a difference to all of us, won’t it, Mother? Shall we all be very scarce of money?”

“That’s what one doesn’t know yet, and it would certainly be wrong at this time to spend money unwisely, or waste anything at all. Everything we have should be used to help our country—I mean giving people from dangerous areas house-room, cultivating more land, lending to the Government, as well as working as hard as we can for the Red Cross, and comforts for the troops.”

Belinda smiled at her mother, remarking, “You’re very right-minded, aren’t you, darling?”

“Thank you, my dear: but why am I being handed this bouquet?”

“It’s just struck me. You and Miss Sandeman are rather alike.”

“I wish I were. I can’t think why with Caroline for an example for twenty years I haven’t developed a larger heart. She wouldn’t feel she was living if she didn’t share everything she had with the people round her.”

“Including sharp words!”

“Oh yes. But though her words are often sharp there is no sting in them: they neither hurt nor humiliate. What she has done for the village! Long before Rural Institutes were thought of she gathered the village women to her house one evening every week to set a lesson in cooking, or simple dressmaking, or to work for the Orphan Homes. They never think of resenting the way she goes into their houses and criticises their housekeeping.”

“They don’t,” Belinda agreed. “It’s amazing. You know Jennie Nicol, who married young Herd? A nice girl but very sure of herself! We were Guides together, and I called to tell her about something one morning. While we were talking in stalked Miss Sandeman. Instantly Jennie looked guiltily round the kitchen and apologised for things being in such a ‘stew’, explaining that she had both a washing and a baking.”

“‘A stew!’ said Miss Sandeman. ‘I should think it is. When did you see your mother bake and wash in the same forenoon? And where’s your man’s dinner?’ And she proceeded to give poor Jennie such a row about letting her man come into an untidy house. What I couldn’t get over was that Jennie took it like a lamb and actually said in the meekest way that it wouldn’t happen again. Miss Sandeman has nothing to learn from Hitler! She’s a Dictator all right.”

“Such a beneficent Dictator! Jean Douglas is another of the same. The well-being of Kingshouse means more to her than almost anything else, and her people have the sense to see it. . . . By the way, the Rutherfords are at Newby. We must go over as long as we’ve any petrol.”

“I’d like to. Nicole will hate leaving the Harbour House. D’you remember the nice time we had there last summer? Alastair tried to improve my golf. He’s rather good.”

“Alastair is in the Air Force.”

“He would be. He was mad on flying. What relation is Alastair to Lady Jane? Not a grandson?”

“He’s no relation. When his parents died he was left with an aunt who didn’t want him much, and Lady Jane adopted him.”

“That was an odd thing to do, Mamma. Rather risky, don’t you think?”

“Well, it’s been a happy thing in every way for everybody, and I expect he’ll get Newby; for Nicole seems to have no thought of marrying.”

“That was another odd thing, John Dalrymple leaving Newby to the Rutherfords.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He had cared for Nicole since she was a child, and I suppose when he knew he wasn’t going to live, it gave him comfort to think of her being where he had always hoped she would be—at Newby.”

Belinda nodded. “I can understand someone caring for Nicole like that—even though she is quite old.”

Janet Oliver looked at her daughter. “Nicole old? How absurd that sounds—and yet, I suppose, she must be over forty!”

“Forty! My goodness, when I’m forty I’ll feel like apologising for still taking up a little space in the world! But I must say Nicole doesn’t look her age.”

“Impertinent chit! It’s only to pretty, empty faces that the years bring havoc: beauty of the spirit endures.”

“Still,” said Belinda, “there are a great many beauty doctors, aren’t there? . . . I wonder why Nicole didn’t marry John Dalrymple.”

“Because,” said her mother, “the man she cared for, Simon Beckett, died. He was killed on an expedition to Everest, and she didn’t want anyone else. It’s an old story now—— But we’re wasting time. If you’re not doing anything special this morning will you cycle with me to the village? I’m still rather wobbly, but it’s a quiet road.”

Belinda laughed: “You’re improving. You don’t dismount now when you see an ordinary car: it’s only those great milk vans thundering along, taking up most of the road, that shatter you. . . . There’s a mail in from Canada. The twins have both written—care to see what they say?” She picked up another letter. “We told you, didn’t we, about Jack Lambert, a great friend of the twins, and the whole household. He was one of the crowd that shared all our expeditions. He writes that he has joined up and hopes to be sent over with the first Canadian Division when it comes. D’you mind if I tell him we’ll be glad to have him here when he gets leave? I think Uncle George would like us to be nice to him.”

“Of course ask him here. I’ll be glad to meet one of the people who helped to give you such a good time.”

“I think you’ll like him quite well,” said Belinda, carelessly. “If the Division arrived in time he might spend Christmas here. Then Cug would be at home to entertain him, and—with luck—George.”

Mrs. Oliver gathered up her letters as she said: “I’ve a letter from Cug.” She passed it across the table. “He seems very discontented, poor boy.”

“Can you wonder? He’s so nearly old enough to begin to train that he feels lessons are an awful waste of time. It must be frightfully difficult to settle to study when all your thoughts are with Spitfires and bombers.”

“Oh, I know, but I wish he weren’t so set on the R.A.F. George thinks, though, that it’s what he is cut out for. Anyway, he must stay on at school in the meantime, so we have a respite—— My dear, could you manage to carry that parcel of wool to the village? Caroline Sandeman is in despair for it.”

Belinda obligingly said she would strap the parcel to her bicycle. Miss Sandeman had always been a special friend to the Oliver children, never fussing or petting them but treating them like reasonable beings. They had always enjoyed visiting her house, that old house at the end of the village, which, until lately, had had no lighting but paraffin lamps. Her friends had at last persuaded her to put in electric light and central heating, and make one or two large rooms out of a rabbit-warren of small ones, but instead of being grateful to those well-meaning friends she could not forgive them, and the architect who had done the job declared that he went in danger of his life.

The mother and daughter found their friend busy cutting out nightshirts, in the room she kept for untidy jobs.

“You look very workmanlike, Caroline,” Mrs. Oliver greeted her. “We’ve brought the wool you wanted.”

“Thank you. I’ll take it round when I finish this. How are you, Belinda ? It’s an age since you were here.”

“Not since the house was altered,” Belinda said.

“Altered is right. I’m glad you didn’t say ‘improved’.”

“Well, I haven’t seen it yet, Aunt Car.”

Miss Sandeman folded up her work, and carefully collected snippings from the floor as she said: “I’ve half an hour to spare, if you have,” and without waiting for an answer she walked out of the room, meekly followed by her visitors.

In the hall she paused and looked round gloomily as she said: “Can you tell me what that man did with the space?”

“Space?” echoed Belinda.

“Don’t you remember what this hall once was? Wide, with wall space for my great-grandmother’s Chippendale sideboard, as well as a big oak-chest. Now it is cramped, and broken up with doors, and there is room for nothing. And instead of the old staircase with its shallow steps and graceful rail, this horrid cheap-looking modern thing. What a fool I was to agree to go abroad with my niece and leave the architect to work his wicked will here.”

“But you enjoyed your holiday,” Mrs. Oliver said. “Almost the best you ever had.”

“And likely to be my last, since it left me with so much to regret.” As they went upstairs she said, “Now you remember this was a wide landing with rooms off it—where is the landing now? There is only this miserable passage wandering about.” Miss Sandeman threw open a door, and Belinda cried, “What a nice room! So sunny with its four windows, and your lovely old things look so well. It’s a room that welcomes one, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I don’t dislike it, but I grudge what has been sacrificed to it. I needn’t drag you through the bedrooms, but you may as well see the bathrooms. Yes, they’re nice and fresh and all that, but I was quite content with my old zinc one framed in mahogany: it was a survival like myself, and three bathrooms meant that we had to get connected with the reservoir—more expense.”

“You won’t regret that, Caroline,” said Mrs. Oliver. “The old supply wasn’t sufficient. I’ve heard you say that when the farmer up the hill washed his sheep’s faces before the big sale you couldn’t have a bath for two days.”

“Oh well, there’s too much fuss made about baths in these days. I remember an old shepherd, over eighty and had rarely known a day’s illness, said to me: ‘Baths! I’ve never had a bath since ma mother bathed me as a bairn.’ But I admit I’m quite glad of the electric light. It’s a help now that Agnes and Janet are beginning to feel their years; I prefer paraffin lamps myself, and I dread every day hearing that someone has been electrocuted, for poor old Sandy Howe has had no training in looking after an engine. But I daresay it’s all for the best; I’m a contrary old woman, Belinda.”

“No, you’re not. We loved Townsend just as it was, too, and enjoyed every hour we spent in it, but you’ll get used to it being different, and you simply couldn’t help liking your new sitting-room. When may I come and have tea in it?”

“The sooner the better. To-morrow? I’ve still to hear all about Canada, you know.”

Chapter V

Lady Jane Rutherford sat in the library at Newby knitting, while her daughter, Nicole, read out items of news from the Scotsman.

Outside the clouds hung low, and a chill wind was blowing the fallen leaves across the lawn, but the room was comfortable with a blazing log-fire, and bright with bowls of chrysanthemums.

After a minute Nicole laid down the newspaper, and looking round the room, said:

“This is really the only livable-in room in the house, Mother. Don’t you agree? John must have thought so for he had all his favourite books here, and Mrs. Cousins says spent most of his time here. I don’t wonder. No one who could help it would enter that special drawing-room or that mausoleum of a dining-room—was Newby ever a homely abode, can you remember?”

“I doubt it,” said Lady Jane. “We were never here very much, now and again at a dinner-party—always a formal affair—and at a garden party every August. They were a very formal couple. Though Colonel Dalrymple had a gentle manner one felt that his gentleness came from detachment rather than kindness. Jean Douglas used to say that the only time she felt tempted to be ribald was when talking to him! She said he seemed to sit in momentary expectation of being shocked.”

Nicole laughed. “Poor Mistress Jean, she isn’t naturally ribald. The elder Dalrymples must have been what friendly Mrs. Heggie called ‘very remote people’. But John was very unlike that. He was quiet, but he had wit and fun and was the best of companions.”

“John was large-hearted,” said Lady Jane. “His father was a good enough master, but there was no warmth in his dealings with his tenants. John was friend as well as laird to them all. He loved Newby.”

“I know he did, and I feel guilty that we don’t care more for the place. The fact is I’m homesick for the Harbour House and and the sea and the fishing smack and dear Mrs. Heggie’s parties, and Anthea and her children, and Windylands, and the houseboats. We’ve lived so long among our fellow-men rubbing shoulders with them, sharing in their troubles and their good times, that to live in solitude as we do here, away at the end of a long avenue seems very dull. I wonder if we were right to leave Kirkmeikle?”

“We hadn’t much choice, had we? With the Harbour House requisitioned, we couldn’t very well have stayed on. We were fortunate to have Newby to come to.”

“Oh, I know. It is horribly ungrateful to complain, but it is a dreary house. The moment one enters the lofty vestibule one is chilled to the heart.”

“Well, yes, I grant you the vestibule is forbidding, but the hall could be made quite attractive. Why don’t you try?”

“Mrs. Cousins would resent it. Oh, I know it isn’t her place to resent anything we do, but after all she has been here for a long time, and she cares for the house. She must feel that we are interlopers. And so we are.”

Lady Jane went on placidly knitting as she said:

“It’s quite likely that Mrs. Cousins regards Newby as specially her own, and feels that we are only visitors here for a little. She belongs to the old type of superior servant, who is proud to serve, and whose interest in the house and family is real and sincere. I like to hear her talk of ‘Mr. John’, she must miss him greatly. But she is far too sensible to mind us changing things to our liking; she will merely put it down to the queer ways of ‘the gentry’. I confess it surprises me to see how she and her husband have accepted our evacuees. What a difference it would have made had they been unco-operative.”

“Indeed, yes. I found the dignified Cousins (whom I tremble before) actually making a hutch for Archie McGuire’s rabbits. The boy is happy here, but if no bombs fall in Glasgow in the next month Mrs. McGuire will make for home. Already she’s tired of what she called the ‘deid country’ and longs for the excitements of the Gorbals, and who could blame her? Here’s the post! The event of the day!”

Nicole divided out the letters, remarking, “As far as I’m concerned he needn’t have come. I don’t like the look of mine. Mostly bills, I fear, and that anonymous sort of writing that means requests for subscriptions—yours look more interesting, Mother.”

Lady Jane looked up from the letter she was reading.

“This is from Janet Oliver. She and Belinda are alone at Hopehead, and she wants us to go over while there is still petrol to be had. I’d like to. I haven’t seen Janet since she and Belinda came to the Harbour House two years ago.”

“Well, I don’t think it would impede the war effort much if I took you over in the Austin. We could see Mirran Strang at the same time, thereby killing two birds with one stone. What day does Janet suggest?”

“Thursday, to lunch; or, she says, practically any other day.”

“Thursday be it. . . . Dear me, isn’t it odd that we go on getting up in the morning, eating eggs and bacon, looking at the papers, sending parcels of books back to The Times, taking the dogs for walks, making plans to see our neighbours, just as if we didn t know that a war had started that will move on like a juggernaut crushing thousands and perhaps millions, and changing the face of Europe.”

“What would you have us do?” her mother asked mildly. “It wouldn t help things if we lay in bed and ate no breakfast, and occupied our time having hysterics. There’s no inactivity in high places we may be sure of that. Already most of the fit young men have gone, and the girls are finding jobs. But to us who remember 1914 this does seem an odd war. Except in poor shattered Poland nothing much is happening. It’s a case of marking time at present.”

Nicole got up and moved restlessly round the room. “One feels so useless. You and I, Mother, are just two more mouths to feed. Isn’t there any way that we can be of some real use. I’m forty-five, too old to be a F.A.N.Y., and anyway I’d hate to leave you alone. There’s the W.V.S.—I could do part time there, but is there nothing we could do together? With this house? John would have wanted it put to good use.”

Lady Jane had taken up her knitting again and said in her quiet voice, “Darling, don’t look at me so accusingly. It’s true we are two mouths to feed, but living here on the produce of the place we cost the country very little. And we have evacuees—though I think with you that they won’t remain long, and when they go, we shall find some way of putting John’s house to good use. This war isn’t going to be over in months: it may go on for years, and will need all we have and are. Forty-five seems the bloom of youth to me, but even at seventy, in spite of the Psalmist, one has still a lot of fight in one. War puts us all on our mettle, and I refuse to sink into an old-ladyhood. We are here in John’s place and must do out best.”

“Nobly said! No, I’m not scoffing. . . . At the moment what I need is a walk in the wind with the dogs. I’ll ask Mrs. Cousins if she wants anything from the village.”

“And don’t forget that Jean Douglas is coming to lunch.”

“No. I’ll be back in good time to tidy. Mistress Jean doesn’t like haphazard ways. She told me with wrath that when she was invited to lunch with Tibbie Kilpatrick the other day, she was kept waiting for ten minutes, and when Tibbie did lounge in she was wearing slacks. Can’t you imagine Jean’s frosty blue eyes as she regarded her? Well, I’m off——”

A couple of hours later they sat round the luncheon table.

Mrs. Douglas, white-haired, with a high colour that deepened the blue of her eyes, was talking in her usual emphatic way.

“It’s a positive relief to be out to lunch. Tom is almost unbearable just now. Poor dear, he feels himself so useless. Gloomy! He hasn’t a ray of hope. I tell him if he were in Germany he would be shot at once for depressing the populace. I point out to him that he was up to the neck in it in the last war, and that in a way he is just as necessary in this one—growing food, you know, and all that sort of thing; but does he pay any attention to my wisdom? None in the world. Just moans on about blind besotted politicians. He has lost all faith in the Tory Party, and feels adrift as a weed in a whirlpool. It’s sad to see him.”

“Would he not be better to go away for a little, Jean?” Lady Jane asked. “To London, perhaps, where he could talk to other men in his Club.”

Mrs. Douglas shook her head. “No, my dear. In his present mood he would make a desert around him wherever he went. Besides, he always hated London. Here, at least, he can wander on his own hills, even if he expects that shortly they will be in the possession of German hordes. At first I tried to laugh him out of it, but he resented that, so now I say, ‘It’s very sad that Britain’s going to be beaten’: then he gets angry and says, ‘What nonsense you talk. But we couldn’t be beaten,’ and cheers up for a little.”

“If he had a job,” said Nicole.

“He’s far from idle, you know. He’s on the County Council and he’s Chairman of the Hospital Committee, and various other things. And he has Kingshouse to look after. It seems enough for any man of his years. And in time he will settle down to it. It was seeing Poland battered to death while we did nothing to help her—couldn’t do anything to help her.”

Lady Jane sighed. “It’s horrible. We are all back once more in that hideous morass of hate that one remembers as one of the worst things in the last war. Hate must be fomented to make men fight each other with cold fury, and hate poisons people and makes them less than human. How else could Germans—many of whom we know as decent kindly people—be induced to commit such barbarities in Poland? And they will go from bad to worse; it is a case of the Gadarene swine.”

“It isn’t only pacifists who hate war,” Nicole said. “Was there ever a sillier way of settling a question—to slay thousand millions of the youth of the world and by so doing break countless hearts? Don’t let’s talk about it. Tell us what you’ve been doing, Mistress Jean.”

“Besides trying to pacify my poor Tom? Nothing much. I’ve taken on the Red Cross—you know that? I’ll expect a lot of help from you both. First of all we must raise as much money as we can, by fair means or foul.” Mrs. Douglas broke off to help herself to the dish handed to her. “I’m enjoying my lunch— your cook doesn’t seem so filled with patriotic fervour as our Christina, who seems to think that in this crisis of our nation’s history we should live sparsely. But as we have still abundance, which will only waste if kept, there doesn’t seem much sense in it.”

“Still,” said Nicole, “it shows very proper feeling on the part of Christina. You must tell us what we can do to help. Newby is only a small village, but if we get up whist drives and concerts the people round will take an interest.”

“Yes, of course they will. It’s to be hoped that the people with money will send good subscriptions. Do you know a Lady Petrie? Her husband bought Goldielands from the Carruthers. I must hasten to call on her. I only wish we had shown her some civility before, but I hadn’t realised she was at Goldielands till I met her the other day at Hopehead.”

“We’re hoping to go there on Thursday. How is Janet?”

“Very well. She has started a very good work-party and roped in all the people round. Barbara was there, and is going to help Lady Petrie run a Bridge Tournament at Goldielands. You know that George and Belinda were having a trip to Canada and had to come rushing back? And now George is in the Air Force.”

“How has Belinda grown up?” Nicole asked. “She was a nice child.”

“She’s going to be quite good-looking, and, as you would expect from Janet’s daughter, her manners are good.”

“I’m sure they are. It will be nice to see old friends again. Nicole and I have been feeling rather homesick for the Harbour House, Jean.”

“Well!“

“Dear Jean, don’t look so outraged. We did love our little house and our friendly neighbours, and we miss them badly. Newby isn’t a very welcoming house, but in time I dare say we shall feel more at home, when Alastair gets leave.”

Mrs. Douglas still looked outraged as she said, “I must say, it’s rather odd that you can prefer Fife to the Borders. Not that I don’t like the Harbour House, but you belong to this countryside.”

“Oh, my dear,” Nicole said, “don’t think we’re ungrateful for Newby. We couldn’t have stayed on at Kirkmeikle, the Harbour House has been taken over for something or other, and we would have been thrown on the world. In Newby John has given us a refuge. But, as Mother says, the Harbour House is such a usable house, and having people all round us—friendly and interested—made it so warm and homely. I know now what dear Lady Jackson felt at Rutherford, and why she went back to Pollokshields.”

“Nonsense, Nicole, Lady Jackson was never in the proper place at Rutherford, and knew it. Whereas you and your mother——”

“Were in our proper place in the Harbour House,” said Nicole. “By the way, have you any news of Lady Jackson?”

“Not for quite a long time. I believe she was at Rutherford when we were away in August. I expect she is thoroughly enjoying herself organising war-work.”

“Bless her!” said Nicole.

Chapter VI

The Jacksons were at breakfast in the comfortable dining-room of their villa “The Borders,” Pollokshields, enjoying sausages and poached eggs and good coffee. Lady Jackson often remarked that breakfast was her meal, and though she was as willing as anybody to scrimp for her country, she saw no reason to begin while the shops were full of things, and rationing still in the future. Butter and eggs were sent every week from her son’s place, Rutherford, and she had always kept her store-room well stocked, so there were good supplies of sugar, not to speak of jam and marmalade.

Lady Jackson put all the marmalade left on her plate on to the last bite of bap, and said while it was still in her mouth:

“Here’s a letter from Andy, Father.”

Without lifting his eyes from the newspaper he was reading, her husband asked: “What’s he saying?”

“Well, he seems a bit unsettled, wishes he could do some real work, but I’m sure he’s doing a lot—A.R.P. and all that—and when you think that he was wounded twice and got the Military Cross in the last war, I don’t see what more could be expected of him.”

Sir Andrew Jackson made no comment at his wife’s remark, but asked: “How’s Samson liking his new school?”

His wife beamed as she said, “Fine. He would, you know; he got on well at his Prep school, and he’ll do well at Eton, for he’s the kind that takes life as it comes and doesn’t worry. There’s no place in the world like Rutherford, but if he has to leave it and go to school there he gets all the fun he can out of that; it’s a real good kind of nature for this world, don’t you think?”

Sir Andrew folded his napkin carefully and put it into a heavily-chased silver ring bearing his initials, collected his Glasgow Herald, and said: “ I daresay, but I don’t know why they didn’t send him to a Scots school. Well, I’ll have to be off.”

His wife rose to go with him to the door, asking: “Will you be late again to-night?”

“Mebbe I will. With so many away I’ve got to take my full share. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t take the tram in and out and save petrol.”

“Aw no, Andrew. You couldn’t read your paper comfortably, and you’d find it awful tiring after your own car. We’ll have to do without a lot before we’re through with this war—I know that quite well—but there’s no sense in giving up one’s comforts before we have to. It’s a good thing we’ve got a middle-aged chauffeur, and thank goodness for an elderly cook. I can see the other three are tempted at the thought of war-work, and you can’t blame them. Before long it’ll be a case of looking out for women who’ve already done a good day’s work but feel they ought to go on a bit longer; the young ones will all be in war jobs.”

Sir Andrew’s coat and hat and gloves were lying ready for him on an oak chest, and his wife helped him to array himself.

“I just hope,” she said, “that we won’t have to give up the central heating.”

Her husband picked up his gloves and paper, and sighed as he looked round his handsome hall.

“We’re too well-off,” he said. “Getting soft, that’s what we are.”

“Soft? No fear. Neither you nor I, Father, were brought up to luxury, and though I like central heating and all my comforts it would be nothing to me to give them up for more important things; I’m just waiting to be told. I’m helping all I can in the Red Cross, and I thoroughly enjoy it. And now that all the different committees are being formed, I’m in great request. Yes, I am. Of course I know it’s because I’m Lady Jackson and can give a good subscription, still it’s nice to feel important, and quite often the Chairman asks if I’ve anything to say. All the same, when I look at the younger women—like Mrs. Alston, you know, with a boy in the Navy and one in the Air Force—I feel quite ashamed to be so easy in my mind.”

“You needn’t be: you had your time in the last war.”

“Oh, I had; I never knew a minute’s peace except when Andy was in hospital wounded. My! that was an oasis in the desert! I can sympathise all right. But this is such a quiet war—nothing happening. I only hope the Government’s getting on with planes and munitions, and there’s something awful dilatory about the whole lot of them, and the Germans leave nothing to chance. If they weren’t so wicked you could almost admire them.”

“They’re wicked all right,” said Sir Andrew. “Well, t’ta; see you later.”

Lady Jackson went back to the dining-room and poured herself out another cup of coffee. This she drank while perusing the Bulletin. First, she looked at the pictures, then she read Mrs. Gossip’s paragraphs. More than once she had been mentioned on this page, and appeared in groups reading from left to right; at a public function she held herself carefully erect in case a lady journalist was lurking near, noting that Lady Jackson looked handsome in an uncommon shade of fuchsia red.

When a more sophisticated matron said, shuddering: “Do let’s get out of the way of that camera. Don’t you loathe publicity?”, Lady Jackson made no effort to move, but had an engaging way of standing hopefully four square in front of the instrument. She had feared, good lady, that the War would put an end to all functions, but it only changed their nature. Nothing now could be given openly for entertainment; everything had to be for a good cause, and expenditure rigidly kept down. Still they gave people a chance to meet and talk and wear their best clothes. Much of Lady Jackson’s time was spent in a plain day dress covered with a white overall; giving out work in the Red Cross Depôt to everyone who called for it. She was a success at the work, for she was both efficient and kind. She quickly learned the names of the regular workers, greeted them like old friends and took a real interest in what they brought and took away. She would undo a parcel, exclaiming:

“Well, these are beautifully knitted, Mrs. Hall. They’ll be a pleasure for some poor chap to wear, and you got three pairs out of that wool? Wonderful! Now what would you like next?”

“Well, I like knitting best——”

“No wonder when you knit so well.”

“It’s not so much that, but I’ve three wee ones, and I can knit while I’m watching them.”

“Of course you can,” Lady Jackson agreed hastily. “What about a pullover? Sleeveless, you know. Yes, I’ll give you a pattern. It’s wonderful, Mrs. Hall, how you find time to help us, for you’re doing a big job for your country already—keeping a house going and bringing up three children.”

“I’ve got Jim’s parents with me too. He looked after them a bit, and when he left it seemed better they should come to us. It keeps his mind easier and it’s company for me too. Of course Granny likes to tell me how well she brought up her children, and how economical she was in the last war, but she helps a lot. Grandad’s an old dear, takes the children out to the Park and saves me many a step. I wonder if I could take some work home for Granny? We’ve a sewing machine, and she’d like to help.”

“That’s grand. What about a ‘helpless; shirt—-you know what I mean? We need a store of them, for we don’t know how soon the hospitals may all be full. Uch, I know it makes one sick to think of strong young men needing such things, but war’s war—— This is an awful big parcel. Are you sure you can manage? All, you’re not easily beaten, Mrs. Hall; you’re the kind that’s going to win the war for us. I was just telling Father—I mean my husband, Sir Andrew, of course—how much you and some others do. Yes. Mrs. Linklater, the flannel’s here; I’ll bring it over.”

Mrs. Hall, going downstairs with her parcel, confided to the friend who was with her, “I always try to come when Lady Jackson’s likely to be here. She gives you a welcome, and some encouragement, while some of them look as if they’d never seen you before and didn’t care if they never saw you again, hardly glance at what you’ve brought and when you ask for more work seem surprised and pained.”

“Oh, I know,” her friend Mrs. Martin agreed. “The one I had to-day was as nippy and off-hand as she could be. Talked over my head to someone she knew as if I wasn’t there. If those are good manners I’d rather be without them.”

“It’s a pity for it puts people off coming. It’s mebbe silly at a time like this to let yourself get vexed about anybody’s bad manners, but when you’re anxious and worried anyway, things like that hurt.”

“I know, that’s what I feel. If Bob was home I’d just laugh and not mind. I’ll try to get your cheery Lady Jackson next time. The very look of her makes you sort of feel warmer and comfortable. And the way she calls her husband ‘Father’! It reminded me of my own mother—I suppose Sir Andrew’l be awful rich.”

“He must be; they’ve a lovely house. I took the children a walk round that way on purpose to see it. It’s wonderful what some men can do who begin with nothing.”

“Sez you! Your Jim’s pretty smart, and will mebbe find yourself in a castle yet.”

“Hitler’s seen to that; there’ll be nothing but poverty and hard work before any of us when the war’s finished. But that won’t matter if—— Here’s our car. Come on, Sue.”

When Sir Andrew arrived home in the evening he slipped into his favourite old brown velvet jacket and easy slippers, thankful that the war had released him from the necessity of dressing for dinner. His wife protested: “It’s not right, Andrew; you’re letting us down. We’ve a position to keep up, remember that. It’s what they call ‘morale’.”

“I’m not caring what they call it. I’ve plenty to worry me all day. I want to be comfortable in my own home.”

Lady Jackson said no more, but, as a protest against the shabby jacket, she donned nightly a brocaded robe which she called a house gown, and which, she felt, solved the problem of war-time wear, being easy and yet handsome.

Sir Andrew was suspected of eating little or no luncheon, so there was always a good dinner waiting for him, his wife watching anxiously to see if he ate with relish what she had supplied. He never said anything, either in praise or blame. This evening his wife was driven to protest.

“D’you know, Father,” she said, “I think the effect this war’s had on you is to make you more silent? You never were what I’d call talkative, but now you’ve fairly given it up. It’s kind of disheartening. Do you ever listen?”

Sir Andrew, paring an apple, looked across at his wife with a slightly ashamed expression:

“Oh, I listen. I like fine to hear all you tell me. Mebbe I should try and talk more, but down at the works I have to talk whether I will or not—consultations all the time about this or that—and when I come home I like a rest. It’s not manners, I know. I never was a social success, but you make up for me.”

“You mean I talk enough for two? Och, Andrew, that’s too bad. But I must say I like fine to talk. Life would be nothing to me if I had to sit dumb, and I like an audience.”

“And what have you been at to-day? Red Cross?”

“Oh, Red Cross, yes. And a committee to arrange a big market—just a sort of bazaar, you know, and another committee to arrange a Bridge Tournament for Comforts.”

“And you’ve to take a hand with both of them? You’re an important person.”

“Say rather your cheques are important, Father. I wouldn’t be on the committees but for them. Not that I don’t pull my weight as the saying is; I’m quite a good organiser—— Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you; I had to go in to Wylie & Lochhead about something, and when I was there I thought I’d take a cup of tea. Committees make me awfully thirsty, and who should I see but Lady Petrie. You remember we were in the same hotel at Harrogate, September a year ago? You and her husband—what was his name, Sir Robert?—got quite friendly; you both had a touch of neuritis. Funny! They’ve bought a house in the Borders, called Goldielands, a bit further up Tweed than Rutherford. They only got in in July, and feel themselves very fortunate to be settled in such a safe place. It gave me a queer kind of feeling to hear about all they had done to the house, and so on; it reminded me of our going to Rutherford, such a long time ago now. Looking back it all seems so nice, though, living through it, we had many an anxious moment. D’you remember how nobody came to call at first, and I used to sit and wait all dressed up? It was Mrs. Douglas that changed all that, egged on by Nicole, I always believe. . . . Lady Petrie says she has met Barbara at a work party, and Barbara’s going to help her with something she is getting up. She said it would be awful nice if you and I went to Goldielands for a week-end, and they’d take us down to Rutherford. What d’you think of that, Andrew?”

Sir Andrew moved uneasily in lais chair.

“Oh, I don’t know. Petrie’s quite a decent wee man, but a week-end’s a long time to live with strangers. If I wanted to go anywhere (which I don’t) I’d go to Rutherford and see Andy.”

“Yes, but we can’t be going there too often. Andy would like us every week-end, but you can’t wonder if Barbara soon feels that she has had enough. I think quite often she finds me a bit over-powering, poor thing. I wouldn’t mind having a couple of nights with the Petries, though her ladyship talks big sometimes, and she has that nasty habit of calling everything ‘My’: I mean, she might say ‘My’ drawing-room, I own, but she needn’t say ‘my’ car, ‘my’ chauffeur, ‘my’ butler. I warrant it’s her husband pays them. She thought she was impressing me when she mentioned her butler, but I was ready for her. I just said, airy-like, that I hoped he would be as great a comfort to her as Johnston was to us at Rutherford. I wouldn’t take anything from Lady Petrie; I’m as good as she is. When I sing small is when I’m with the real Mackay—people whose titles sit as naturally on them as a lid on a pitcher. Like Lady Jane. You can’t imagine her showing off, can you?”

“She’s no call to show off.”

“That’s just it. It’s different with Lady Petrie and me. We’ve climbed up a bit, but we’ve got to assert ourselves or we’ll be pushed aside. Uch, but it’s a great game; I quite enjoy it. Though there’s sometimes back-biting and jealousy, you don’t need to mind, and I find that most people get nicer the better you know them. Of course it’s been a great advantage to me to have had the experience of being County. I think we were wise to give up Rutherford to Andy and Barbara, but the fact that we had the place gives us a kind of halo, if you know what I mean.”

Her husband yawned and said, “No, I don’t. And, mind, I’m not going to the Petries.”

“Well, the invitation may never come. Folk don’t always fly where they flap their wings. Oh, Father, have you brought home work? I hoped we could sit by the fire and talk.”

Chapter VII

“It’s hame fain I wad be.”
— Old Song

It was in the beginning of November that Mrs. McMorran, evacuee at Hopehead, made up her mind that the time had come for her to return to her home and husband. She was standing in her bedroom (just put to rights by Jessie) looking idly out of the window. It was raining and an east wind was blowing the last of the leaves from the trees: Tweed ran drearily and dark. Mrs. McMorran shook her head. “What a place!” she murmured. “I’m fair sick—seeing nothing but hills.” Then a thought struck her. Why should she go on looking at them? What was to hinder her going back to her own wee house? Cosy it was and just the right size: who would want to live in a big house, all stairs and passages? The drought of her own arm-chair with the springs all broken—that stood by the fireside in the kitchen—and her man with his pipe in one on the other side, and always someone looking in, or something happening, and housekeeping so easy with a fish and chips at the corner, and ice-creams at hand. What she and the children had been missing all these weeks! Of course here it was an easy life; she had seen to it that she did nothing she could help, and Kate was there to cook, but a body got tired of everlasting soup and meat and pudding every day. Tea and something to it made a far more satisfactory meal to her mind. They would be sure to make a fuss about her taking away the children; Kate was so proud that the boys had put on weight and had some colour in their faces. Well, she could keep them if she liked. She would have Mary. Three mouths less to feed. Mrs. Oliver was quite a nice body; she would see that they came to no harm, and when they got tired of the country (as they were bound to do in time) they could come home. As for bombs—if they were coming they would just need to come, but it wasn’t likely. This wasn’t a right war anyway, nothing much was happening. Mebbe Hitler was just having a game with us. Had any one tried speaking up to him? Not likely, and she imagined herself confronting the Ogre. Who had a better right—a British housewife and the mother of four?

Her vision of herself confronting Hitler and intimidating him into stopping the war was interrupted by Isa’s voice coming up the back stairs. “Mrs. McMorran, d’ye want any tea?”

“I can always do a cup-a-tea,” she replied, and as she went downstairs she made up her mind that she would tell Mrs. Oliver she was leaving the next day.

After two cups of strong, well-sweetened tea, and some badinage with Isa—who was more to her hiring than the other servants—she announced that she wanted to speak to Mrs. Oliver.

“Anything wrong?” asked Bessie, and Kate the cook said the Mistress was busy writing letters and wouldn’t like to be interrupted unless it was something of importance.

“Oh, it’s important all right,” said Mrs. McMorran, and marched off.

Mrs. Oliver looked up from the letter she was writing and asked, “Did you want something, Mrs. McMorran?”

“No’ me, I want nothing. I just came to tell ye that I’m off the morn’s morning.”

Janet Oliver laid down her pen.

“Dear me!” she said. “Isn’t this very sudden?”

“No’ that awful’ suddin. I’ve been gettin’ mair fed-up every day, and thae hills are gettin’ fair on ma nerves, and the quiet, and nae shops, and nowhere to gang, and the days gettin’ that short and no’ a picture-hoose within reach.”

“Won’t you sit down?” Mrs. Oliver pulled forward a chair. “I know it must be very dull for you, but the children are happy here, and the boys have settled down well at school——”

“Ay,” Mrs. McMorran broke in, “that’s true, and if they dinna want to come hame they can bide, but ma own Mary’s going the morn. Ye see, it’s time I was lookin’ after things. Guid ken what the hoose’ll be like, and I’ve never had the scrape o’ a pen from Jake. For anything I ken he may be awa’ for a sodger, though it’s no’ likely for they would be fair beat for men afore they took him, pair soul. But he’s ma man and the faither o’ ma bairns, and I dinna want to lose him a’ thegether.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Oliver, “we can’t keep you here if you really feel you ought to go home, but I’m disappointed. Certainly the boys can remain here if they are willing, but you do realise, don’t you, that you are taking a risk with Mary? Though things seem quiet and secure just now, we don’t know when and where Hitler may strike.”

In reply Mrs. McMorran gave one of her capacious laughs. “Aw him! Who’s feared for Charlie Chaplin?”

“Did you say you wanted to go to-morrow?”

“Ay, I’d like to be hame for the week-end. Mind, I’ve naething against you, Mrs. Oliver; it’s just that I canna bide the country and I want ma ain wee hoose. A big hoose is awfu’ like an institution, ye ken what I mean? We may a’ land in an institution before we dee, but keep oo’t as long’s ye can is ma advice.”

“I’m sorry you feel like that about Hopehead, but I quite understand how much your own fireside means to you. You’ll come out and see the boys sometimes, won’t you? I’d better send a wire to your husband to expect you to-morrow.”

“Oh mercy, dinna dae that. Jake wud get an awfu’ fricht; he’s no used to wires. Na, na, we’ll just walk in, me and wee Mary, and it’s to be hoped we get a welcome, but ye ne’er ken wi’ Jake. D’ye think the war’ll last long?”

“I’ve no idea, but I’m afraid it may last for years. It’s not a pleasant prospect for any of us, but we must make the best of it.”

“An’ if it lasts for years will ye keep on wi’ Jimmy and Tommy and Bobby?”

“Well, we can’t see into the future, but if things remain as they are at present, and the boys are willing to stay we shall certainly keep them.”

“That’s something to tell Jake, and I’ll gie the laddies orders to behave themselves or they’ll be turned oot.”

Satisfaction beamed from Mrs. McMorran’s face as she saw herself with only Mary to provide for.

“How’ll we get doon to Priorsford for the Edinburgh bus in the morning?”

“That will be all right. Someone is always down with the car on Friday.”

“Then everything’s settled. I’ll tell the laddies when they come in for their dinner, and Isa’ll help me to pack our bits o’ things—somebody’ll need to lend me something to put them in, for I’m takin’ back mair than I brought, wi’ one and another giving me things they didna’ need.”

Janet Oliver turned to her daughter who had been a silent third in the interview.

“Belinda, you might look in the box-room for a case or bag that we can do without.” She rose. “That’s everything is it, Mrs. McMorran? You will let me know whether the boys want to go or stay?”

Mrs. McMorran heaved herself out of her chair and with a kindly nod said, “A’ richt then,” she left the room.

When the door closed behind her Belinda looked at her mother and grinned broadly.

“That’s that. I think I’m rather sorry Mrs. McMorran is going.”

“So am I in a way, but I doubt if we could have kept her much longer without a revolt in the kitchen. It seems she looks on Isa as her personal attendant, and keeps her so busy waiting on her and ‘wee Mary‘ that Jessie said neither she nor Bessie got any use of her.”

“Oh, her impertinence is almost as colossal as her figure. I believe she regards her presence in Hopehead as a favour, so that any thing in the way of gratitude must seem to her quite superfluous. What about the boys? D’you think they’ll want to stay?”

“I hope so. I’d be very sorry to see them go. The schoolmaster tells me that they were happy in their school-work and are getting interested in country things and showing a lot of intelligence.”

“Poor little city-sparrows,” said Belinda. “Jimmy’s a particularly nice boy. He is Kate’s favourite. D’you know that he does his lessons beside her in the evening, and she helps him with his sums? She has covered all his school-books for him, and he is getting tidier every day, all owing to her influence.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Kate will get more out of it than Jimmy. She has always been so wrapped up in herself.”

Belinda laughed. “She is rather a self-righteous old thing. Don’t you think that of all the human race self-righteous people are the most difficult to like?”

“Well, perhaps. But they’re dependable, and that’s a tremendous lot. I feel that if Kate left we would crumble as a household. She has been a good friend and stand-by to me for many years. But I must get on with my letters. There was one I wanted to speak to you about. Here it is. From Barbara Jackson about the Bridge Tournament. What are we supposed to do about it?”

Belinda glanced through the letter, and said:

“Nothing, really. Lady Petrie and Barbara are doing everything. The tea is to be purveyed from Edinburgh: no expense spared. Agusta and I are to make ourselves generally useful—running errands and emptying ash-trays, and so forth. Her Ladyship and Barbara make a good team—Mamma, isn’t Barbara Jackson very unlike Nicole? They were brought up together, weren’t they? Cousins or something?”

“Yes. Barbara’s mother was a Rutherford. She married a man called Burton. She and her husband both died when Barbara was quite a child, and Lady Jane brought her up with her own. They were a very happy household till the war came. Both the boys were killed, and their father never got over it. When he died Rutherford was sold to the Jacksons from Glasgow. When the son married Barbara, the parents went back to Glasgow. Barbara has made a very good wife.”

Chapter VIII

Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Jackson were having lunch alone together on the day of the Red Cross Bridge Tournament at Goldielands, an excellent lunch, for Barbara prided herself on her housekeeping.

Coffee had been brought in when Barbara said:

“I do think, Andy, you might come this afternoon, more especially as I’m more or less running the show. As a stranger in the neighbourhood Lady Petrie needed someone to help her. She is really most generous, having the tea purveyed from Edinburgh, and giving very handsome prizes, but I had to induce the people to come, and we’re going to have what the press likes to call a ‘representative gathering’. It’s absurd of you to say you haven’t time. I’m only asking you to turn up about four-thirty for tea. A lot of people who didn’t want to play bridge are doing that—people from a distance.”

Andy Jackson dropped candy-sugar very deliberately into his cup as he said, “It breaks up the whole afternoon. I can’t get on with anything when I know I’ve to change and go out to tea.”

His wife continued as if she had not heard him:

“There won’t be many men there, and you would be a support to Sir Robert.”

“Sir Robert Petrie would be surprised to know that he needed support. By the way, my mother says in her letter this morning that she and my father are coming to Goldielands for next weekend.”

“How amazing,” said Barbara. “Now that I think of it Lady Petrie did say something about having met your parents—in Harrogate, I think. Well, we must ask them all here to something. Would Sunday lunch be best, or dinner on Saturday night? I’d better give Lady Petrie the choice. You must come and be civil this afternoon after that.”

“After what? Inviting the parents? Jolly nice of them to accept, though I can’t see why they should want to go to the Petries for a week-end.”

“Oh! they must have a good deal in common, don’t you think? And your Mother always likes to see other people’s houses.”

“That’s true. But I’m surprised at my father letting himself in for a week-end with strangers.”

“Your Mother must have persuaded him. It’s persistence that removes mountains. Well, what about it? Will you come to tea?”

“It’s a waste of petrol to use two cars.”

“I tell you what,” said Barbara, “walk over to Newby and beg a lift from Aunt Jane. She and Nicole are going, and they’d love your company. You’ve hardly seen them since they came to Newby. When I lunched there on Tuesday Aunt Jane asked if you were too busy even to give them a greeting. There’s no sense in being rude to relations, even if there is a war.”

“How true! Do they feel at home, d’you think, at Newby?”

“Why shouldn’t they? It’s a much more fitting place for Aunt Jane than the Harbour House. Nicole pretends, of course, to love being surrounded by fisher-folk and Mrs. Heggie and others of her kind.”

“Where does the pretence come in?” Andy asked as he rose from the table. “Nicole may surely be allowed her own preferences for places and people.”

“Oh, I daresay; anyway I should have remembered that everything Nicole says or does is perfect in your eyes.”

“Nonsense, my dear.” Andy lit a cigarette. “I hope your show is the success it deserves to be.”

“I’ve certainly done my best for it. It remains to be seen what sort of a hostess Lady Petrie makes. I’ll ring up Newby and tell them you’ll be there in good time.”

Andy was welcomed by Nicole with: “Oh, poor Andy, are you another martyr?”

“Don’t be absurd, Nicole,” her mother said. “I’ve no doubt we’ll all enjoy the party immensely. How good of you to come, Andy. You must be very busy.”

“Well, not importantly busy—but I hate parties.”

“But this is for the Red Cross,” Lady Jane reminded him, “and it will be interesting to see Goldieland’s new owners. We haven’t met the Petries.”

“I have,” said Andy.

Nicole laughed. “It’s like that, is it? Oh, Andy, it’s nice to see you again, looking so like yourself: it makes Newby more home-like—there’s the car. Barbara warned us to be in good time. Don’t you play bridge, Andy?”

“Only when I can’t help it, and never in the afternoon. I don’t deny it’s an excellent way of putting in the time when there are people in the house, but an awful waste when one might be reading.”

“That’s what I feel,” said Nicole, as they went out to the car, “for no matter how long we live we’ll never be able to read half the books we want to, not to speak of the books we want to reread again and again. And now with a war on, we’ll feel almost guilty if we lift a book.”

“I don’t agree,” Lady Jane said. “My own idea is that reading will be the greatest comfort we have in the years to come, and books our most precious treasure.”

“I daresay you’re right,” Andy said. “. . . What does it feel like to be living at Newby?”

“Well——” began Lady Jane, and stopped.

“Rather grim,” said Nicole. “The absurd thing is that for years in Kirkmeikle we were so homesick for Tweedside we could hardly let ourselves think of the blessed place, and now that we are back we pine for the Harbour House and the smell of the sea, and the intimacy of the little houses crowding round us, and our friendship with the people in them. At Newby we feel like pelicans in the wilderness, cut off from our kind by a long avenue, large unfriendly rooms echoing round us, and the worst of it is that it is John’s house, that he left to us, expecting us to be happy back on our own countryside.”

“Yes,” said Andy, “John would expect you to be happy at Newby. . . . But why worry? Give yourselves time. You had got comfortably dug in at the Harbour House; you liked the intimate atmosphere of a small town like Kirkmeikle, and you miss all your friends there. But, after all, this is your own place, you belong here: Newby is now your responsibility——”

“That is what’s so worrying,” Nicole broke in, while her Mother said, “We want to put John’s house to some good use.”

“Of course you do,” said Andy. “But the war is hardly begun yet, and it’s not going to be over for a long time. As things develop you’ll see what is most needed. Meantime, couldn’t you set about making Newby more of a home? You know, less formal and cold. You needn’t feel disloyal to John when you criticise it. ‘A drang old barracks’ is what he called it.”

Nicole said, “Oh Andy! It’s good to have you to talk to. Why have you been so long in coming to see us? Are you so very busy?”

“In a way, but it seems such futile ‘busy-ness.’ This is a war of young men; I’d be no use in the Army, and yet one can’t help feeling a slacker, living here in comfort and safety doing the small jobs that are expected of one. But it’s no use fussing; a way may open up.”

There was a silence, till Nicole, looking out at the darkening scene, broke it:

“Tweed is a ‘wan water’ to-day, and how desolate those hillsides look. It’s difficult to believe that in one of those wild grim glens we shall find a scene of revelry, a brightly-lit house, blazing fires. Goldielands in the Carruthers’ time rather belied its name: it was shabby. You remember, Mother?”

“Yes,” said Lady Jane. “Edith Carruthers used to say that they were just hanging on by the skin of their teeth; with little money for necessary repairs, only able to patch here and there, and if anything big happened, like the roof threatening to fall in, they would have to go.”

“I’m told,” said Andy, “that Petrie has practically gutted the place and workmen have been in it for months.”

“Then it isn’t Goldielands any longer,” said Nicole, “but Petrielands. . . . Here we are.”

The front door was opened to them by an elderly butler who looked as if he might have walked straight out of a drawing-room comedy; a log-fire blazed in the hall with its dim-coloured rugs and period furniture, and Lady Petrie, imposing in purple, stood with Barbara Jackson at her elbow, receiving the guests.

Barbara said: “My husband you’ve already met, but I don’t think you know my aunt, Lady Jane Rutherford and her daughter Nicole.”

Lady Petrie extended her hand. “How nice of you to come, Lady Jane, and your daughter, too. We have quite a gathering here to-day, have we not? Indeed, we might call it a housewarming. One is allowed, I suppose, to have such a thing even in war-time, if it’s for a benevolent purpose.”

“Indeed yes,” murmured Lady Jane, looking about her in rather a dazed way.

Lady Petrie continued:

“I expect you knew Goldielands in its former state, so it will be interesting to know what you think of the improvements we have made. We got the best advice, and experts were employed to do the work, and the result I think—— Ah! more arrivals. We shall meet later, Lady Jane.”

While Barbara introduced the guests to their hostess, her husband herded his two companions into the dining-room and secured a table set with cups and saucers and plates of eatables.

“Well!” he said, “I call this a rich profusion. Barbara said it would be well done, and she was right.”

“China or Indian?” said a waitress.

The choice made, they looked round the room which was already well filled.

“Isn’t that Merren Strang?” said Lady Jane. “Just come in, standing near the door. Oh, Andy, would you go and ask her to come over here? I haven’t seen her for ages.”

Andy got up obediently, and manoeuvred his way through the throng.

“Mrs. Strang,” he said, addressing a small woman with greying hair, “will you come and have tea at our table? Lady Jane is there and Nicole.”

“Indeed I shall, with pleasure. I was just wondering if I knew anyone, and feeling rather lost——”

“I’ll go first,” said Andy, “and push if necessary: it’s a seething mass.”

Mrs. Strang was warmly welcomed by her old friends, and sank down in her chair transfixed at the display on the table.

“I am sorry Rebecca Brand isn’t with me (she’s in bed with a sick headache), for nothing so raises her spirits as the sight of a well-spread tea-table. I must remember what is on each plate—brown bread, white bread, hot scones, cakes of every description.”

“I am glad you still have Miss Brand,” said Lady Jane.

“Yes. I couldn’t very well do without her now. She is someone to come home to, someone who really cares. Of course we quarrel most of the time because I’m not the easiest of people and Rebecca exasperates me almost to madness, but I’ve an affection for her, and I respect her. But how we’ll live through a war together, I don’t pretend to know, for Rebecca has a passion for saving and hoarding at any time, and a great national crisis gives her the best of excuses to indulge her passion. But ‘sufficient unto the day.’ Let’s talk of other things.”

She looked round the room.

“Well, well, the old order changeth with a vengeance, and all for the best, I daresay; but there was something very nice about the shabby Goldielands that we knew.”

“Something very nice,” Lady Jane agreed, “and the Carruthers had such welcoming ways that coming here was always a treat. You remember . . .” And they fell into reminiscences of other days.

In a pause Andy said, “Listen to the roar of a successful party: it’s rather like the Zoo.”

“When one thinks what it is for,” said Mrs. Strang. “The Red Cross and what that means.” She looked at Lady Jane. “Doesn’t your heart sink? We’ve seen three wars, you and I, and it’s too much.”

The look that Lady Jane gave her friend was full of understanding, and she said:

“No one will stand up better than you, Merren, to whatever may come to us. Do tell me . . .”

Nicole turned to her companion.

“Isn’t it difficult to believe that we’re a country at war?”

“You mean because we are all sitting here eating a jolly good tea and going home to eat an equally good dinner, and because we’re exchanging smiles and badinage with our neighbours? D’you object?”

“No, not exactly, but it seems odd. Oughtn’t we to have started from the word ‘Go’ to put everything we have and all into the war. ‘Business as usual’ was the slogan in 1914. ‘Nothing as usual’ seems to me wiser. Doesn’t it seem to you even now that there’s a lack of drive, a spirit of dilly-dally, as if we didn’t quite believe that Germany really meant it?”

Andy took out a cigarette and fumbled for his lighter.

“I know what you mean, but just think how little we know of what is going on. Everything in a war must be so secret. Remember, too, that we’re a peace-loving people, reluctant to fight. That is one of the things I’ll always be thankful for, that we made every possible effort to keep the peace. Once we begin, of course, we go on doggedly to the bitter end . . . Lady Petrie is bearing down on us.”

“Ah, you are here, Lady Jane. I hope you have had a good tea?”

“Excellent. It’s a wonderful tea.”

“Yes. When Sir Robert and I do a thing we believe in doing it well, no matter what it costs. I thought it was much better to have the whole thing purveyed from Edinburgh. I had no trouble at all. Everything came, just as you see it—waiters included, so that our domestic arrangements were not upset. By the time we sit down to dinner to-night there won’t be a trace of the party.”

“It’s like the Arabian Nights,” said Nicole, and her mother quickly broke in, “Yes, indeed; like magic.”

“Quite,” said Lady Petrie. “I wonder, Lady Jane, if you would care to see some of our improvements. The drawing-room, I think, you will admire.”

They all rose and Lady Jane said, “I wonder if you have met Mrs. Strang? One of our oldest friends.”

Lady Petrie bowed rather distantly (hadn’t Mrs. Jackson told her that this woman wrote novels and was inclined to be Left?), and said: “I have seen Mrs. Strang at Mrs. Oliver’s work-party. How do you do?”

They all trailed after their hostess to view the drawing-room which, to the Petries, was a model of what a drawing-room should be. Nothing had been spared to make it perfect: the few pictures were of great value, the Chinese rugs glowed, the furniture was collector’s pieces; there was not a jarring note.

“Very restrained, is it not?” said Lady Petrie.

“A beautiful room,” said Lady Jane. “How clever of you to find such perfect things,” and the others murmured appreciation.

“And now you must see the music-room,” said Lady Petrie, and they all followed submissively.

As she threw open the door she said:

“You simply can’t imagine what this room was like.”

“Oh yes, I can,” said Nicole. “I’ve often played in it. It was really a kind of junk-hole of a room. You remember, Andy?—Oh no, you can’t; it was before you came. We had the grandest time in this room—acted plays, had ping-pong matches, and even roller-skated.”

“Yes,” said Lady Petrie, “it looked like that. Now”—she paused impressively—“you will hardly recognise your play-room, Miss Rutherford.”

Nicole laughed. “You are a magician who waves a wand. It makes a lovely music-room. Perhaps you will give concerts?”

“Well, we hope to entertain a good deal once the war is over and things are normal again. Unfortunately we have no young people of our own to give dances for, but Sir Robert is very large hearted and likes to see people enjoy themselves.”

Lady Petrie paused, and Lady Jane found herself murmuring, “How very nice.”

“Yes,” continued Lady Petrie, “Sir Robert is large-hearted—taken the right way. I mean to say, no one is readier to give if the object appeals to him—the war, you know; Red Cross, and so on. Unfortunately he had to go to Newcastle to-day on important business, but before he left he handed me a cheque to add to our takings to-day. But to some appeals he turns a deaf ear—sentimental nonsense, he calls them, even when they are run by the highest in the land. I’m an old-fashioned wife, Lady Jane, and I bow to my husband’s decisions—ah! here is my kind helper. Mrs. Jackson, I’ve been giving our guests a peep at some of the rooms.”

“I expect they were thrilled,” said Barbara. “People are beginning to go and want to say thank you to their hostess. Oh, Aunt Jane, you know that the parents are coming to Goldielands for the week-end? Lady Petrie is bringing them to us for luncheon on Sunday: will you and Nicole come?”

“Thank you, Barbara. That will be delightful.” Lady Jane turned to her hostess: “Congratulations on your most successful effort. I hope you won’t be too tired. We shall meet on Sunday. Good-bye till then. . . . Andy, do you come with us or wait for Barbara?”

“I may be some time,” Barbara said. “Perhaps you’d better go with Aunt Jane.”

On their way home they discussed the party and the changes in Goldielands.

“I was afraid,” said Lady Jane, “of what we might see; but everything has been admirably done.”

“It was that man whom Barbara swears by,” said Andy, “Hibbert-Whitson—who did it.”

“He must have both taste and discretion.”

“Yes,” said Nicole, “‘restrained’ was Lady Petrie’s word for the drawing-room, and she seemed both proud and faintly surprised to possess such a room. I wonder what her own taste is.”

“Unrestrained, you think?” Andy asked.

“I wouldn’t wonder if it once was, but it will never be again. I had a feeling that she was putting on an act all the time: I don’t know where Sir Robert began to rise in the world, but since the ascent began I don’t think his lady-wife has ever allowed herself to be quite natural.”

“Do you suppose,” asked Andy, “that she never comes off her perch?”

“Oh, let’s hope that somewhere in Goldielands there’s a snug little room where Lady Petrie may relax and Sir Robert enjoy his pipe with his feet up. . . .”

“Nicole,” said her mother, “I think you are talking nonsense. Lady Petrie seemed to me a very competent hostess and an agreeable woman, and she has made Goldielands quite charming.”

“I’m just wondering,” Andy said, “how my mother’ll enjoy her week-end there. No one ever accused her of being restrained, bless her heart.”

“She’ll enjoy seeing the place as much as Lady Petrie will enjoy showing it,” said Lady Jane. “How refreshing it will be to see your mother again.”

“Won’t it?” said Nicole.

There was a silence till they reached Newby. As the car stopped Nicole remarked:

“How the Carruthers would laugh to see their junk-room now!”

The End