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CHAPTER IX
ENTICEMENTS

At about eleven o'clock on the same morning Miss Douglas was standing at the window of her own little room looking rather absently at the familiar wintry scene without, and occasionally turning to a letter that she held in her hand, and that she had apparently just then written. Presently, however, her face brightened. There was a faint sound in the distance as of some one singing; no doubt that was Ronald; he would be coming along the road with the dogs, and if she were in any difficulty he would be the one to help. So she waited for a second or two, hoping to be able to signal him to stop; and the next minute he was in sight, walking briskly with his long and steady stride, the small terrier at his heels, the other dogs – some handsome Gordon setters, a brace of pointers, and a big brown retriever – ranging farther afield.

But why was it, she asked herself, that whenever he drew near her father's cottage he invariably ceased his singing? Elsewhere, as well she knew, he beguiled the tedium of these lonely roads with an almost constant succession of songs and snatches of songs; but here he invariably became mute. And why did he not raise his eyes to the window – where she was waiting to give him a friendly wave of the hand, or even an invitation to stop and come within-doors for a minute or two? No, on he went with that long stride of his, addressing a word now and again to one or other of the dogs, and apparently thinking of nothing else. So, as there was nothing for it now but to go out and intercept him on his return, she proceeded to put on her ulster and a close-fitting deerstalker's cap; and thus fortified against the gusty north wind that was driving clouds and sunshine across the loch and along the slopes of Clebrig, she left the cottage, and followed the road that he had taken.

As it turned out, she had not far to go; for she saw that he was now seated on the parapet of the little bridge spanning the Mudal Water, and no doubt he was cutting tobacco for his pipe. When she drew near, he rose; when she drew nearer, he put his pipe in his waistcoat pocket.

'Good-morning, Ronald!' she cried, and the pretty fresh-tinted face smiled on him, and the clear gray-blue Highland eyes regarded him in the most frank and friendly way, and without any trace whatever of maiden bashfulness.

'Good-morning, Miss Douglas,' said he; he was far more shy than she was.

'What a stupid thing happened this morning,' said she. 'When I heard that the American gentleman was going south, I wanted to tell the driver to bring the children from Crask with him as he came back in the evening; and I sent Elizabeth round to the inn to tell him that; and then – what do you think! – they had started away half an hour before there was any need. But now I have written a letter to the Crask people, asking them to stop the waggonette as it comes back in the afternoon, and telling them that we will make the children very comfortable here for the night; and if only I could get it sent to Crask everything would be arranged. And do you think now you could get one of the young lads to take it to Crask if I gave him a shilling?'

She took out her purse, and selected a shilling from the very slender store of coins there.

'It is not much for so long a walk,' she said, rather doubtfully. 'Eight miles there and eight back – is it enough, do you think?'

'Oh, I'll get the letter sent for ye, Miss Douglas, easily enough,' said he – and indeed he had already taken it from her hand.

Then she offered him the shilling, but with a little gesture he refused it. And then – for there flashed upon her mind a sudden suspicion that perhaps he might choose to walk all that way himself just to please her (indeed, he had done things like that before) – she became greatly embarrassed.

'Give me the letter, Ronald,' said she, 'and I will find some one myself. You are going away now with the dogs.'

'Oh no,' said he, 'I will see that the Crask folk get your message.'

'And the money to pay the lad?' said she timidly.

'Dinna bother your head wi' that,' he answered. 'There's enough money scattered about the place just now – the American gentleman was free-handed this morning. Ay, and there's something I've got for you.'

'For me?' she said, with her eyes opening somewhat.

'Well,' said he (and very glad he was to have the letter safe and sound in his possession), 'I was telling him about the children's party to-morrow night; and he's a friendly kind o' man, that; he said he would like to have been at it, if he could have stayed; and I'm sure he would have got on wi' them well enough, for he's a friendly kind o' man, as I say. Well, then, I couldna tell him the exact number o' the bairns; but no matter what number, each one o' them is to find sevenpence under the teacup – that's a penny for each fish he got. Ay, he's a shrewd-headed fellow, too; for says he "I suppose, now, the old people will be for having the children save up the sixpence, so at least they'll have the penny to spend;" and he was curious even to find out where the bairns in a place like this got their toys, or if sweeties ever came their way. "It's little enough of either o' them," I said to him, "they see, except when Miss Douglas has been to Lairg or Tongue;" and he was very anxious to make your acquaintance, I may tell ye, but he said he would wait till his daughter came with him the next time. I'm thinking the bairns will be pleased to find a little packet of money in the saucers; and it's not too much for a man to pay for the luck o' getting seven salmon in the middle of January – for who could have expected that?'

And then Meenie laughed.

'It's little you know, Ronald, what is in store for you to-morrow night. It will be the hardest night's work you ever undertook in your life.'

'I'm not afraid o't,' he answered simply.

'But you do not know yet.'

She opened her ulster and from an inside pocket produced the formidable document that she had shown to Ronald's sister; and then she buttoned the long garment again, and contentedly sate herself down on the low stone parapet, the programme in her hand. And now all trace of embarrassment was fled from her; and when she spoke to him, or smiled, those clear frank eyes of hers looked straight into his, fearing nothing, but only expecting a welcome. She did not, as he did, continually remember that she was Miss Douglas, the doctor's daughter, and he merely a smart young deerstalker. To her he was simply Ronald – the Ronald that every one knew and liked; who had a kind of masterful way throughout this neighbourhood, and was arbiter in all matters of public concern; but who, nevertheless, was of such amazing good nature that there was no trouble he would not undertake to gratify her slightest wish. And as he was so friendly and obliging towards her, she made no doubt he was so to others; and that would account for his great popularity, she considered; and she thought it was very lucky for this remote little hamlet that it held within it one who was capable of producing so much good feeling, and keeping the social atmosphere sweet and sound.

As for him, he met this perfect friendship of hers with a studied respect. Always, if it was on the one side 'Ronald,' on the other it was 'Miss Douglas.' Why, her very costume was a bar to more familiar relations. At this moment, as she sate on the stone parapet of the bridge, looking down at the document before her, and as he stood at a little distance, timidly awaiting what she had to say, it occurred to him again, as it had occurred before, that no matter what dress it was, each one seemed to become her better than any other. What was there particular in a tight-fitting gray ulster and a deerstalker's cap? and yet there was grace there, and style, and a nameless charm. If one of the lasses at the inn, now, were sent on an errand on one of these wild and blustering mornings, and got her hair blown about, she came back looking untidy; but if Miss Douglas had her hair blown about, so that bits and curls of it got free from the cap or the velvet hat, and hung lightly about her forehead or her ears or her neck, it was a greater witchery than ever. Then everything seemed to fit her so well and so easily, and to be so simple; and always leaving her – however it was so managed – perfect freedom of movement, so that she could swing a child on to her shoulder, or run after a truant, or leap from bank to bank of a burn without disturbing in the least that constant symmetry and neatness. To Ronald it was all a wonder; and there was a still further wonder always seeming to accompany her and surround her. Why was it that the bleakest winter day, on these desolate Sutherland moors, suddenly grew filled with light when he chanced to see a well-known figure away along the road – the world changing into a joyful thing, as if the summer were already come, and the larks singing in the blue? And when she spoke to him, there was a kind of music in the air; and when she laughed – why, Clebrig and Ben Loyal and the whispering Mudal Water seemed all to be listening and all to be glad that she was happy and pleased. She was the only one, other than himself, that the faithful Harry would follow; and he would go with her wherever she went, so long as she gave him an occasional word of encouragement.

'Will I read you the programme, Ronald?' said she, with just a trace of mischief in the gray-blue eyes. 'I'm sure you ought to hear what has to be done, for you are to be in the chair, you know.'

'Me?' said he, in astonishment. 'I never tried such a thing in my life.'

'Oh yes,' she said cheerfully. 'They tell me you are always at the head of the merry-makings: and is not this a simple thing? And besides, I do not want any other grown people – I do not want Mr. Murray – he is a very nice man – but he would be making jokes for the grown-up people all the time. I want nobody but you and Maggie and myself besides the children, and we will manage it very well, I am sure.'

There was a touch of flattery in the proposal.

'Indeed, yes,' said he at once. 'We will manage well enough, if ye wish it that way.'

'Very well, then,' said she, turning with a practical air to the programme. 'We begin with singing Old Hundred, and then the children will have tea and cake – and the sixpence and the penny. And then there is to be an address by the Chairman – that's you, Ronald.'

'Bless me, lassie!' he was startled into saying; and then he stammered an apology, and sought safety in a vehement protest against the fancy that he could make a speech – about anything whatever.

'Well, that is strange,' said Meenie looking at him, and rather inclined to laugh at his perplexity. 'It is a strange thing if you cannot make a little speech to them; for I have to make one – at the end. See, there is my name.'

He scarcely glanced at the programme.

'And what have you to speak about, Miss Douglas?'

She laughed.

'About you.'

'About me?' he said, rather aghast.

'It is a vote of thanks to the chairman – and easy enough it will be, I am sure. For I have only to say about you what I hear every one say about you; and that will be simple enough.'

The open sincerity of her friendship – and even of her marked liking for him – was so apparent that for a second or so he was rather bewildered. But he was not the kind of man to misconstrue frankness; he knew that was part of herself; she was too generous, too much inclined to think well of everybody; and the main point to which he had to confine himself was this, that if she, out of her good-nature, could address a few words to those children – about him or any other creature or object in the world – it certainly behoved him to do his best also, although he had never tried anything of the kind before. And then a sudden fancy struck him; and his eyes brightened eagerly. 'Oh yes, yes,' he said, 'I will find something to say. I would make a bad hand at a sermon; but the bairns have enough o' that at times; I dare say we'll find something for them o' another kind – and they'll no be sorry if it's short. I'm thinking I can find something that'll please them.'

And what was this that was in his head? – what but the toast of the Mistress of the Feast! If Meenie had but known, she would doubtless have protested against the introduction of any mutual admiration society into the modest hamlet of Inver-Mudal; but at that moment she was still scanning the programme.

'Now you know, Ronald,' she said, 'it is to be all quiet and private; and that is why the grown-up people are to be kept out except ourselves. Well, then, after they have had raisins handed round, you are to sing "My love she's but a lassie yet" – that is a compliment to the little ones; and then I will read them something; and then you are to sing "O dinna cross the burn, Willie" – I have put down no songs that I have not heard you sing. And then if you would play them "Lord Breadalbane's March" on the pipes – '

She looked up again, with an air of apology.

'Do you think I am asking too much from you, Ronald?' she said.

'Indeed not a bit,' said he promptly. 'I will play or sing for them all the night long, if you want; and I'm sure it's much better we should do it all ourselves, instead o' having a lot o' grown-up folk to make the bairns shy.'

'It is not the chairman anyway, that will make them shy – if what they say themselves is true,' said Meenie very prettily; and she folded up her programme and put it in her pocket again.

She rose; and he whistled in the dogs, as if he would return to the village.

'I thought you were taking them for a run,' said she.

'Oh, they have been scampering about; I will go back now.'

Nor did it occur to her for a moment that she would rather not walk back to the door of her mother's house with him. On the contrary, if she had been able to attract his notice when he passed, she would have gone down to the little garden-gate, and had this conversation with him in view of all the windows. If she wanted him to do anything for her, she never thought twice about going along to his cottage and knocking at the door; or she would, in the event of his not being there, go on to the inn and ask if any one had seen Ronald about. And so on this occasion she went along the road with him in much good-humour; praising the dogs, hoping the weather would continue fine, and altogether in high spirits over her plans for the morrow.

However, they were not to part quite so pleasantly. At the small garden-gate, and evidently awaiting them, stood Mrs. Douglas; and Ronald guessed that she was in no very good temper. In truth, she seldom was. She was a doll-like little woman, rather pretty, with cold clear blue eyes, fresh-coloured cheeks, and quite silver-white hair, which was carefully curled and braided – a pretty little old lady, and one to be petted and made much of, if only she had had a little more amiability of disposition. But she was a disappointed woman. Her big good-natured husband had never fulfilled the promise of his early years, when, in a fit of romance, she married the penniless medical student whom she had met in Edinburgh. He was not disappointed at all; his life suited him well enough; he was excessively fond of his daughter Meenie, and wanted no other companion when she was about; after the hard work of making a round of professional visits in that wild district, the quiet and comfort and neatness of the little cottage at Inver-Mudal were all that he required. But it was far otherwise with the once ambitious little woman whom he had married. The shadow of the dignity of the Stuarts of Glengask still dwelt over her; and it vexed her that she had nothing with which to overawe the neighbours or to convince the passing stranger of her importance. Perhaps if she had been of commanding figure, that might have helped her, however poor her circumstances might be; as it was, being but five feet two inches in height – and rather toy-like withal – everything seemed against her. It was but little use her endeavouring to assume a majestic manner when her appearance was somehow suggestive of a glass case; and the sharpness of her tongue, which was considerable, seemed to be but little heeded even in her own house, for both her husband and her daughter were persons of an easy good humour, and rather inclined to pet her in spite of herself.

'Good morning, Mrs. Douglas,' Ronald said respectfully, and he raised his cap as they drew near.

'Good morning, Mr. Strang,' she said, with much precision, and scarcely glancing at him.

She turned to Meenie.

'Williamina, how often have I told you to shut the gate after you when you go out?' she said sharply. 'Here has the cow been in again.'

'It cannot do much harm at this time of the year,' Meenie said lightly.

'I suppose if I ask you to shut the gate that is enough? Where have you been? Idling, I suppose. Have you written to Lady Stuart to thank her for the Birthday Book?'

It seemed to Ronald (who wished to get away, but could scarcely leave without some civil word of parting) that she referred to Lady Stuart in an unmistakably clear tone. She appeared to take no notice of Ronald's presence, but she allowed him to hear that there was such a person as Lady Stuart in existence.

'Why, mother, it only came yesterday, and I haven't looked over it yet,' Meenie said.

'I think when her ladyship sends you a present,' observed the little woman, with severe dignity, 'the least you can do is to write and thank her at once. There are many who would be glad of the chance. Go in and write the letter now.'

'Very well, mother,' said Meenie, with perfect equanimity; and then she called 'Good morning, Ronald!' and went indoors.

What was he to do to pacify this imperious little dame? As a gamekeeper, he knew but the one way.

'Would a hare or two, or a brace of ptarmigan be of any use to you, Mrs. Douglas?' said he.

'Indeed,' she answered, with much dignity, 'we have not had much game of any kind of late, for at Glengask they do not shoot any of the deer after Christmas.'

This intimation that her cousin, Sir Alexander, was the owner of a deer-forest might have succeeded with anybody else. But alas! this young man was a keeper, and very well he knew that there was no forest at all at Glengask, though occasionally in October they might come across a stag that had been driven forth from the herd, or they might find two or three strayed hinds in the woods later on; while, if Mrs. Douglas had but even one haunch sent her in the year – say at Christmas – he considered she got a very fair share of whatever venison was going at Glengask. But of course he said nothing of all this.

'Oh, very well,' said he, 'I'm thinking o' getting two or three o' the lads to go up the hill for a hare-drive one o' these days. The hares 'll be the better o' some thinning down – on one or two o' the far tops; and then again, when we've got them it's no use sending them south – they're no worth the carriage. So if ye will take a few o' them, I'm sure you're very welcome. Good morning, ma'am.'

'Good morning,' said she, a little stiffly, and she turned and walked towards the cottage.

As for him, he strode homeward with right goodwill; for Meenie's letter was in his pocket; and he had forthwith to make his way to Crask – preferring not to place any commission of hers in alien hands. He got the dogs kennelled up – all except the little terrier; he slung his telescope over his shoulder, and took a stick in his hand. 'Come along, Harry, lad, ye'll see your friends at Crask ere dinner time, and if ye're well-behaved ye'll come home in the waggonette along wi' the bairns.'

It was a brisk and breezy morning; the keen north wind was fortunately behind him; and soon he was swinging along through the desolate solitudes of Strath Terry, his footfall on the road the only sound in the universal stillness. And yet not the only sound, for sometimes he conversed with Harry, and sometimes he sent his clear tenor voice ringing over the wide moorland, and startling here or there a sheep, the solitary occupant of these wilds. For no longer had he to propitiate that domineering little dame; and the awful shadow of Glengask was as nothing to him; the American, with his unsettling notions, had departed; here he was at home, his own master, free in mind, and with the best of all companions trotting placidly at his heels. No wonder his voice rang loud and clear and contented: —

 
'"'Tis not beneath the burgonet,
Nor yet beneath the crown,
'Tis not on couch of velvet,
Nor yet on bed of down."
 

Harry, lad, do ye see that hoodie? Was there ever such impudence? I could maist kill him with a stone. But I'll come along and pay a visit to the gentleman ere the month's much older: —

 
"'Tis beneath the spreading birch,
In the dell without a name,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
When the kye come hame."
 

What think ye o' that now? – for we'll have to do our best to-morrow night to please the bairns. Ah, you wise wee deevil! – catch you drinking out o' a puddle when ye see any running water near.

 
"When the kye come hame, when the kye come hame,
Twixt the gloaming and the mirk, when the kye come hame."