Chapter XIV: Book III: Basil's Plot and "mrs. Bal" (4)

"So sorry darling but unfortunately must put you off. Don't come
first of Glasgow week. Wait till Saturday, arriving late afternoon
or evening. Mrs. West says her friends and brother will like
keeping you till then so you needn't worry. We can have nice visit
together later and settle everything for you in some delightful
way. Making plans now. Don't forget you for a moment. Best reasons
for delay. Will explain when we meet. Sending you letter with
little present of money. Don't stint yourself. Write often. Tell me
all that interests you. Ever your loving Barbara."

"Why do you suppose she can't have me the first of the week?" Barrie asked piteously, when she had shown this message.

"I can't say, I'm sure," I cautiously replied. This was literally true. I could not say: but I could guess. And a letter from Aline which came two or three days later, confirmed my Sherlockian deductions.

"My DEAR OLD BOY" [she wrote]: "I was so glad to get your
telegram, and meant to have written at once, but waited on second
thoughts to have a little more news. It is a relief to know that
Ian hasn't followed that girl. Of course I feel it as much for your
sake as my own, for he is a dangerous rival to any man. It _is_ odd
where he can have gone; though he may turn up here again any day,
as he has left his car and chauffeur. If he had wanted to be nice,
he might have offered me the use of both while he was away; but I
suppose he blames me for lending myself to Mrs. Bal's wishes about
Barrie. Very unreasonable of him, as you have a perfect right to do
what you like with the car you've hired, and if Mrs. Bal didn't
want her daughter to see too much of _him_, what fault is it of
mine?

"I try to amuse myself as well as I can and forget my worries,
however, and Mrs. Bal and Morgan Bennett are being very nice. I
don't think he's proposed yet, or she would have told me, for we're
great friends; but she's pretty sure to land him before he leaves
for America, as he is to do the end of her Glasgow week, for a
short business trip. I expect to be asked to congratulate them the
night before he sails! What a good thing for her and _every one_
that the Vannecks can stand by you longer than we planned. I think,
unless you wire me that Ian has appeared upon the scene, I'll stay
with Mrs. Bal for her Glasgow week, as she has invited me, and
then, when the Vannecks go to the Round House, you can bring Barrie
back to her mother."

This explained Mrs. Bal's "best of reasons."

Days went on, and Somerled did not come to our part of the world, which was by this time the heart of the Highlands; but I felt in my bones that Barrie was hearing from him, writing to him; that she knew what I did not know, the mystery of his absence. Of course I could have found out if she were receiving letters from him, for Somerled's handwriting is unmistakable; but villain or no villain, I had to draw the line somewhere, and I drew it at spying upon her.

Aline did go to Glasgow with Mrs. Bal. She wrote to tell me how, with Morgan Bennett in his biggest motor-car, "_much_ higher powered and smarter than poor Ian's," she and Mrs. Bal and George Vanneck had sped away from Edinburgh on Sunday morning early, had a look at their rooms in Glasgow, and dashed on to Arrochar, where they all stopped till Monday afternoon.

"Such an exquisite road!" [said Aline]. "You would have loved it.
High green bank on one side, with cataracts of bracken delicate as
maidenhair; dark rocks, wrapped in velvet moss. Trees holding up
screens of green lace between your eyes and the blue water of the
loch. Pebbles white and round as pearls, or silver coins dropped by
fairies in a big "flit." That's one of _your_ similes! Grass
running down to the edge of the water, and full of bluebells. Water
the colour of drowned wallflowers. I don't believe your Highland
lochs can be prettier or more idyllic, though this is so close to
Glasgow.

"We have had a day going through the Kyles of Bute, too--the same
party: and a marvellous run along the shores of the Clyde to
Skelmorlie. Such red rocks there, and even the sand red. There was
a pink haze over everything, like a perpetual sunset. I'm not sure
which was better, that, or a trip to Crinan. The dearest little
place at the end of the Crinan canal--just a flower-draped hotel,
and a sea-wall and a lighthouse, with a distant murmur of
'Corrievrechan's tortured roar,' mingled with the crying of gulls.
What a place for you and Barrie to spend your honeymoon! You see, I
speak as if it were certain. Anyhow, I'm sure it all depends on
yourself. _Courage, mon brave_!"

But that is exactly the quality which the villain of the piece lacks at present.