Chapter XV: Book IV: What Became of Barrie (1)

I

Letter From Barrie Macdonald To Ian Somerled Macdonald

DEAR SIR KNIGHT: I was glad the morning we saw Mrs. James off that
you said you'd like to hear from me, and if I needed help or
comfort in any trouble I must let you know. I haven't such an
excuse for writing to you now, but you did say that you wanted to
hear anyway, and that you'd find out where we were going, so you
could wire me your plans. Now I've had two telegrams from you, and
a letter; and if they hadn't come I should have been disappointed.
I thought we might have seen you and the Gray Dragon before this,
but the telegrams have made me understand. That is, I _don't_
understand, because what you tell me sounds very mysterious. Still,
as you went back to Carlisle and are now in London, it is no use
hoping to see the Gray Dragon's bonnet flash into sight round some
complicated Highland corner.

What _could_ have taken you to call on Grandma again? I am almost
dying of curiosity. You say 'perhaps you may be able to explain
when we meet': but everybody is saying that to me, just now--at
least, Barbara is, about not letting me go back to Glasgow till the
end of her week there--so it is rather aggravating. Still, it is
good to know that we may meet. I wonder when? You don't give me a
hint, and it stirs up my curiosity from deeper depths to be told,
as if you half expected me to guess what you mean, that 'you're in
London for reinforcements.' Shall I ever know? It seems a long time
since I said good-bye to you in front of the Caledonian Hotel. Not
that I'm having a dull trip. I should be very dull myself if that
were true, for everything is beautiful, and every one kind. It is
the most wonderful luck for a girl like me, who had never seen
anything in her life, suddenly to be seeing all Scotland. But I had
grown rather _used_ to seeing things with you and Mrs. James, after
I escaped from the 'glass retort,' and I can't accustom myself yet
to being with others, and you far away--Mrs. James too, of course.
I try to console myself if I feel a tiny bit homesick, thinking how
happy she is, and how wonderful everything is going to be for her
and her strange, unpractical doctor. It was splendid of you to give
him all that money. But wouldn't it have been fun if he could have
come over, instead of her going to him? Maybe, if it had turned out
so, you would be in the Highlands now.

Do you remember how I used to say that _my_ tour under the heather
moon would soon be over, but you would be going on just as if we
had never met? Well, it has turned out quite differently, hasn't
it, for both of us? Only the heather moon is the same. But I never
talk of her now that you are gone.

I don't want you to think I am ungrateful to _any one_, if I sign
myself, Your rather homesick little 'princess,'

BARRIE.

P.S.--It does not seem right to have crossed over the borderline
into our Highlands without you!

LETTER FROM BARRIE TO HER MOTHER

DEAREST,DARLING BARBARA: Can it really be that it won't
bother you to have me write to you often and tell you everything
interesting that happens? You see, I might think it interesting,
and you might think it a bore. I know you are easily bored, dear,
so I am not quite sure what I ought to write. I can only tell you
about seeing places, because that is all we do. But they are so
beautiful, perhaps you may like to hear. If I write about the wrong
things, do promise that you'll speak out and tell me to stop. I
won't let my feelings be hurt.

Basil is trying to show me as much of Scotland as he possibly can,
he says, before I 'get tired of him and Blunderbore.' That is a bad
way to put it, and so I have told him, because I should be horribly
ungrateful to tire of him. But he says he dislikes gratitude and
thinks it an overestimated virtue.

I suppose you have often been in Scotland before, and you are not
Scottish yourself, so perhaps you can't quite feel as I do about
it. Basil, who has travelled so much, says that Scotland has in
miniature almost all the picked bits of scenery of other countries;
but they do not _appear_ to be in miniature when you're motoring
through them. They seem on an enormous scale; and each beauty spot
is different from every other. You can't help remembering and
keeping them apart in your mind, though there are so many that they
are crowded together, all over the map. I think of the map of
Scotland being purple, like heather, don't you? And if I have to
live anywhere else, I shall always be homesick for this country
now. If we are not in some fairy-like, green glen, we are in a wild
and awesome mountain pass; or else in a blue labyrinth of lochs; or
we come out upon endless, billowing moorlands; or suddenly we find
ourselves on a long road like an avenue in some great private park,
with the singing of a river in our ears.

Poor Basil sometimes feels ashamed of Blunderbore, and certainly
it _is_ different from travelling in Mr. Somerled's Gray Dragon.
With the Dragon, spirits of the wind used to rush out of forests to
meet and dash ozone in our faces. With Blunderbore, if they come at
all, they merely spray us lazily.

Going from Stirling to Crieff we crossed the borderline of the
Highlands. There was a park-like world round the Bridge of Allan:
and at Ardoch, the greatest Roman station left in Britain, lots of
turfed banks showing still where 26,000 Romans tried to bridle the
Northern Caledonians, the red-haired people. I'm glad they never
quite succeeded!

Crieff was sweet, and all round it, half hidden in woods, the most
beautiful houses. But Basil had forgotten to wire, so we couldn't
get into one of the nice hotels, but stayed in a very funny one.
When Mrs. Vanneck asked for communicating rooms, the landlady said,
'Oh, _no_, Madam, we've no such things as _that_ in _our_ house!'

We went on to Perth early next morning, and every minute along the
road we seemed to be passing happy people who'd come to play in
Scotland: nice golfing girls and men, and men with guns over their
shoulders, or followed by gillies with fishing-tackle. I wish men
could amuse themselves, though, don't you, without killing
creatures more beautiful and happy than themselves?

It was such a pretty road, past Methven, where, alas! the English
beat Bruce; and if I hadn't been grieved to find that by John
Knox's advice all the nicest buildings had been pulled down, I
shouldn't have felt disappointed in Perth. It is a very fine town
anyhow, with glorious trees; and the two great bridges over the Tay
are splendid if they _are_ made of iron. They look as if people had
planned them especially to give all the view there could be of the
sunset.

Of course the 'Fair Maid's' house was the most interesting thing.
I hope it really was hers. I don't see why not. It _is_ in the old
glover's quarter. And the shrine with the crucifix and death's head
and cross-bones they found hidden in the wall of her room is too
fascinating. I could just see her praying there, so beautiful that
all the young men of Perth were in love with her. And talking of
the young men of Perth, Basil says the ball in the Games Week is
supposed to be the best show of the year--such splendid men come. I
should love to see them in the kilt, with their brown knees, like
the pipers in Edinburgh.

St. Andrews was our next place, and we arrived the same day, for
we didn't stop in Perth after we had seen the sights there. I
wonder if you have been to St. Andrews? I know so little about you
yet, dearest. I fell in love with the place--not so much with the
links (though they must be the most beautiful as well as the most
famous in the world) as with that old ruined castle built on the
dark rocks rising out of the sea. I know I shall dream of the
awful, bottle-necked dungeon! Basil said it was the worst thing he
had ever seen except at Loches. I hope it isn't wicked to be
pleased that Cardinal Beaton, after he sat in his window to watch
Wishart burn, was soon killed, and salted, and preserved in the
same dungeon where he used to keep martyrs. The 'undergrads' of the
University looked so attractive in their red gowns, and the girl
students in their mortar boards! They were like scarlet birds,
against the gray walls and gray arches of the town. But I suppose
people in St. Andrews think even more about golf than about
learning, don't they? There were hundreds of all ages on the
links--so grave and eager: and at the hotels they _never_ know when
anybody will come in to meals. There's the cemetery, too; that
shows the importance of golf. All the 'smartest' monuments are of
famous golfers, knitted caps and clubs and everything, neatly done
in marble. But I wonder anybody ever contrives to die at St.
Andrews. I never felt such delicious air!

Crossing the ferry for Dundee was fun. It was a very big boat, and
several other motors on it as well as ours. We sat in Blunderbore
all the way across the wide sheet of silver that was the Tay,
gazing up at the marvellous giant bridge, and then we spent several
hours in Dundee, seeing the Steeple, and Queen Mary's Orchard, and
lots of things. This was so near the Round House that I suppose the
Vannecks would have gone if it hadn't been for me. But I am the
stumbling block in everybody's way.

Going on to Aberdeen, we ran along a fine coast dotted with ruined
castles--Dunottar for one, where the Regalia was hidden once.

We stopped at Arbroath, which Doctor Johnson admired, to see the
great shell of an Abbey, red as dried blood; and all the old town
is built out of it, so no wonder there isn't much left but an
immense nave. But just think, Arbroath is Sir Walter Scott's
'Fairport,' and I must read "The Antiquarian" again, all about the
caves and the secret treasure found in them. As for the treasure of
the Abbey, it is nothing less than the heart of William the Lion.
He had it nicely buried near the high altar, as long ago as the
twelfth century, wasn't it? But in 1810 they dug it up, found it
had ossified, and now they simply have it lying about in a glass
case, practically mixed up with the bones of a lady who left money
to the Abbey (she wouldn't, if she'd known what they'd do!) and the
singularly long thigh bones of a particularly wicked earl. It was
an earl who married a sister of the Lion's, and, because he was
jealous, threw her out of the window.

We had to go through Montrose, where the great Marquis was born,
and where Sir James Douglas set sail with the Bruce's heart (what a
lot of hearts there were travelling about then!) and where now the
most curiously exciting things are the Bridie Shops. I _had_ to
know what a 'bridie' meant, so we stopped to see; but it's only a
rolled meat pasty they love in Forfarshire; and brides are supposed
to batten on them at their weddings. To please me, Basil would have
made a detour to see 'Thrums,' which is really Kerriemuir, you
know. And we should have had to pass through Forfar--the 'Witches
Har'--and go on the road that leads to mysterious, wonderful
Glamis. I was longing to do it, but Mrs. Vanneck wanted to arrive
in Aberdeen in time to do some shopping! I gave up like a lamb,
almost hating her inwardly; but afterward I felt better about it,
for the Aberdeen shops are so nice. They sell pink pearls, out of
Scottish rivers--perfect beauties. I bought you a brooch, and I do
hope you'll like it. I don't know much about such things; and of
course you have gorgeous jewellery; but this pearl is such a
wonderful colour, like snow touched with sunrise.

My eyes and hair were full of granite by the time we got to
Aberdeen, because the road is made of it, and the dust sparkles
like diamonds.

So does Aberdeen sparkle like diamonds. I shouldn't have thought a
city all gray like that, could be so handsome. But it is a gray
bright and silky as the wings of doves, and in some lights pale as
moonbeams. Sunset was beginning when we arrived, and on the houses
and bridges and river, and even on the pavements of the broad
streets, there was the same gray-pink sheen as on the pearl I
bought for you.

In the morning we went to see the University, and the Cathedral
with its lovely rose-pink pillars, and old painted Scandinavian
ceiling. Everything would have passed off charmingly, if Basil had
not begun to be rather foolish and unlike himself, while he and I
were in the Cathedral together. Fortunately, an old friend of his
he hadn't seen for years, appeared unexpectedly at the critical
moment, and invited us to visit him near Aboyne. I hadn't quite
time to say 'no' to Basil definitely, and we haven't gone back to
the subject since, so I am hoping for the best. I used to think it
would be _heavenly_ to have a proposal, but now, I realize that it
is much overrated.

Your loving
BARRIE,
Who hopes she hasn't bored you.

LETTER FROM BARRIE TO SOMERLED

DEAR SIR KNIGHT: I must write to tell you what a surprise
I had in Aberdeen. Basil took us all to a biograph theatre--the
first one I ever saw--and one set of pictures was labelled, 'A
Gretna Green Wedding of the Olden Days.' How my heart beat!--and
not for nothing, because, oh, Sir Knight, it was _our_ wedding! My
face never showed once, but the hair looked like mine; and _your_
face was just like yours and nobody else's, in spite of the
old-fashioned costume. Basil said out loud, 'By Jove!' and the
Vannecks recognized you, and asked all sorts of questions. I had to
tell them the story, but I didn't mind a bit. In fact, I think I
was proud. The pictures were coloured, so perhaps that was one
reason they guessed, for my hair was so red. I told Basil I always
wanted to be married at Gretna Green, and now I _have_ been. But he
had the air of being rather _shocked_. I shouldn't have thought he
was that kind of person.

Afterward, he was afraid that he had offended me; but I hadn't
cared at all. However, he has been kinder than ever since, as if to
make up. Walking about in the Cathedral next day, we met a
delightful man, actually the _Head of a Clan_, who had been in
Canada and had known Basil there. He invited us to visit at his
place near Aboyne, on Deeside--just think, not far from where
Macbeth was killed!--and of course that enchanted Mrs. Vanneck, who
has an insatiable yearning to see the inside of Scottish houses.
His is a beautiful house. I must tell you about it. Maybe you
remember the road from Aberdeen to Aboyne, through lovely forests
and mountains, and how by and by you come to Deeside, and the
Grampians. The Chieftain we went to visit owns a whole mountain,
and many miles of land besides; and when you arrive at his estate
there are no gates to drive into. You wind on and on, along an
exquisite avenue through the woods, and you would not know you were
on any one's property if you hadn't been told beforehand, though it
is all beautifully kept--not too smart and trim, but just right to
be picturesque and romantic. There's no impression of 'This is
mine, not yours. _You_ are here only on sufferance!' Instead, the
trees and hills and heather seem to say gently, 'This is a part of
the world where our master lives, because it is lovely and he loves
it. He makes you welcome to come and go as you will, whoever you
are, as if it were your own.' Don't you think that is a charming
impression? And afterward we found out that the doors of this
Chieftain's house are never locked. Mostly in the summer they stand
wide open all night, although he has beautiful old silver, and
quantities of valuable pictures and things which have been in his
family more or less ever since there was a Scotland. It is a dear
old sixteenth-century house, with networks of black oak beams, and
lots of quaint bow-windows that look out on lovely lawns and
flower-gardens, and box or holly hedges, and yew trees cut in
fantastic shapes.

We stayed one whole day and two nights. Wasn't it good of him to
have us? In all the corridors there are carpets and curtains of the
Chieftain's hunting tartan. I loved it. I do hope you have dogs'
heads and antlers, and tartan curtains and carpets and things at
your castle at Dhrum? It is yours, you know! I wonder if I shall
ever see it?

I can't tell you how excited I was when the Chieftain and several
other Highland men he had staying in his house-party wore the kilt
to dinner. All their knees were baked to exactly the right brown;
but he was the smartest of the men (though some were very young and
handsome), because he, being the head of the Clan, had a green
velvet coat. Poor Basil and Mr. Vanneck in their ordinary evening
things looked like _nothing at all_. I was quite sorry for them,
but so glad I hadn't to sit by one at the table, as I wanted only
to talk to the kilted men. I wore that white frock you chose for
me--do you remember?--and a sash of the MacDonald of Dhrum dress
tartan, which I found in Aberdeen. All during dinner the pipers
piped, and I was so thrilled I could scarcely eat. Afterward there
was an impromptu dance in a bare, tartan-draped room, where it
seemed that Macbeth could quite well have been entertained. I
thought I should have to look on, of course, as I've never learned
to dance; but that dear Chieftain taught me the 'Petronella,' which
is very pretty and easy to pick up. It seems as if one could not
help dancing to the music of the pipes; don't you find it so? Queen
Mary is supposed to have introduced the Petronella to Scotland, the
tallest man with the brownest knees told me; and Francis I brought
it from Spain to France. It is quite a Spanish sort of dance,
though Scotland has adopted it. I learned a lovely Highland
schottische, too; and after I had seen others dancing the reels
(ought I to say foursomes or eightsomes?) I tried those too, and
got on well, everybody said. But the reel is a dance you can dance
_only_ with your own hair. Mine, which I had pinned up very neatly,
came down. And one of the girls had a curl come _off_. Luckily she
didn't seem to care. She said that accidents would happen on the
best regulated heads.

I do so wonder, by the way, what a Highlander would do if he
happened to be born with legs so crooked that he couldn't wear the
kilt? I suppose he would have to emigrate when very young, or else
stop in bed all his life.

In the morning a dignified piper named Donal played us awake,
walking round and round the house. It delayed my dressing
dreadfully, pausing to gaze him out of sight every time he passed
under my window. I could have cried when he stopped; but he played
more while we had breakfast. I sat next to an Englishman, and would
you believe it, the loveliest lament got on his horrid nerves, and
he said in a low voice, 'Shall I be able to _live_ through it?' If
I had been engaged to him I should have broken it off at once.

The Chieftain has a friend who is a Princess--not a little
'pretend' princess like me, but a real one with a capital 'P'--and
he introduced us to her at a big garden party he was having at his
place on our day there. 'They are going on to Braemar to-morrow,'
he said; and she being as kind and hospitable as he, promptly
invited us to lunch with her at Braemar Castle. Mrs. Vanneck was
pale with joy!

We left from the Chieftain's early in the morning, and Donal
played us away, on the best run Blunderbore has given us yet,
through what I am sure is true Highland scenery. There are castles
dotted about everywhere; and I saw my first Highland
cattle--adorable little shaggy beasts with forelocks like sporans,
and innocent short faces. Their eyes were so wide apart it seemed
that they might be able to see round all the corners. A cherubic
bull tried to charge Blunderbore, but changed his mind at the last
moment owing to the persuasions of his female friends. The rough,
dark brown forms somehow emphasized the beauty of the wild
background, the hills painted golden and purple with bracken and
heather, the mountains (for there seem always to be mountains in
the distance in Scotland) looking exactly the colour of violets
against the hyacinth blue of the sky. All sorts of Highland things
got in our way, counting deer; and I made up rules for creatures
which it would be very useful if they could be taught to obey.
'Bulls kindly requested not to charge motor-cars. No sitting down
or cud-chewing allowed in the middle of roads. Deer will please,
when darting across, start at least six yards ahead of motors.
Chickens will keep to their own side of the road when they have
chosen it three times. Rabbits not to run directly ahead of the car
for more than three miles at a stretch.'

As we lumbered along with Blunderbore, each heather-dyed hill that
rolled out of our way disclosed a new, or rather a very old,
castle. I should think there must be as many castles in this part
of the world as there are cottages. I know we saw more! except
perhaps those sweet little dwellings grouped together in the
charming villages of Ballater and Braemar. No wonder the King and
Queen love this part of the world. Basil thought everything here
quite foreign-looking: but there's always that French spirit in
Scotland, isn't there? I'm sure the coffee is so good just because
of that.

It was fun having luncheon at Braemar Castle, which has more
turrets than you can count without knowing it well. Each room
nearly has a turret, and some have two: and on the thick wooden
shutters names of soldiers quartered in the Castle after Prince
Charlie days are roughly carved. Of _course_ there's a dungeon, and
a secret way to the far-off village and river: and when you enter
you have to wind up and up a tower stairway with here and there a
little deep-set iron-barred window to give you light. I wish you
could see the Princess's Persian dog, Mirzan, of the oldest race of
dogs in the world: yellow-white as old ivory, tall and thin and
graceful as a blowing plume. He takes strange attitudes like dogs
in pictures by old masters; and you feel he can't be real. He must
have stepped stealthily out from a dim tapestry hanging on one of
the thick stone walls, and he will have to go back to his place
beside the sleeping tapestry knight, as soon as he has finished
running after the doves, who have left their dovecote and are
balancing with their coral feet on the battlements, or walking in
the courtyard. Seeing this castle of the Princess's makes me quite
envy you having Dunelin. I should like to live in a castle. _Do_
buy Dunelin, as you said you sometimes thought of doing, and invite
me to be a humble little member of one of your big house-parties.
Your deserted princess, BARRIE.

LETTER FROM BARRIE TO HER MOTHER

DEAREST BARBARA: Every prospect pleases and only man is
vile. At least, I don't mean vile, but upsetting. It is too bad
about Basil. I don't know what to do. I hope _you_ aren't hoping
that I may fall in love with him? Something he said makes me think
_he_ believes you want it. But why should you? You don't know him
and his sister so very well. They aren't old friends. Darling, if I
am a bother to you--and I know I am--I'll go far away and change my
name and do anything you like, except marry Basil. It isn't that
I'm too young. It seems to me if I loved a man desperately I should
like to marry him while I was young, so as to give him all my
years, and because I should grudge the days and weeks and months
lived away from him. But Basil is just like a brother. He might
hold my hand all day, and I shouldn't have a single thrill, which
he says is the way for a girl to find out whether she's really in
love.

Everything might be so pleasant, if it weren't for this silliness.
We have seen Elgin, which has the most exquisite ruined Cathedral
that ever lived or died; and sweet Pluscarden Abbey not far off;
and Forres, full of memories of Macbeth; and a mysterious carved
shaft of sandstone called Sweno's Stone; and the hidden, secret
glen of the Findhorn River, where we had to get out, and walk for
miles through a gorge of the most entrancing beauty. Sometimes it
was wild and grand, sometimes peaceful as a dream of fairyland.
Every kind of lovely tree grew there, out of sheer, rocky walls red
as coral, or pale and glistening as gray satin; and you looked far
down on water brown as the brown of dogs' eyes--deep pools, and a
hundred rapids and tiny cataracts filling the glen with their
singing. But Mr. and Mrs. Vanneck would walk far ahead of us on the
steep narrow paths, which were so slippery I had to let Basil help
me, and it was most embarrassing and futile to keep refusing him
all the time. He says we were meant for each other, but I know
better!

You remember, don't you, dear, I didn't want to take this trip? My
feeling must have been a presentiment.

At Culloden Moor I couldn't help crying a little over Prince
Charlie and his brave Highlanders, for I think no other battlefield
can keep its sadness and romantic pathos, and its effect upon the
mind as that does. You know it's almost within sight and sound of
the sea; and the voice of the wind among the pines--dark, straight
ranks of pines like soldiers in mourning, standing in a
bloodstained sea of heather--seemed to me like the wail of ghostly
pipes playing a Highland lament. Wandering among the wavy graves
and piled cairns of the different clans who gave their lives in
vain for Prince Charlie, I was with Basil all alone, for those
wretched Vannecks would go off by themselves, as usual, in the most
marked way. He made me wipe my eyes with his handkerchief, and then
folded it up to 'keep forever.' He does choose the strangest places
to make love, and always contrives the minute the others go away,
to bring the subject round to that. Luckily we are all four
together in the car, as the chauffeur drives, but even there he
looks at me, which is quite getting on my nerves. Yesterday I asked
to sit in front, saying I wanted more air. It was after leaving
Inverness; and I had the best of it, quite by accident. It was a
horrid road, almost the only bad one we've had; full of flat holes
which the chauffeur called 'pans,' and the others, in the back of
the car, nearly had their spines come through the tops of their
heads. Strange what a difference there is, sitting in the driver's
seat! The bumping lasted all the way to Drumnadrochit, where we
turned away from a long, straight loch to mount up into lovely
strange country; then plunged down a steep hill to Invercannich--a
charming place ringed round with lovely, mysterious-looking
mountain-peaks which seem to say 'If we chose, we could tell you
the secret of Glen Affric, which we are hiding.'

Isn't that an alluring name--Glen Affric? A little while ago I
should have wanted immensely to see it; but now whenever any one
proposes walking through a glen I always argue that it would be
better not.

Last night we stopped at Strathpeffer, a gay and beautiful little
cure-town, which is like a walled flower-garden set down in the
midst of wild and stern Caledonia. The mountains are the walls; and
heather flows round them and beats against them like a purple
ocean. It is so foreign looking that it reminded Basil of Baden
Baden. Now we are going on into Ross-shire, which Basil describes
as a country of moorlands and great spaces where red deer live. But
already we have seen deer walking quite calmly out of the forests
on to our road, where they stop to gaze quizzically, without the
least fear, at the car. It is almost as if they took it for a
brother-animal. To-night we shall be at Loch Maree, and of course
you won't get this in time to telegraph there. But perhaps you
might wire to Ballachulish, where we shall be to-morrow. Do,
dearest, and tell me to come back to you. In spite of all the
loveliness, I can't stand this much longer, for I cannot make Basil
stop without being really _rude_ to him. You needn't keep me more
than a day if it's inconvenient. I'll go anywhere afterward--except
to Grandma's. Or even there, if she'll have me back!--Your loving
and anxious BARRIE.

TELEGRAM TO BARRIE FROM MRS. BALLANTREE MACDONALD

If you want to please me and be very happy yourself say 'Yes' to
B. N. Splendid thing for you. Could wish nothing better for your
future. Do relieve my mind by writing that you have decided. Yours
lovingly and hopefully,

BARBARA.

LETTER FROM BARRIE TO HER MOTHER

DEAREST: Your telegram gave me the most dreadful surprise
when I arrived here at Ballachulish, and everything else seemed
against me too, for there was a wire from Mr. Bennett's sister
asking Mr. and Mrs. Vanneck to make their visit to her as soon as
possible, at that shooting lodge you told us about. They wanted to
go, and I was the only thing that prevented them. If I had an
_enemy_ trying to push me into a corner this would have seemed like
his (or her) work--just as if it had been planned on purpose. But,
of course, that idea is nonsense. Basil said, 'Now, if you could
only care a little, and make up your mind to wait for the love, we
could be married at once, because I believe it's still easy to do
these things quickly in Scotland.' But I told him _I_ didn't feel
as if I could, even to please Barbara, though I liked him very
much. And I began to think that, after all, I should have to go
back to Carlisle and beg Grandma to take me in, when who should
come teuf-teufing up to the hotel but Mr. Somerled in the darling
Gray Dragon. I could have cried with joy. It was like a miracle,
because, though I thought he might come along some time, I wasn't
expecting him then, any more than you would expect manna to fall in
1912 just because you happened to be hungry and lost.

You will be surprised perhaps at my feeling that I was saved from
Basil and Grandma simply because Mr. Somerled happened to turn up
at our hotel in his motor-car. But I haven't told you all yet. He
wasn't alone. He had collected Duncan MacDonald and Miss MacDonald,
and he'd come to Ballachulish looking for us. I must confess to you
now that I wrote to him twice or three times, which was only
polite, as he'd been so kind about rescuing me before. And you
hadn't forbidden me to write. One of the things I told him in a
letter was about the visit to Mrs. Payne the Vannecks might be
making: and it occurred to him that some such complication as this
might arise. He thought if Mr. and Mrs. Vanneck wanted to go to the
Round House, it would be very nice for me to join my cousins (of
course the MacDonalds are my cousins) until you are ready for me to
come back to you. Or else I could go and stay at Dunelin Castle at
Dhrum, for they are willing to visit him there if I do. It has been
let to him for years, you know. As the MacDonalds are poor he was
afraid, if he didn't take the castle, they might let or even sell
it to some vulgar rich person who would spoil the island he loves.
Now he may buy it himself: for Duncan MacDonald has no son, and the
daughter is so plain and old that she can't possibly marry. Won't
it be good to have the castle still belonging to a MacDonald? And
it is so romantic that it should be Ian Somerled MacDonald, whom
Duncan used to despise. But perhaps you've never heard that story?

Now, both the father and daughter are sweet to 'their dear
cousin,' and very kind to me--to please him, of course. Next to
being with you, I'd rather go to Dhrum than do anything else in the
world. Perhaps it will seem to you just the right thing, because I
know how difficult it is to plan what to do with me for the rest of
my life, unless I marry Basil. And maybe you wouldn't so much mind
my not marrying him, if I had a proper place to stay for ever so
many weeks, while you looked round?

Mr. and Mrs. Vanneck haven't gone yet, but they will be starting
to-morrow morning for Dundee, and from there they will go to the
Round House. I am sorry to say I shan't miss them, as I did Mrs.
James. Cousin Duncan and Cousin Margaret (they have told me to call
them 'Cousin') don't seem Scottish at all, and so they are rather
disappointing. They live in London and don't care for Dhrum, but
they appear not to dislike the idea of visiting Mr. Somerled there.
I believe they have often in old times visited the people to whom
they let Dunelin Castle, but only when there was a very good _chef_
and a gay house-party. Cousin Margaret has a large, high nose, and
thin hair and a thin face and body. All her personality is thin and
cold, as if she couldn't care much about anything. But she does
care about women getting votes, and insists on talking politics in
the midst of lovely scenery. She looks so like her father, it is
quite funny, and their voices are exactly alike, slow and correct
and exaggeratedly English; and Scottish history bores them. They
are proud of the ancestor who ratted from Prince Charlie and fought
with Butcher Cumberland, so we have nothing in common. But any port
in a storm!

I suppose I mustn't go away in the Gray Dragon till I hear from
you? Yet surely you will say 'Yes,' as it will save you trouble,
without my being obliged to marry Basil. I am sorry for him, but he
will soon get over it, for he loves his writing better than
anything else in the world, and presently he will go back to it and
forget me. I think he likes me because I would make a new kind of
heroine for one of his novels, and I'm quite willing he should have
me for that.

I suppose if I go with Mr. Somerled Mrs. West will join Basil in a
few days, and they will continue their tour together as if nothing
had happened to interrupt it. Of course I haven't told Mr. Somerled
about Basil proposing, so when he suggested my going for a short
run with the Gray Dragon in memory of old times, he invited Basil
too. But that was before the Vannecks had looked out trains, and
decided that they couldn't get off till to-morrow. There wouldn't
be comfortable room for such a crowd even in the Gray Dragon.
Anyhow, Basil refused, saying he had writing to do--and I went with
Mr. Somerled and the cousins to the Pass of Glencoe--you know,
don't you, 'The Glen o' Weeping'?

It is only an afternoon excursion from Ballachulish, so I was sure
you wouldn't object to my deciding for myself. As for Ballachulish,
it is one of the most charming little places I've seen yet in
Scotland, although coming here as we did from Loch Maree it would
need to be beautiful indeed, not to be what you call in the theatre
an 'anticlimax.' Loch Maree lies all secret and hidden among deer
forests. Along the narrow, twisting road as you go, you hear the
rushing sound of many rivers. Nobody had ever even dreamed of
motor-cars when that road was made, so you have to travel slowly
and manoeuvre whenever you meet anything if you don't want to be
killed. Even as it was, we got mixed up with a big automobile
loaded with fish-baskets. Our flywheel was on the ground, running
helplessly round and round, screaming horribly, while both
chauffeurs abused each other. Such a funny accident, and we had
another, going up a very steep hill. We'd so little petrol that it
ran back, as your blood does if you hold up your hand, and the
motor would do nothing but groan till we found out what was the
matter. Altogether it was quite an adventure going on such a road
with such a weak, elderly car like Blunderbore: but it was worth it
all, for Loch Maree is the beautiful birthplace of baby rainbows.
As we came near, travelling a mere white seam in a carpet of purple
heather stitched together with silver streams, I saw any quantity
of unfinished rainbows, just waiting to be matched on to each other
like bits of a puzzle. They hovered over rivulets, dancing in the
sunlight; or stained with colour the rocks thickly silvered with a
brocade of lichen, or else hid suddenly in the heather which,
mingling with pale green bracken, made a straggling pattern of
amethyst and jade for miles along the way. Oh, it was all lovely;
and we stayed a night there, at an ideal inn where fishermen engage
their rooms years beforehand. A dear old waiter in the Loch Maree
hotel advised me in the kindest way never, never to speak of fresh
herring as fish, in Scotland. I wonder why? He said, would I have
fresh herrings or eggs? I said I'd have the fish. He said there was
_no fish_, but would I try the herring? That was the way the
subject came up.

We had two Highland ferries to cross, getting to Ballachulish.
Strome Ferry, which was difficult and almost dangerous because
there was a great storm of wind just then, and Dornie Ferry. I
liked those experiences better than almost anything we have done
with Blunderbore. The little ferries were so much more exciting
than a huge steam ferryboat, like that on the Tay. And in the wild,
lost country passing Clunie Inn, it poured with rain and wind, the
gale lashing us, rocking the car like a cradle. The spattering mud
made us look like hideous freckled people; and so the MacDonalds
saw me first. I hope Mr. Somerled explained I wasn't like that
really. We had so much arguing about Mrs. Payne's telegram and what
the Vannecks should do, that we had no time to wash, and I didn't
seem to care if I was never clean again. But the minute the Gray
Dragon appeared I cared _fearfully_. I took great pains with my
appearance before I started out with my new cousins, for Glencoe,
and I felt so happy that it seemed the place ought to call itself
the Glen o' Smiling instead of the Glen o' Weeping.

Of course, however, I lost that frivolous feeling when we were
there, even though it was a joy to be back with the Gray Dragon;
for the Pass of Glencoe is like the Valley of Death. It is a sad
mouth wide open, roaring to the sky for vengeance, biting at the
clouds with black, jagged teeth; a great mouth in a dead face wet
with the tears of the weeping that can never be dried. It rained
while we were there, and though rain doesn't matter to the Gray
Dragon, it made the Pass more wild and grim if possible, filling it
with gray, drifting ghosts: ghosts of the murdered clansmen; ghosts
disappearing into dark, open doorways of rock castles, or falling
on the green floor of the glen, to weep on the dim, faded purple of
the sparse heather. The river into which the weeping cataracts shed
their tears was black at first; but suddenly, though the rain did
not stop, the sun tore a hole through a cloud, and shot a huge
rainbow into the rushing water. It split into a thousand fragments,
still gleaming under the clear brown flood: and I thought it was as
if the MacDonald women, in trying to escape from the massacre, had
dropped their poor treasures--their cairngorms and garnets and
amethysts--and there the jewels had lain ever since under the
water, because no one dared fish them out. But also I thought the
key of the rainbow itself might be lying there; and that made me
happy again in spite of the sadness of the place: for Mr. Somerled
and I used to talk when we first knew each other about finding the
key of the rainbow together: and I saw by the way he looked that he
hadn't forgotten. It is a compliment when a man like that remembers
anything a girl says, don't you think?

Now, dear Barbara, I must send off this letter at once, though I
am going to telegraph at the same time, to ask if I may accept Mr.
Somerled's invitation. I tell you frankly I don't know how I shall
_bear_ it if you say no. But you won't. You are too kind and sweet,
and you do want me to be happy and find the key of the rainbow,
don't you?

Your BARRIE,
Who can hardly wait.

II

When Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald received the telegram, which reached her the day before Barrie's letter, she showed it at once to Aline West. It read:

"Please forgive me for not saying 'Yes' as you wish to B. N. But I
need give no more trouble for a long time, though. Mr. and Mrs.
Vanneck leaving to-morrow. Mr. Somerled has arrived here with my
cousins the MacDonalds from London and I am invited to make visit
Dunelin Castle at Dhrum. Do please let me go, unless you can have
me. They will bring me back first to see you unless that
inconvenient. Have just posted you long letter, but hope you will
wire answer to this.

"BARRIE."

"How simply fatal!" Barbara remarked, so calmly that Aline could have boxed her ears. But, after all, it was she who cared, not Mrs. Bal. So long as Barrie was reasonably safe and reasonably happy, and entirely out of her way (even temporarily out of her way), Barbara did not much mind about anything else. She had wanted to punish Somerled a little for his indifference, past and present, to her (almost) irresistible self: but she _had_ punished him, and it had been great fun, and she was tired of bothering. Her sense of humour, a saving grace of hers, was tickled by his persistence, and this unexpected coup at Ballachulish with the MacDonalds. She could not help chuckling when she thought how Aline (it had been mostly Aline) had maneuvered to throw that poor pretty child into Basil's arms; and how, just as she seemed on the point of succeeding, down swooped Somerled like a golden eagle of the mountains to snap the prey out of his rival's mouth. Barbara would have preferred that her daughter should marry Basil, since she must marry somebody to be got rid of, being so _dreadfully_ in the way, poor pet! But luckily Morgan Bennett had at last said what Barbara wanted him to say. He had meant all along, no doubt, to say it--unless he had wavered from his true allegiance a little on that perilous evening when he first saw Barrie at the theatre. Barbara was safely engaged to him now; and though she had had to tell him that "dear little sister Barrie" would probably marry Basil Norman, she had only said "probably." She couldn't answer for the creature--one never could for anybody.

"How _like_ Somerled!" she gurgled, as Aline sat speechless, with the telegram in her hand. "Now we know where he's been. He went to London and collected the MacDonald family, when all else had failed. He must be making it well worth their while, for they hate their native wilds. But then--London in _August_! I suppose they welcomed any change. My poor dear, I _am_ sorry if you're fond of him, but this does look as if Somerled were tremendously in earnest. And if he is, I don't think you and I are capable of coping with him. We must let things shape themselves, I'm afraid."

Aline's eyes, well again now, sent out a flash such as Basil knew. "You're not going to fail me, are you?" she exclaimed. Her impulse was to add shrilly, "Now that you've made your own market, and don't care a rap what happens to any one else!" As she was Mrs. Bal's guest still, and had been royally entertained, she sacrificed the momentary satisfaction. Besides, this was the last moment in which it would be safe to offend Mrs. Bal.

"Fail you? Of course not," said Barbara. "But what more can I do? I've written and wired Barrie. We both arranged, first for the Vannecks to stay longer, and then for them to go suddenly--or at least to say they were going. We've done so _many_ things, I'm quite confused. And I should have _loved_ Barrie to fall in love with your brother, who's perfectly charming and so _sensible_ about everything. But you see, I can't force the girl. And Somerled's on the spot. What do you _want_ me to do that I haven't done?"

"I don't want you to do anything," Aline answered, struggling to keep her head, "except to stand by me--and Basil. I do care for Ian. I've confessed everything to you, and your not being certain about Mr. Bennett made you so sweet and sympathetic, it was really a comfort. But I've got my brother as well as myself to fight for. One never can be sure what he'll do for himself, he's so modest, and always lets other men get ahead. If you'll stick to us, I'll start off by the first train. I fancy I'll have to go to Oban or somewhere, and hire a motor. Basil has written about ferries there are to cross. It will be terrible, alone. But if you'll stick to me----"

"Stick to you?" repeated Barbara, hoping that Aline did not mean to put her to too much trouble. She was a little--just a little--tired of dear Aline. It had been useful and pleasant to have her, during this time of uncertainty concerning Morgan Bennett: a nice woman to go about with; pretty, but not too pretty; young, yet not too young; celebrated, yet not as celebrated or popular as herself; but now it was all settled about Morgan; and Aline had been a tiny bit plaintive, which was boring. Also it was boring to see how stodgily George Vanneck was in love with Mrs. West, without shadow of turning, although Barbara had tried her hand, just for fun, at tempting him to turn. Even a worm would; but George Vanneck wouldn't, which made him seem so slow! And Mrs. West was a woman with only two smiles, and no real sense of humour.

"All I mean is," Aline explained, uneasily feeling that she had lost her power, "will you send me as your representative to Barrie? I _can't_ let Ian think I have come because of him. But you are acting, and can't possibly get away, so--as we're friends now, it would seem only natural for me to go in your place."

"What will you do when you get to Ballachulish?"

"I'll give Barrie several reasons for marrying my brother, and if you'll let me speak for you as well as for him and myself, I'm almost sure I can--can save her from Somerled."

At this Barbara frankly laughed, the way of putting it seemed so quaint; and as for herself, she was feeling extraordinarily happy. She had got what she wanted from life. She had got Morgan Bennett. And at the end of the week he was going to America for a month, which was nice, because while feeling perfectly safe about the future, she would be able to have a little rest cure, without bothering to be agreeable to him. He was fascinating, but strenuous. And if she need not have Barrie staying with her after all, she could accept a charming invitation for Sunday and part of Monday in the adorable Trossachs. It was the Duchess of Dalmelly who had asked her, and she had thought she must refuse because Barrie was due in Glasgow on Saturday evening. She had not felt like putting off the child again, as Morgan would be gone; yet the Duchess did not know that Barrie existed, and Barbara didn't want her to know. Why not let things arrange themselves, and Barrie go to Dunelin Castle with the MacDonalds? The Duchess was said to have wonderful house-parties, and the Duke's place near Callander was famous. Barbara had never been invited before and would like to go, especially as the fiancée of a millionaire. It would give her new importance.

"Oh, well, you must do as you like," she said easily to Aline, "but don't fuss _too_ much. What is to be, will be, you know."

"Yes, I know," Aline answered dryly. "And now I'll look up trains."

III

Aline induced Mrs. Bal to telegraph Barrie, "Await my messenger"; nevertheless the girl was greatly surprised to see Mrs. West. She had vaguely thought that Barbara might send one of the red-headed maids, to take her back to Glasgow.

Of course Basil must have known, but he had not told. Since Somerled and the MacDonalds came, he had kept to himself with his writing as an excuse. Now Barrie realized that certainly he had been expecting his sister; yet he had not gone to meet her with his car. Perhaps there had not been time: or perhaps he had an inspiration, and could not tear himself from work, even for a few hours.

When Aline arrived at Ballachulish, Barrie and Somerled and Margaret MacDonald were walking together by the side of fair Loch Leven. Barrie wore a white dress and no hat. The late afternoon sun was dazzling on her hair, and as Somerled looked at her, across Miss MacDonald (it was like Margaret to walk between them), there was an expression on his face which made Aline feel capable of desperate things. A child like Barrie to win him away from her so easily! There was something wrong about the world. Aline yearned to right it, and live happily ever after. She had travelled all night by train, and had been hours in a motor-car, never once noticing the scenery; and instead of being enchanted with Connel Ferry had regarded the crossing as a vexatious delay. Some of the most beautiful scenes in Scotland had passed before her eyes between Oban and Ballachulish; but if she thought of such things at all, she thought that even a romantic writer couldn't be expected to notice irrelevant trifles like nature, when bound up heart and soul in her own private romance.

Somerled wondered how he could possibly have found her face interesting. He did not know which of her two smiles had less genuine human nature in it, the sad one or the gay one. And he wondered for the first time if Basil didn't write the best part of their books.