Part 9

“Dear old man,” said Marcus, and Diana was further amused. If Scotland could do this for one man—then Scotland forever, for all men. There was a lorry for the luggage—a car for Marcus and Diana, and for the household a kind of a _char-à-banc_, Pillar presiding over all and preventing Marcus from interfering. He showed no excitement. He knew his Scotland; if not one part, then another. They were all the same. In one, less grouse than in another—seldom more: in another, more fishing: scenery more or less the same in all parts. Mountains higher in one part than another—nothing much to choose between them—and midges everywhere. He himself had a weakness for sea-fishing, but would quite understand if Mr. Maitland had forgotten to remember it. In the back of his head he had a shrewd suspicion that they had come to Scotland for a set purpose—that Scotland was to be the means of marrying Miss Diana—and of defeating Miss Carston. It was always easy to get the right kind of gentlemen to come to Scotland, not that there had been any great difficulty in London, but gentlemen would recklessly face a recognized danger for the chance of a “royal”—whereas for a dinner—well, in London they were cautious. Pillar had an idea, unexpressed, that Miss Diana would prove highly dangerous in Scotland. He had faith—the utmost faith—in her tweeds and boots. She would make no sartorial mistakes—moreover, the more like a boy she looked the better she looked. They arrived at Glenbossie. It was exactly as Marcus had described it: a low, white house set on a hillside; surrounded by moor. On one side was a birch wood; a short distance below the lodge ran the river, getting, of course, lower and lower every minute as rivers will. Where were the rods? Marcus asked, all eagerness to begin fishing. The _rods_ had arrived! Pillar said it with such emphasis that Marcus asked what had not arrived?

“The stores, sir.” A happy gloom here expressed itself on every feature of Pillar’s face.

“The stores? Oh, that doesn’t matter.”

“Very good, sir,” said Pillar.

“What sort of stores?” asked Marcus, this resignation, beautiful in its selflessness, on the part of Pillar looked bad.

“Oh, just ordinary stores, sir, tea and coffee and sugar, jam, marmalade, bacon, vermicelli, rice, oil, vinegar, sultanas, raisins, every kind of cereal, tapioca—macaroni—pickles.”

Now many of these things Marcus hated, but he wanted them all the same. He didn’t see why the railway company should have them. There was Mrs. Oven to keep happy, but it would take more than stores, it appeared, to make Mrs. Oven happy. The fire wouldn’t burn.

“Dog, dog won’t bite,” quoted Diana, and Marcus told her not to be irrelevant.

The oven wouldn’t heat itself, let alone water.

“Piggy won’t get over the stile—don’t worry,” said Diana; “it’s all too delicious. The station-master is still your brother, and Macpherson your keeper—”

Macpherson! Good idea! What about Mrs. Macpherson? Pillar would enquire. He enquired and came back to say she was a most respectable woman and had flour and tea and washing soda—

“If she would be so kind—” Marcus was beginning when Pillar respectfully broke in to say she would be kinder than that—moreover, she understood the stove. It could heat water and it could bake—the oven could. “It was just the puir gals from London who didna understand the ways of it.”

Pillar prided himself on his Scotch. He spoke it as well as many actors on the London stage speak it and with less effort.

When dinner-time came, into her own came Mrs. Oven. Whatever disappointment she had expressed, annoyance she had shown, she now proved that her cunning had not left her. There was a dinner and an excellent dinner. Women are wonderful creatures, and with the help of cows and hens there is no limit to what they can do if they set their minds to it.

Before Marcus and Diana went to bed that first night, when their fates as regarded beds and mattresses were still hid from them, Marcus called to Diana to come out. They stood in front of the lodge, Diana like a wraith in the moonlight—an exquisite visitant from another world.

“Listen!” said Marcus, and they heard the call of the cock grouse on the hillside, the weird cry of the plover, the soft rushing of the river, and it was all very, very good. And it would have been better still if that haunting question had not come back to torment the poor uncle. “Is she in love?” Did Elsie know of whom Diana was thinking as she stood there looking so horribly, so bound to be, in love?

“What are you thinking of?” he asked.

The moment was fraught with possibilities. At such a moment as this she might say what was in her heart, and if she did, and he found she was thinking of a suitable young man, he might say something of what he meant to do for her when she married. It was dangerous, he knew, to commit one’s self, but still—

“Would you mind frightfully if I wore a kilt, because I think I must—darling, you _don’t_ mind—”

“Is that what you were thinking of?”

“No—darling—shall I tell you? I am a little shy about it. I—”

“Don’t be shy.”

“Well—you look most awfully—what shall I say?—handsome is not the word, is it?—alluring—no, not that—distractingly elusive—yes, that’s it—at the same time you look as if you might be—are you—in love? Tell me—don’t be shy—is it—Elsie?”

* * * * *

Marcus was far from being in love with Elsie, but she was always at his elbow as it were. Whenever Diana seemed particularly happy, he thought of Elsie and wondered what she would do to get Diana back? What attractions she would dare to offer? There was nothing he wouldn’t do to show Diana how infinitely to be preferred was Scotland above any other country, how much nicer than aunts were uncles. And Diana responded by walking like a gazelle and climbing like a goat; that was as far as Marcus could go in describing her particular grace and amazing activity. The first salmon he hooked he handed to Diana to play. She played and lost it, and he swore he would have done likewise—and the gillie agreed with him. But he had seen “wurrrse fishermen cert’nly,” he would no be denying it. “Mister Maitland was a fair fisherman, but not so good a fisherman as he thought himself to be.” When Marcus realized how Sandy ached for the feel of the rod, he let him feel it now and then, and he went up by leaps and bounds, as a fisherman and a God-fearing man in the eyes of Sandy.

Marcus was at his best when Diana was with him: he shot better and fished better under the spur of her generous admiration and encouragement; and of Elsie and her picnics and her croquet parties, and even her dances, he could think with a pity that was almost tender. He had plenty of opportunities in which to win Diana’s confidence, and he imagined she gave it to him with a fine honesty that he found particularly gratifying. Mr. Watkins he dismissed with a gesture—it was impossible Diana could think seriously for one moment of a minor poet. Mr. Pease? Another gesture and he was as nothing—he no longer existed. He was not for Diana. The young man in London troubled him. St. Jermyn was his name. He had nothing against him except that he had shown symptoms of possessing that power of attracting the whole attention and sympathy of a woman that Eustace Carston had shown. Had Diana the same power of devotion her mother had? The thought was disquieting. Diana would not say anything about the man except that he had danced better than any other—that was all. She vowed that Uncle Marcus alone held her heart: could hold her heart among the heather and the burns and the lochs: that he fitted in with the surroundings as no other man could. No man could be so interesting, no man so Scotch! If only he would wear a kilt! She would so love it!

Although Diana wanted no one but Uncle Marcus, a great many men found their way to Glenbossie. Men from up the river and down the river came with offerings of beats and butts. Men from the neighbouring moors brought offerings in the way of days—a day’s driving later on; a day’s stalking. Marcus had these things of his own, but he found he would have to share them and sharing them would mean sharing Diana.

“I wish,” said Marcus one evening, “that I could see some of these men you talk about, so that I might judge of them for myself. I should like to guide you in your choice.”

“Do, darling,” said Diana.

“But I can’t without seeing them.”

“Well, ask them here.”

But that was more than he could do. There was nothing Diana couldn’t do when she tried. In the village (village?—Mrs. Oven couldn’t see where the village came in, but for all that it existed) there was an inn, a kirk, a general merchant, and that, with a few old people, and a few young men and women, and a few barelegged children, constituted Loch Bossie. The inn stood at the side of the road, and with the inn went fishing—bad fishing, perhaps, but fishing: and the people who had taken it this season could not come because their children had developed scarlet fever, which dispensation of Providence Mrs. MacFie—innkeeper—accepted as one to be borne with unwavering faith, and thankfulness that it was not worse. It meant for her the rent in her pocket and something more in the shape of compensation, and no one to feed or to fash about. So she was well content, though sorry for the poor things, of course. But it was a sorrow she could very well bear and she was bearing it very well, when into the inn walked an apparition. Mrs. MacFie didn’t call Diana by that name, although Mr. Watkins might have done so; and so might Mrs. MacFie if she had thought of it.

The apparition wore a tweed that went with her eyes, and the whole of Scotland went with her hair: and there was that in her voice that softened the heart of Mrs. MacFie, and in ten minutes Mrs. MacFie had promised the rooms, and the fishing at a moderate cost; and as many scones, dropped and griddled, as they could eat, to two young men who had been since the days they were born the solaces of their respective mothers.

According to Diana they neither drank nor did they eat to any appreciable extent. They liked whatever was set before them; and they were prepared to love Mrs. MacFie. That Diana implied rather than said: and she walked away, swinging as she walked as lightly as a silver birch dances blown by the breeze. Mrs. MacFie watched her, and that was how it struck her, and she went back into the house glad that the tenant at Glenbossie liked Scotland so well. It showed good sense and a good heart and the young leddy was no doubt in love with one of the young gentlemen, perhaps with both, and would be having them up so that she might choose between them; which was not exactly as matters stood, but near enough.

Diana wrote to Mr. Pease and to Mr. Watkins and they wrote back to say they would come. Mr. Watkins had never fished, but was willing to try, and Mr. Pease had fished all his life, but had caught little. The prospect of good fishing filled him with delight. There was no sport in the world like it. Had Miss Diana ever considered how full the New Testament was of fishing? It was very encouraging—particularly to all bishops and curates.

Diana walked softly the day she got the letters. It was not only that Uncle Marcus should know him that she had asked Mr. Pease to come; not only that he should know Mr. Watkins that she had asked Mr. Watkins to come, but that they should enjoy themselves and that Mr. Pease should catch much fish.

She was of so delightful a nature that what she enjoyed she wanted others to enjoy. The thought of Mr. Pease riding up and down Bestways hills on his bicycle, ministering to the souls and bodies of old men and women, seemed, viewed from the moors of Scotland, where souls had such a chance, rather a sad lot. Uncle Marcus could well afford to give both Mr. Pease and Mr. Watkins a holiday. They would never question the smallness of the rent asked for the fishing, so Marcus could hide his light under a bushel and could easily escape the thanks he dreaded.

XIV

_A man may know his own boots when he sees them, and yet not recognise his own joke._

Diana did everything that was asked of her as tenant of Glenbossie and more. She loved the Minister’s wife, her soft voice and gentle manner, and when she asked Diana to come to the Sale, to be held in the schools, Diana said, of course she would come, and on the appointed day she went down to the schools with her pockets full of Uncle Marcus’s money, and on her way she passed old women whom she loved for the mutches they wore, and for the smiles within them. Every one had a soft word for her and a smile. When she got to the schools she did not stop to wonder why so many people were gathered together outside the door. They made way for her, and she went in and she bought all the shirts and all the socks: praised the making of them—and wondered at their strength and their softness—the softness of the socks and strength of the shirts. She bought other things, less useful, and perhaps not strictly beautiful, but she paid for them all right royally.

As she was the only person there she bought everything she could lay hands on, remembering the soft voice and the gentle manner of the Minister’s wife. One or two stall-holders, she remembered afterwards, did protest faintly: but she thought they were only afraid she was being too generous.

Having bought most things she rested from her labours, and walking to the window looked out, and saw sailing down upon the schoolhouse a party consisting of a very small, but very important-looking mother, and a charming-looking daughter and several other people, and she knew them to be the Scott party. Very important people were the Scotts—very important was their party. It was trimmed with white heather. The men wore kilts and the women the next best things. They all wore tartan stockings and some—some men, bonnets.

Diana’s heart began to fail. The Minister was at the door to meet the Scott party and he welcomed Mrs. Scott and them all with great ceremony, and Mrs. Scott smiled upon him and said how delighted she was to open the bazaar.

The Minister consulted his watch in answer to her question, “Was she late?” and it was found she was not late.

“Not late, perhaps,” thought Diana, “but everything was sold!”

After the opening of the Sale with prayer, Mrs. Scott proclaimed it ready for buyers and she hoped that people would buy as many things as they could, and spend as much money as they—had—no, not that; but as much as they could spare! The crowd that had gathered outside now filled the hall.

The first shirt Mrs. Scott lost her heart to was sold, and the next. And the socks? Yes, sold!

Then Diana went round to all the stall-holders and assured them she had bought nothing—they might keep the money, but the things must be sold again. “Let me have afterwards what Mrs. Scott doesn’t want,” she said. Mrs. Scott thanked Diana for coming, said she remembered her so well, at the—whose ball, was it? She told her Ralph St. Jermyn was coming to stay with them. “But I must do my duty. Have you found anything to buy? It is so kind of you. There will be lots for us all.” And she went on her way buying all the things Diana had already bought. It was a very good way of selling from the stall-holders’ point of view, and they had never made so much before at any sale in Loch Bossie, and in Scotland they make more by bazaars than in any other country in the world.

Diana made her escape so soon as she could, greatly to the disappointment of some of the Scott party, and she vowed to Uncle Marcus she would never go to another sale so long as she lived. He asked her at what time she had gone, and she said at three o’clock—why?

He said he had only wondered because the Sale was to be opened at half-past three by Mrs. Scott.

“She must never know,” said Diana.

“Never!” agreed Uncle Marcus, and he put out his hand for the change (there are very few men who don’t ask for change) and he did not express that pleasure he ought to have experienced when he realized how greatly the Sale had benefitted by the officiousness of his niece.

When the parcel came from the bazaar for Diana there were within it neither the socks she had promised Pillar, nor the shirts longed for by John and Sandy, but only those things Mrs. Scott and others had not been requiring.

Two egg-cosies in tartan cloth.

One piano-key-cover in dark brown serge, worked in yellow silks.

One tea-cosy crocheted in string, lined with red sateen.

One shoe-bag in brown holland and bound with green braid.

One crazy patchwork cushion cover.

One bib.

One turkey twill bedspread—

“I should like to see the things you bought,” said Uncle Marcus.

“You shall see them all this evening,” said Diana softly.

“I hope you didn’t buy any rubbish. I hate money wasted. Stockings and shirts are always useful.”

Then Diana persuaded Pillar to lay out all Mr. Maitland’s clothes on the bed, chairs, and tables in one of the spare bedrooms after dinner, and Pillar, because Miss Diana asked him to do it—did it.

“Particularly his boots, miss, you want, his shooting-clothes, and his shirts? Yes, miss.”

“How many pairs of boots are there?” she asked.

Pillar pondered, and when he gave the number of pairs—“approximately, miss”—Diana said six of them would do.

And at half-past nine that night Diana told Uncle Marcus the things were all ready, laid out, in the spare room. She put out her hand inviting him to come, and he followed her upstairs and came into the room and saw spread upon the tables, bed, and chairs, things he must least have expected to see.

“Boots?” he asked, “_these_ boots?” He took one up; looked at it, and put it down again. From that to another pair—from the boots he went to tweed coats, knickerbockers, trousers. “Was this as one would meet old friends?” thought Diana—“without one smile?”

From the blue shirt to the pink striped one, went Marcus; from the mauve silk one to the black-and-white striped one. From shirts to pyjamas; he had never thought he had so many, or such good ones. Back to the boots. He was perfectly serious and Diana wondered of what he was thinking? “You look very serious,” she said.

“It is very serious,” he answered. “You got a lot for your money, that’s all I can say—the rest of the matter I must put into the hands of the police.”

“Police?” asked Diana.

“My dear child, it’s clearly a case of stealing. Some one has sold my clothes, and although the money may be given to the poor it won’t do.” And he went—bound, Diana was sure, for the Police Station.

She was so distressed that it was more than the respectfully tender heart of Pillar could stand, and he told her, begging her pardon, that Mr. Maitland had been “in the know,” as it were. “You told him?” she asked, surprised and indignant.

“Well, miss, I couldn’t have done it without his leave.”

But the joke was spoilt! Not entirely, said Pillar, there was no reason he should know she knew. There was generally the other side to a joke.

“You mean,” said Diana, “that I must let Mr. Maitland think that I am very much distressed—that I believe about the policeman?”

“Let things go their own way, miss. It’s safest with jokes—certainly where single gentlemen—of a certain age—are concerned.”

And she let things go their own way, and this is the way they naturally went. Uncle Marcus went downstairs looking very serious, and Diana followed him a few minutes later, looking very distressed.

He sat down at his table to write to the police.

“Don’t!” she said, and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“My dear child, I must. It cannot be left as it is.”

“What do you suspect—_who_ do you suspect?” she asked.

“I suspect that my things have been sold by some one to some one—else, and by some means or other they found their way to the bazaar, and by some strange chance you bought them.”

Diana said, being the niece of her uncle, it was only natural that she should know good boots when she saw them.

This appeared to soften Uncle Marcus towards Diana, but in no other way was he to be moved.

“You don’t suspect—Pillar?” she said softly. She was anxious to find out the way the joke was going—she thought it had got lost.

Marcus paused—it was a serious thing to say, even in fun—“I have reason to doubt him,” he admitted.

Then up spake Diana: her eyes shining, her cheeks ablaze. She recounted—Marcus couldn’t have done it better himself—in fact she had got it all from him—the many and varied perfections of Pillar. His most excellent qualities—she had them all at her finger’s ends. As she talked Marcus’s heart warmed afresh towards the man he would as soon have suspected as himself of stealing—but Diana? Was she going to allow him to send for the policeman? Would she carry her joke to that extremity? He knew the note would go no further than Pillar: but she did not know that.

“Unless you can throw some light on the matter, this letter must go.” And he wrote the letter, pausing between the words, blackening the down strokes, rounding the _e_’s; still Diana said nothing, and Uncle Marcus gave his letter to Pillar to send at once. Whereupon Diana burst into tears and left the room.

Outside the door there were no tears to be wiped away, but there was much to be done. She had to find a policeman; not so difficult that as it sounded. It only meant going so far as the next lodge and borrowing the first young man she could find; and off she went, having told a housemaid to lock her bedroom door on the outside, and take the key away.

“Then if Uncle Marcus comes to comfort me,” she thought, “he will find the door locked.”

Uncle Marcus sat and waited. He made up his mind to wait five minutes. He could not let any woman cry for longer. They were fearfully long minutes. But they passed and he went upstairs. He knocked at the door. There was no answer, for by that time Diana was halfway to the next lodge.

“Diana?” Still no answer.

He waited. He heard her sob—was sure of it—confound the joke—“Diana!” No answer.

By this time Diana was at the next lodge; and was in the very act of coaching a young man—only too ready to be coached in anything by Diana, whom he had worshipped from afar the whole of one morning; from the other side of the river, to be exact—and he was perfectly willing to be a policeman if it made her happy.

“Can you talk Scotch?” she asked.

“Do you mean Gaelic?”

“Yes; if you can do that, it’s better still, because Uncle Marcus ‘has not’ Gaelic.” He could talk Gaelic, and he understood English. He laughed: in his present mood this seemed a good joke, and Diana laughed, too, which showed she was kind: then she asked, “How did Scotch policemen dress?” The young man was sure—in blue. Diana decided he must wear a mackintosh. Uncle Marcus would be much too agitated to see anything: the mere sight of a policeman would be paralyzing to one of his temperament. The young man asked if Mr. Maitland would be likely to see the joke.

“Jokes are difficult things to deal with,” admitted Diana. “There are better jokes than those we don’t see: and there are none so good as those we see. It gives Uncle Marcus a way out.”

Down the road walked Diana with the policeman to be, while Uncle Marcus pleaded, through a locked door, with a Diana not there. Then he grew stuffy and offended as he always did in time, being of so affectionate and sensitive a nature, and he went downstairs to the smoking-room, muttering to himself that if she didn’t want to, he didn’t, and so on. He took up his “Scotsman.” How often had he found a refuge behind its generous pages, and he had only just taken up his position of offended dignity when the door opened and Pillar announced the arrival of the policeman.

“Idiot!” said Mr. Maitland, meaning Pillar, of course, and in walked the policeman.