A DOCTOR VERDICT

"We knowThat we have power over ourselves to do
And suffer: What—we know not till we try."
Shelley.

"I DO wish you would be serious!"

"Why on earth should I be?"

Rowena Arbuthnot leant her elbows on the wide windowsill and looked in upon her sister-in-law from the garden, with her mischievous blue-grey eyes which always seemed to twinkle with some hidden joke. Rowena's eyes had been the cause of her continually getting into trouble, from the time she had been a child, when the rector of the parish had requested her not to laugh at him in the pulpit.

She was older now; and had gone through more trouble than most girls of her age. But though her lips were grave, and a trifle sad when in repose, yet her eyes had never lost their gleam of hidden laughter.

Young Mrs. Arbuthnot, sitting in her pretty drawing-room, stitching away at a white frock for her youngest child, felt impatient with Rowena.

"I never shall understand you," she said; "I thought you and Ted were so devoted, that if you had not cared a button about the children or me, you would be disappointed at not coming with us. Our home has been yours for the last four years; and we have always looked upon you as one of the family."

"My dear Geraldine, tears are too expensive a luxury to be wasted in public. Shall I conjure up two for your benefit? I might if I tried hard."

"I hate you when you are facetious!"

"I won't be. Let us talk wisely and soberly. Is it my fault that Ted was cheated in the horse deal, that I mounted a half-broken vixen, and was pitched out of the saddle on the very hardest bit of ground going? Is it my fault that that dear old Niddy-Noddy should insist upon my lying low for a year? I don't want to be an invalid for life. It isn't an attractive prospect. And you wouldn't like a bedridden crock to be attached to you for evermore. Isn't it worthwhile to escape that fate if I can? To forgo my journey to the East with you is, of course, a trial. But what am I, if I can't take my share of disappointments philosophically?"

"Yes, yes, I know you've got an inexhaustible fund of philosophy and patience; but where are you going, what are you going to do? If only Ted had not let the house! But we're so hard up—and—really, Rowena, you ought to be lying down at this moment! What is the good of only following half Dr. North's advice?"

Rowena held up a bunch of dew-sparkling roses.

"My dear, I'm coming in—but I must have these to refresh me." She slipped in over the low window, and went to a couch in the farthest corner of the room. For a moment or two she occupied herself in putting her roses into a bowl of water by the side of the couch; then quietly laid herself down among the cushions with a little sigh—or was it a long-drawn breath of pain?

"Now talk away, Geraldine! I'm chained here till luncheon, and you can say all you have in your mind, but we won't grumble over what cannot be helped."

"Well, have you any idea what is to become of you?"

"Not the slightest. You see Niddy-Noddy only sprang my fate upon me yesterday, and you are the only one who has seen Ted. I was in bed when he returned last night, and he was off to town before I got up this morning."

"He has so many arrangements to make before we sail. And Ted is no good for practical common sense. If you only had money of your own, how easy it would make things!"

It was not often Geraldine Arbuthnot alluded to Rowena's penniless condition; and the girl laughed to hide the hurt of it.

"Yes—and a crippled beggar is worse off than a healthy spry one. I allow I am in an evil case! It's a pity you and Ted set your faces against the job offered me."

"Ted has some pride," said Mrs. Arbuthnot with raised head. "It isn't likely he would let his sister be a paid clerk to that bounder Tom Corbett! And I wanted you badly. Goodness knows what I shall do without you now. You weathered me through my bad time three times over, and I shall never forget it. The chicks will be lost without you—and I was quite counting on you to keep them happy on board ship!"

"Oh, yes, you'll miss me," said Rowena with honest conviction. "What craft can I do on my back, I wonder? Not basket-making! I could make rugs—those Eastern ones—I really think that is an idea! But who would buy them? Would that hurt Ted's pride, if I wrote a round robin—to our friends, asking for their support? How would it run? After this style:"

"'An invalid much in want of the necessities of life, is starting rug-making. Orders received and promptly executed. Designs straight from India and Persia; and colours to blend with purchaser's rooms.'"

"Oh, do be quiet, Rowena. Don't talk such nonsense. Here are the chicks. Nurse, bring them in here."

Mrs. Arbuthnot leant out of the window as she spoke, and a moment after, two little fair-haired boys burst open the door, their baby sister struggling in her nurse's arms to follow them.

"Where's Aunt Rony?"

"Here, Buttons, here; in my little corner!"

Buttons flung himself upon the couch.

"Are you playing a game? Are you in bed?"

For the next few minutes the children's chatter filled the room, but the nurse soon took them off; Buttons and his twin Bertie beseeching their aunt to come up to the nursery and have a game with them after tea.

When they were gone there was silence for some minutes; then Mrs. Arbuthnot folded up her work.

"Well, Rowena, we seem to come to no conclusion. Ted told me to talk it over with you."

"But we have. Ted must lend me a little money—and I'll move into rooms somewhere, and teach myself a craft and pay him back as soon as I can. And then at the end of the year, if I'm cured, I can come out to you if you want me."

"I shall always want you. You do too much for me. I shall never be content to live without you. Well, I must go and write some letters. I'll send Ted to you directly he comes home."

Rowena's bright eyes closed when her sister-in-law left the room. The pain in her back was acute now, and she was glad to rest. Her doctor had told her that there was a slight injury to her spine, and that she must lie on her back for a year, if she wished to be strong again. She had never remembered a day's illness in her life. She rode, she boated, she hunted, and she fished, always in company with her beloved brother. His marriage had not lessened the bond between them, for his wife was devoted to her, and had not a particle of jealousy in her composition. She did encroach on Rowena's good nature, but was conscious of it herself, and told her husband that Rowena was but an unpaid servant in their house.

"She is a companion to me; nurse and governess to the boys; housekeeper and general adviser; and comforter all round. She really deserves double the allowance you give her."

But Ted shook his head.

"She's my sister and chum—I couldn't expect her to take money for her services."

Now he had been summoned to India to join the foreign battalion of his regiment, and Rowena, owing to her unfortunate accident, was to be left behind.

She felt it keenly; she loved the pretty home which lay amongst the Surrey Hills; but would have accompanied her brother cheerfully all over the world. Several times she might have married, but so far, no man had eclipsed Ted's image in her heart. She always compared her lovers with her brother, and always found they lacked his personal attractive qualities.

He came in at five o'clock that June afternoon, and found his way to her almost immediately.

"Rowena, this is bad news."

"Didn't you expect it? I did. I knew from the minute I was carried away from my spill that there would be no India for me."

"But we'll rig you up a bed on board; and in India you can lounge and laze to your heart's content. Old North doesn't know what he is talking about."

"It's no go, my dear boy, you'll be on the move in India yourself, you told me so. I will not be a useless encumbrance to you. No. I'll do the thing in style, and be a bed-lier till I'm cured. I mean to be cured, Ted; and a year will soon slip by. It isn't only Niddy-Noddy who has settled up my fate. That London specialist gave the same verdict."

"But where are you to live?"

"In my skin. Don't ruck up your forehead like a wizened monkey! I've been calculating that I shall require no clothing for a year, and no footgear. I'm very rough on my boots. So my allowance will go for my food. I must get cheap lodgings somewhere. One room will do for me, as I shall always be in bed. Why, lots of old bedridden women in the country villages live on less than you give me for my clothes."

Her brother paced the room restlessly. Then his face lighted up.

"How would you like to go up to that Scotch shooting lodge of mine? Could you stand the quiet and solitariness of it? There's old Granny Mactavish who would wait upon you. And then there would be no rent to pay, and she keeps a cow and some hens, so those would feed you."

Rowena's eyes literally danced in her head.

"And Geraldine says that you are not practical! Ah, here she is. Come along and see how quickly we've settled things. I'm going up to Loch Tarlie. And a cow and some hens are going to nourish and sustain me!"

"Oh, Rowena! Ted, you will never encourage her to go there! She could die and be buried before we should hear of it, or anyone else. Besides, I don't think it would be proper. Isn't she too young to live in the wilds by herself?"

Both Ted and Rowena began to laugh, and Rowena's laughter was so infectious that Geraldine's grave face relaxed.

"Is it a joke?" she asked. "Of course you might like it for the summer, Rowena dear, but think of the winter! How could you live there? And you're a sociable creature and have always been accustomed to see a good many people. Why, it is fifty miles from rail! And there are no shops, or libraries, or theatres, or concerts, or the mildest form of amusement for you!"

Rowena held up her ten fingers.

"And now let us count the advantages:"

"No temptation to attract one off one's couch. A never-ending
panorama of colour and light and beautiful scenery before
one's eyes. No rent to pay."

"No servants to employ."

"A home of one's own—I have known Loch Tarlie since I was six—
milk and butter and chickens all to hand. Ted asserts I want
nothing else."

"No newspapers, to make one realize that England is going,
or has gone, to the dogs."

"And life-giving, intoxicating moor air to make one feel glad
every day of one's life that one is alive!"

"Yes, Geraldine, I am going and will stick it out for the winter there. Old Granny Mactavish is as spry and active as a girl. If she can stand the winter, why shouldn't I? And oh, do you think old Niddy-Noddy would let me transfer my mattress to a boat? Think of my lying on a silver loch watching the trout and salmon leap and flash by! Perhaps with Granny's nephew, Colin, by my side, we could fish between us. Ted, is your mouth watering? And will you write by this evening's post and tell Granny I will have my bed made up in the green drawing-room, with windows down to the floor? I shall feel out-of-doors at once."

"You will want books," said Ted gravely. "I'll order a box from Mudie's to go down with you, and I say, Rowena, there's a first-rate travel book by a chap I knew in the war. He's a humorous sort of fellow, with keen powers of observation. It's about the Frontier up in Afghanistan. You must read it. I was dipping into it to-day at the club, and Murchison, who was reading it, said—"

"Ted, get off books this instant," said Geraldine, "and let us discuss the question of Loch Tarlie. How will Rowena get up there, and who will go with her? And she cannot live alone with old Granny Mactavish. We have always taken our own maids up there and a chauffeur. Rowena must have a nice maid to attend upon her."

"No, thanks—not if I know it! I couldn't stand the whines of a lonely frightened maid. No young person could stand a Loch Tarlie winter. As for me, I am as old as the hills. They say a woman is as old as she feels—and I feel just a thousand and one since my spill!"

"Oh, if you've made up your mind, any objection of mine will be waste of words. I wonder if the Frasers will be there this year?"

"Macdonald has taken possession of Glen Tarlie," said Ted; "but I don't believe he is there much. It's a pity his wife died—she was just Rowena's sort."

"You mean in the way of books," said Geraldine. "Well, I never liked her, she was so indifferent to him; and I think it was sheer wickedness to leave her baby to those Highland folks at the Farm, because she wouldn't be bothered with a child in town."

"I'm not going to see a soul," said Rowena in her cheerful voice; "so don't try to rake out company for me. Ted, write; there's a dear! I'm quite impatient to have it settled up. And as for the journey, Geraldine, I shall have a sleeper, and get on by myself. The guards are always attentive to invalids."

"That you shall not! I shall send Ellen with you. She won't come to India with me, and her home is somewhere in the North."

And so it was settled, and in about three weeks' time Ted with his wife and children were steaming down the Channel on a P. & O. boat, and Rowena was travelling up to Scotland with Geraldine's maid.

Rowena had kept a bright face to the last. But now she lay in her berth with closed eyes, feeling the chubby soft faces of her little nephews pressed against her cheek, seeing the wistful look in her brother's eyes and the tears in his wife's, and wondering if she would ever see them all again. And then she took herself to task in her usual style.

"This won't do at all! You've been shamefully spoilt these last four years—every one wanting you and making much of you. Those fat years have gone and now comes a lean one. Too much fat makes the liver sluggish. And you lived alone for two years with your poor fretful father, when he never wanted you near him, and wouldn't let you go away from him. Now you are going to live by your lone self, with no one to fret you; and if you can't employ yourself and enjoy yourself as well, I'm sorry for you!"

The journey to Scotland was made in driving wind and rain, but though Rowena felt the continual vibration of the train in every joint of her injured spine, she was as cheerful as a cricket, and kept Ellen in constant smiles.

"I never did hear a grown-up person talk such nonsense in all my life," she confided to the friendly guard, who took Rowena under his fatherly protection; "but she'd win a smile out of a cow, she would!"

Half a day's journey from Glasgow brought them to the last stage of their travels. Ellen was to take Rowena to the Lodge and sleep the night there. The little steamer was waiting to take them up the loch. Rowena insisted upon walking on to it, though she was forced to lean heavily on Ellen's arm. The rain had ceased, and the sun now shone out as it only does in the Highlands, illuminating every mountain height, with soft dreamy radiance.

"Ah!" said Rowena, subsiding into a lounge chair upon the deck; "now don't you wish yourself in my shoes, Ellen? And I am not to be torn away from it just when I am taking root, which has always been my fate before—I am going to sink into it and rest in it for three hundred and sixty-five days."

"I'm sure, ma'am, I only hope you will have some amusements to beguile the days," said Ellen.

She was looking round her with apprehensive eyes. The still silent waters of the loch through which they glided with its walls of green on either side, and the blue ranges of mountain that guarded it upon the horizon, seemed to her a type of prison.

Rowena now pointed out a beautiful glen across the loch.

A stack of chimneys rose up behind some trees.

"That's where we're going," she said.

Ellen gave a gentle sigh.

"It seems the end of the world," she said, and Rowena's low mellow laugh rang out.

"You'll be in dear noisy Glasgow again to-morrow, Ellen. Cheer up!"

The steamer put in at the small pier at the foot of the glen. There was a grey-bearded Highlander standing very straight and still upon the pier. Rowena greeted him with a radiant smile. Duncan Cameron had helped her many a time to stalk a stag. He had also been with her when she had caught her first salmon many years ago. He was her brother's head keeper, and had been in his employ for over twenty years.

"Granny was sayin' that you would be wantin' a hand up," he said. "Is it ill ye are, Miss Rowena?"

"I'm an infirm old woman, Duncan—jumped into my dotage in one black day! Why, what is that you've got there?"

"'Tis a cheer, miss—a cheer which the Ker-enel ordered to be brought for ye, an' tis I will be pushin' it up the wee bit brae!"

"Magnificent!" said Rowena, looking at the spick and span invalid's chair with its soft blue cushions: a lump gathering in her throat at this proof of her brother's loving forethought.

Helped into it by Ellen, she relapsed into silence, but she was gazing up the glen with shining eyes. The soft air, the afternoon sun, gilding the raindrops on the pines and birches, the sweet scents of the moistened earth underfoot, all soothed and rested her tired spirit.

Along the winding carriage road they went, under an avenue of ashes and birches; by the side of them a wide trout stream came dashing down from the heights above, finding its way into the Loch. And then they turned the corner, and on a flat plateau of green smooth turf, fringed with pines, lay the house. It was a low, long grey building, with windows opening out upon the lawn, and creeping roses covering an old rustic porch, which led into the hall. Inside the pitch-pine floors were covered with green druggetting. Old Mrs. Mactavish stood curtsying in the doorway. Rowena took both her wrinkled hands in hers affectionately.

"Here I am and here I shall be till you are sick of the sight of me!"

"Ach now, ma'am, with your jokes! Wae's me if ye will be stretched on your back a' the days o' sunshine, but I've done as weel as I know how to mak ye comfortable!"

She led the way into the room which Rowena had chosen for herself.

It was a long, low room with three beautiful windows reaching the whole length of the wall; the loch stretched out below the lawn; and there was a gap in the trees so that the view of the shining water and the wooded heights on the farther side lay open to the eyes. The floor was covered with the same simple green druggetting. Geraldine had good taste, and simplicity reigned all over the house. The walls were painted cream and the furniture was fumed oak, but the couches and chairs were all covered with green and white chintz, and Rowena's couch was drawn up near one of the windows, a table by its side. A bright wood fire was blazing in the low grate. The room looked cheerful; old Granny had even gathered some yellow flags and put them in a china jug upon the mantelpiece. There was a door leading into a similar room behind, originally the smoking-room, and now to be used by Rowena as her bedroom.

Ellen looked round with critical eyes, but even she could not find any faults with the arrangements for the invalid's comfort.

"And there's my granddaughter, Janet, will be up in the morning early," said Granny. "The mistress said she should wait on ye in the morn, and also in the eve."

She introduced a rosy smiling girl to Rowena, and Ellen heaved a sigh of relief.

"I'm glad you'll have somebody to wait on you, ma'am, for that old body seems ready for the grave!"

"Oh, Ellen, for shame! It is the outdoor work she does that makes her so wrinkled. Granny is good for twenty years yet. And you should taste her oatcakes and scones! No one can beat her at cakes!"

Half an hour later Rowena was lying on her couch with the table drawn up by the side of it; and even Ellen could find no fault with the creamy scones and oatcakes, the excellent tea and bowl of rich yellow cream, and home-made butter, which Janet smilingly brought to them.

Rowena went early to bed, and when Ellen left her the next morning she was unwillingly convinced that her charge would be comfortable, but "desperately solitary" she assured herself with a lugubrious shake of her head.