ALONE

"When from our better selves we have too long
Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired—
How gracious, how benign is solitude!"
Wordsworth.

"MY DEAREST GERALDINE,—"
"My thoughts have been with you, of course. At first I felt that my better half had gone with you, and only my feeble carcass left here, but you know my adaptability! In a coster's cart or Rolls-Royce car, a slum garret, or Park Lane mansion, I should be bound to get some fun out of it! And I'm not only getting fun but really steeping myself neck-deep with thrills of delight in my delicious atmosphere and surroundings! And you'll be glad to hear that I am growing into my bed, spreading my roots there, and almost getting to like an invalid's life! Well, what can I tell you? I begin my day with hearing pretty Janet's view of life. She's almost as talkative as her Granny, but has got very modern cravings! I end the day by a crack with Granny, who is anything but modern; and my interim is spent with many pleasant companions. A robin and a gull visit me daily—they bring others of their acquaintance who regard me somewhat indifferently and don't come again. But my robin never misses a day; and my gull walks boldly inside my room and up to my couch, where he expects, of course, some special tit-bits in reward for his friendliness."

"Duncan brings me fish, and talks over the prospects of the shooting. He does not like the man who has taken it."

"'He be ane o' these Englanders who fancies a kilt and a bonnet will turn him into a highlander—an' he be in an awfu' funk lest he miss his shot; an' spends muckle bawbees in endeavourin' to win approval!'"

"It appears he was one of the house-party at the Frasers' last year, and Duncan heard 'accounts' of him!"

"Granny's nephew, Colin, cuts our wood, runs errands, and is a first-rate gardener. The lawn is beautiful: the birds make it their playground. And now I must tell you that yesterday Duncan presented me with the sweetest Highland pup that you have ever seen! His name is Shags, a dog of good pedigree and one that will be a real companion. The collies live out-of-doors—they cannot be enticed into my room. Shags has established himself at once at the foot of my couch, and he understands my talk, and appreciates it. He has a very rough little head, and cocky ears, and bright brown eyes that wink in an understanding manner. His tail is always wagging, and life to him at present is one huge joke. He knows the power of his sharp little teeth, and uses them on everything in his way; but he is learning self-control and discretion, and I make him a fresh ball of rags every day, which he tears to pieces with relish and scatters to the winds. Tell the boys about him. He is quite a personality!"

"Tell Ted I'm steadily getting through the box of books; but I am doing a 'power of meditation' as Duncan says. And when I've nothing to do but dream, I dream with a vengeance. I am fed well, I sleep well, and barring the first two days, I have not had much grinding in my old back."

"Enough of me and my doings! Tell me all about yourselves—how the chicks like India—what they do and say. Have you a nice ayah? What is your house like? Who are your neighbours? Does Ted like his fellow-officers? I expect sheets and sheets from you. Don't you dare to forget the poor isolated prisoner of Loch Tarlie!"

"Oh, Geraldine, why aren't you all here with me! Then we should be happy indeed. Best love and hugs to the darlings."

"Your loving"
"ROWENA."

Rowena had settled down, as she wrote, into a quiet invalid's life. She had severe internal conflicts at first. She wanted so much to be up half the day at least. But a letter from her old fatherly doctor sent her to her couch, and kept her chained there. She was assured it was the only chance for her cure.

The first fortnight was fine. A sense of rest and peace stole into her heart as she gazed over the beautiful landscape out of her window. No two days were alike. The softness of the colouring of the distant hills, the shadows which ceaselessly flitted across them and the loch, and the fresh opening of the spring flowers in the garden, were a continual surprise and interest to her. She got Janet to bring her bowls of pale primroses and daffodils, and her room soon became a bower of sweet-smelling flowers.

Then, suddenly, the weather changed. There was a spell of wet and wind.

Windows had to be shut; the wind howled down the chimneys, and soughed through the trees, and tore some delicate young plants in the flower-beds to pieces, scattering the fragments over the lawn. The loch churned itself into a grey muddy froth, the singing birds fled to their nests and stayed there.

Rowena looked out of her windows, and for three days watched the career of the storm with the greatest concern. It really seemed at times as if everything young and fresh would be swept away.

After a time the wind fell, but the rain continued, and then it began to pall upon her. Would it ever be fine again? Would the hills ever appear out of their thick well of mist? She read till her eyes ached. She worked at her rug till her fingers ached. She meditated till her head ached. She yawned, she fidgeted, and finally she came to the conclusion that she was becoming unutterably bored.

Shags was restless and was unaccustomed to the closed windows. Hitherto he had wandered in and out of his own free will, and he basely deserted Rowena for the kitchen. Depression settled down upon her on the fifth day of storm and rain. After she had had her lunch, she began to wonder how she could get through the winter, if a wet week in June affected her so sorely. Shags' appearance for a time distracted her, but after a little he left her, and lay against the window, his nose close to the glass, showing in every hair on his head how much he disliked the indoor life. Rowena took up a fresh book and tried to forget herself in it; but the rain and wind began to get upon her nerves. Her book did not interest her—she tossed it aside.

"And in India they are revelling in sunshine! Perhaps Ted will be playing polo, or he and Geraldine riding out together. Oh, it's hard lines I shouldn't be with them! I shall forget how to talk, if I am shut up here much longer. I might as well be doing my time in a Dartmoor prison, or at Broadmoor."

Then she started—sounds came to her of a car of some sort coming up the drive. Could it possibly be a visitor? Hardly—on a day like this. She was not long left in doubt. Granny appeared at the door, with signs of agitation.

"If ye please, mem, may we shelter two bodies who be fair drowned in this awfu' rain? I cam' right awa to ask ye—for wi' one o' the family here it is no' to be expected I should do otherwise! 'Tis a mon an' a woman, but they be fair shrouded in their waterproofs and oilskins, an' I've not had a peep at them yet. Ye'll no' need to see them, for the kitchen is good enow for the like o' any traveller be they who they may! An' they do but want a dry an' maybe a cup o' tea! They be quite respectable folk I reckon. I may bid them welcome in your name?"

"Certainly, Granny, and if the lady would like to come in and see me, I shall be delighted, whoever she may be—a Glasgow shop-girl or a duchess! I would welcome anybody on an afternoon like this!"

"Aye, mem, we get mony sich days in our year-r!"

"Of course we do, but I'm not accustomed to them yet; and I've read till my eyes ache."

A few minutes later Granny ushered in a little old lady in a close dove-coloured motor bonnet. Her face was round and soft as a child's.

"How very kind of you to give us such shelter," she began; "and, oh!—if I may say it—what a charming room!"

"Now you've won my heart," said Rowena, holding out her hand. "Come and sit down, won't you, and talk to me. I am a prisoner, but I do agree with you that I have nothing to complain of in my prison. How does it happen that you are out on such an awful day?"

"It's my son, Robert; he has only just taken possession of his manse, and I've come to look after him. He had to see a sick man on this side of the loch, and so I wanted to see the country and he has motored me round."

"Is he the minister of Abertarlie? Granny Mactavish told me a new one was coming there."

"Yes, and from our snug little nest we look across at you; but we had no idea that any of the family were here."

"You are not Scotch yourself?"

"I am very Scotch by name—we are one of the Macintoshes, but you are right, I am an Englishwoman by birth."

"And so am I," said Rowena, smiling; "I have Scotch blood in my veins, and when I am in Scotland, I am Scotch. The English are a poor lot, you know! My brother only rents this lodge from General Macdonald. Do you know him?"

"My son has met him, but his house lies empty; he is hardly ever here."

"Won't your son come in and see me? I am one of his parishioners, you know. And we will have tea together presently. It will be my first party. Are your feet dry? Won't you change your shoes?"

Mrs. Macintosh held out two very pretty slender feet.

"I have been in the car the whole time. But as we got nearer your house, the rain came down like a waterspout. I will go and fetch my son. It is very kind of you to offer us such hospitality."

Robert Macintosh very soon appeared, a tall fine-looking young man with rather a stern face; but it softened as Rowena welcomed him with her happy smiling eyes.

It was a very successful little tea-party. Rowena had not seen many Scotch ministers, and those she had met were of a different stamp to Robert Macintosh. He was a gentleman, and his mother was a charming old lady with plenty to say for herself. Rowena explained herself very briefly.

"I am doing a kind of rest cure here—hurt my back out hunting and am obliged to lie on it for a time. My brother is abroad, so we shall have no shooting parties this year. I think he has sub-let the shooting to some fellow-officer of his; but not the house."

"You have books," said the young man, glancing at the low bookcase by the side of the couch.

"Yes, they are delightful company, are they not? Are you a reader? But of course you are? It is your avocation."

"Is it?" smiled Robert. "My mother would say it makes me a very unsociable creature to live with."

"It is irritating when one wants a cheerful gossip with him, to see his shoulders hunched up and his nose glued to a book," said Mrs. Macintosh quickly. "He is one of those readers who get so absorbed, that nothing but a shake and a scream will bring him back to me."

"Ah," said Rowena, "I plead guilty there. It is all right for oneself to be oblivious to all around, but a great bore to one's friends."

Then she and the young minister began talking of some new books; and the old lady sat and listened to them with great content. Janet soon appeared with the tea, and before it was over the rain had stopped, and the loch was shining like silver with the far-away rays of the sun.

When eventually the visitors left, Rowena was her bright cheery self again. But she took herself to task for her changes of mood, when she and Shags were alone together.

"Shags, you show your mistress an example of cheerful equanimity of soul! You are just as ready to wag your tail when the day is sodden and dreary as when the sun shines out; and as it will be my fate to be here through the very darkest, wettest months in the year, I am a poor wisp of a creature to be beaten down by one rainy week in June. It must not and shall not happen again, Shags! My universe does not begin and end with succulent luxury. Oh, Shags, you villain! I know what you're asking me! We'll have the window open, and then you will be free to gambol outside."

She rang the bell. Shags was waiting by the window expectantly, and when Janet opened the glass doors out he bounded. The air was sweet and fresh; the scent of a sweetbrier bush outside made Rowena's pulses beat with joy. She gazed out upon her green lawn. Shags went round it, sniffing at an old-fashioned flower-border. He unearthed a snail, turned it over with his nose in disgust, then made for a pert tom-tit strutting up and down the gravel path. The tom-tit flew away derisively, and Shags next examined with great interest a long tuft of grass. A frog leaped out. It was the first one he had seen, and he backed away from it in fright. Rowena watched him. Then the light on the opposite hills brought a gleam of delight to her eyes. It was so alluring, so exquisite, so varied in its movement and colour!

Granny came in later to inquire how she was getting on.

"Feeding my soul, Granny."

"Your soul wants bonnier feedin' than a' that." Granny was deeply religious. Rowena was not.

"Now you are not to make me discontented! I have a soul that wants beauty, and that will not be satisfied without it."

"I reckon there be mair beauty in the Creator than in His works."

"Granny, how do you like the new minister? Have you heard him preach?"

"Oh, aye—I went to kirk this Sabbath back."

"And does he preach well?"

"He does that, mem. His heart leapeth into his e'en wi' earnestness o' purpose an' persuasion. Eh, if ye cud get across in the wee boatie!"

"I can't, Granny. He will have to come and preach to me. He's a remarkably good-looking boy. I should like to see his heart leaping. Didn't you know he was the minister when you first asked me to give him shelter?"

"Deed an' no, mem, for 'twas in oilskins he were an' his mither was so spry in rinnin' ower to the hoos, that I fair speired she were just a lassie."

"I like them both. I told them to come over again soon."

"'Twill be mair company ye'll be gettin' nex' month," said Grannie comfortingly. "The lodges will be fillin' oop, an' Sir Robert Fraser be openin' his hoos nex' Tuesday!"

"It isn't company I want," said Rowena, smiling; "only the sun. I suppose the Highlands can't have all the good things in this world. There are few parts like it for beauty and romance, but I'm ashamed of my discontent, Granny! And just as I have learnt to be happy on my back, so I shall learn to be happy through the worst of weather. One can adapt oneself to anything! Habit is the main thing. The habit of content shall be mine."

The weather cleared the next day, but it was not settled. One afternoon, about two days later, after a couple of hours lovely sunshine, a sudden squall came on. The clouds were broken and the play of light and shadow on the opposite hills so fascinated Rowena that she took up a telescope which Duncan had brought her, and began studying the horizon.

Suddenly she made an exclamation and rang a bell by her side.

When Granny appeared she said sharply:

"Is Colin near at hand?"

"He has bin killin' a fowl, mem."

"Tell him to get the boat quickly. Do you see some one on the loch in distress? It looks like a small boy. Oh, don't stop to look, Granny! Colin will have younger eyes than yours—call him quickly. It is half-way across here, from the island."

Granny disappeared. Rowena listened impatiently to the voices outside her window. The loch was lashing itself into a fury. The small boat she had discovered with her telescope was now plainly discernible. But it was making no progress, only tossing up and down, a sport of the rough element around it.

It seemed a long time before Colin had started the boat, but Rowena saw it leave the small landing-stage at last and, to her great relief, two men were in it. Duncan had evidently appeared on the scene and offered his services.

Rowena took up her telescope again. She saw a little figure in bonnet and kilt sitting in the boat struggling very ineffectually with the oars.

"How like a boy," she thought, "to venture out on a day like this!" And then she saw from the efforts of the two rescuers what a strong wind and current was against them. Once a wave seemed to dash over the distant boat. Rowena held her breath, and then a call from Duncan—evidently an attempt to hearten up the little rower by telling him help was at hand. Slowly but surely the boats came nearer. At last they touched. Through the telescope Rowena watched the child clambering in from one boat to the other, then saw the men row back to the shore towing the other boat after them. Before they landed, Granny appeared in some excitement.

"It's that weeld bairn o' the laird's, an' near anow was she to her death, to be sure! Shame on Angus for lettin' the bairn tak' a boat this day!"

"What child do you mean? Boys will be boys."

"But she's a girl!"

Rowena looked up surprised.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"'Tis Mysie Macdonald, an' I'll be changin' her things surely! It's just a maircy o' the A'mighty's that the wee bairn is not drooned."

In a few minutes Rowena heard the sound of the men's voices and a clear treble between them. Then suddenly her window, which was half shut, swung open, and a child with sunny brown curls falling over her shoulders, dashed in.

"Granny Mactavish, I've come to tea with you!"

She stopped short at the sight of Rowena on her couch.

She was in a kilt which was wringing wet and dripped on the ground as she moved. But she held herself squarely and proudly, then doffed her bonnet like a boy.

"I didn't know there was anybody here."

"Come and speak to me," said Rowena, with her sunshiny smile. "I am not an old lady, only a prisoner."

The child looked up at her with bright interested eyes. "Who put you in prison?"

"An old man I call Niddy-Noddy."

"Oh, what a lovely name! Tell me about him. What's he like?"

"He speaks like this—"

Rowena drew in her lips till her mouth looked as if she had no teeth—she lowered her brows fiercely, and then nodded her head up and down very wisely.

"This child is wet. Take her clothes off, put her to bed, and a hot basin of bread-and-milk and a good sleep will prevent a chill."

The child's peal of delighted laughter rang through the room.

"Is that what he would say to me? Why, rain and water is nothing important to me! I get drowned nearly, over and over again."

"All the same you are making pools over my carpet. I must suggest that you have your kilt dried and then come and have tea with me. You can tell me then what possessed you to take a boat out on a day like this."

"I'll go to Granny in the kitchen."

She darted out as quickly and lightly as a bird. Rowena was always fond of children, and she felt strangely drawn to this little person. There was something in her small finely-cut face and blazing brown eyes which was very attractive.

"Why," said Rowena to herself, "she must be General Macdonald's neglected child! She speaks very good English. I had no idea she was so big."

It was some little time before Mysie returned, and when she did so she was wrapped round in one of Granny's red flannel petticoats. She seemed quite proud of her attire.

"My kilt is steaming like a kettle! It's filling the kitchen with its smoke! Granny has put it before the fire."

She was dancing round the room as she spoke; then caught sight of Shags, and sitting down on the floor, she took him on her lap and cuddled him.

"He is a bonny thing!" she cried.

"Do you know you might have been drowned this afternoon?" Rowena said gravely. "If I hadn't seen you through my glass and sent the boat out, what would you have done?"

Mysie looked up rather carelessly.

"Nan tells me I have nine lives like a cat. I am thinking Angus would have come after me. He's a Macdonald, you know, and loves Dad. It was really the oars' fault, they weren't able to beat through the waves prop'ly—and then they hurt my hands awful!"

She held up two little blistered palms.

"I took the boat when nobody was looking. I've never rowed all the way across by myself before, but I thought I could, only the wind came down and spoilt it all. Do you know what my name is?"

"Mysie."

"No—Flora Macdonald."

She put much importance into her tone.

"Do you know about the great Flora Macdonald? We belong to her family—and I was called Mysie Flora, but I like my friends to call me Flora. I mean to do something like she did when I grow up. If a prince doesn't come along, I must find somebody else. I'm hoping a prince—a real prince—may be hiding for his life one day, and then I shall go and help him."

Rowena did not laugh. Voice and face of the little speaker were so solemn.

"I hope you will succeed in your efforts," she said.

The little girl will chattered on.

"I live at the farm over there," she said, pointing out of the window. "It's half-way up the mountain. You can't see us, but we see you. Dad's house is nearly always shut up, but it's to be opened soon. He's coming home. The war made him very ill, and now he's coming for a long rest, Nan says. I'm going to try to manage to live with him, if I can. I think I should like to know him."

"You little old-fashioned piece of goods!" ejaculated Rowena. "Would you like to know me, I wonder?" Mysie nodded.

"I mean to. You'll let me come over and talk to you sometimes."

"Not if it means your rowing yourself across the loch."

"Oh, I ride round on Dibbie. He's the pony Angus uses for odd jobs. Do you know Sir Robert Fraser? He had some ponies on the hills and he said if I could catch one I could have it. But I was too frightened to do it. I always thought I might get hold of the water kelpie by mistake. Do you know about him?"

"I'm not sure that I do."

"Loch Tarlie used to be one of his haunts. Long ago when a Baron lived here, his only little boy and some others were playing about the loch, and they suddenly saw a beautiful little pony jumping about with saddle and bridle, and they tried to catch him and get on him; and they caught hold of his bridle and their fingers were glued to it, and they screamed, and the pony dashed for the loch and dragged them in. But the Baron's little boy knew about the water kelpie and he drew out his dirk and cut off his own hand, and the other boys were drowned and his hand with them, but he was saved."

Rowena made her eyes as big as Mysie's were whilst she narrated this horror.

"And is the water kelpie alive now to this day?" she asked.

"Well, I expect he is. When he's very well-known in one loch he goes to another—but I'm not going to let him catch me."

"Tell me some more stories," begged Rowena.

But Janet appeared with the tea, and the little girl turned her attention to the good things spread out before her.

"I like to know a prisoner," she said, munching a piece of cake thoughtfully; "there was a prisoner on a lake in Switzerland. We've got a picture of him. I think his name was Byron. Mr. Ferguson told me about him."

"You mean the prisoner of Chillon. Byron wrote about him. Who is Mr. Ferguson?"

"He's the schoolmaster over at Abertarlie. He teaches me lessons after school hours. Nan won't let me go to school with the other bairns—I'd like to. How long are you going to be in this prison, and is Niddy-Noddy a policeman?"

"I rather wish he was. Then I could run away from him. He's a wise old doctor who has tied me down to my bed, and told me to stay in it for a year! How would you like that? Never to be able to run about out-of-doors, or even change your room."

"It's horrible!" exclaimed Mysie. "Are you really tied to it?"

"By my honour," said Rowena.

"What's that?"

"Well, it's another word for duty. If you make a promise, you must keep it, or you lose your honour. And it's a mark of a true gentleman and lady to keep their honour unsoiled."

"I don't want to be either," said Mysie promptly. "I want to be a boy."

When tea was over Granny came in.

"I've been thinking, mem, it will be Anne Macdonald that will be anxious—an' Colin be drivin' for some corn—the t'other side o' the loch—and Mysie can just ride off wi' him."

Mysie made a grimace in the old woman's face.

"I'm all right here for a wee bit," she said.

But Granny was quite firm, she took her off to get into her kilt, which was dry by this time; and then brought her in to say good-bye to Rowena.

"You must come again soon and see me," Rowena said; "you've brightened up an hour for the poor captive."

Mysie laughed.

"And will you call me Flora?"

"Good-bye, Flora. Take care of yourself. We are going to be friends."

The little girl departed. Granny came in to talk about her when she had gone.

"Who teaches her such good English?" asked Rowena. "I pictured her a little heathen savage, brought up in a crofter's hut."

"Ah, indeed and indeed no! Anne Macdonald was a schoolmistress before she took service with the laird and his lady, a most superior young woman, and she took charge of the bairn from her birth. Ye see Angus have been the laird's gillie all his life for he was his father's gillie before him, an' Angus an' Anne made a match of it, an' then Angus got the sma' farm ower to Barncrassie, an' when the laird's leddy were in toon the bairn mad' her home wi' 'em. An' then Mrs. Macdonald died, an' the bairn have stayed wi' Anne ever since. She've paid a mighty lot o' attention to Mysie's manners and talk, an' in mony ways the little lassie has been bred more carefully than even wi' her own people—for the laird be a dour silent mon, an' when he's doon for a wee bit time has just shut himsel' awa' from all folk, an' come an' gone like a shadow on the wall!"

"And has he never troubled to see his child? What an unnatural father!"

Granny only shook her head hopelessly, and the conversation ended. Rowena began to look forward to seeing her small visitor again.