CHAPTER XIX

SKIRLING PIPES

It was at Holyrood that the two girls next evinced their mild madness for kilts and claymores. All morning they had been gathering up a new vocabulary, conversing excitedly of sporrans and philabegs and calling one another flickermahoy or tawpie until Miss Cavendish declared they were fairly daft. They had walked the length of the Old Canongate, had gazed upon John Knox’s house, had peeped into the filthy yet attractive second-hand shops which displayed treasures to the searcher for antiques, had looked upon the squalor and wretchedness of the city’s poor and had at last made a tour of inspection of ancient Holyrood to view the room where Rizzio was slain and the place where Mary, Queen of Scots laid her unhappy head.

It was in one of the rooms associated most intimately with Darnley that Miss Cavendish, turning to speak to her companions, saw them both racing toward the door. “Come on! Come on!” they cried and she followed. Down the stairs ran the girls as if all the ghosts of Holyrood were after them, nor did they stop even when they had passed through the gate into the street.

At last, breathless, Miss Cavendish caught up with them. “What is it?” she cried. “Where are you going?”

“Didn’t you see them? Don’t you hear them?” cried Gabriella, all excitement. “The soldiers, the pipes; they are drilling back there.”

“I caught sight of them from one of the windows,” gasped Sidney, “and we had to come. Oh dear, I am afraid we are too late.”

“Not too late to have our heart’s desire fulfilled. They are marching to the pipes and they will come this way. Oh, I am all of a shiver over it.” Gabriella’s glowing face bent forward in eager delight brought an answering gleam to the eye of more than one tall laddie as he marched by to the music of the pipes. The whole regiment was out, bonnets tossing, kilts moving in a rhythmic swing. Up the old Canongate they marched until only a gleam of steel, a touch of red, a twinkling back and forth of buskined legs could be perceived, and the skirling of the pipes had become a distant drone.

“Oh, wasn’t it splendid?” sighed Gabriella, brought back to a consciousness of herself. “I would rather have seen that than all of the rooms of stupid old Darnley and his ilk. We may go to the castle this afternoon, mayn’t we, Gem? Perhaps we may see another drill or parade or something.”

But no such blissful experience was afforded them, and they ended their day in one of the delightful book-shops where they bought little tartan-covered volumes of Burns and a quaint old edition of Scott’s poems. These they bore triumphantly home with them.

“Mrs. McTavish says we must not fail to see the great Forth bridge,” said Sidney the next morning.

“Then since we are having unusually good weather for Scotland, we may as well take advantage of it and go this afternoon,” returned Miss Cavendish. “As for the morning there is always plenty to occupy us if we do no more than walk up and down Prince’s street.”

“I adore Prince’s street,” remarked Gabriella, “and I adore Edinburgh. When I get tired of feasting my eyes on lovely tartans and cairngorms and all sorts of Scotchy things in the shop windows I can look across at the lovely gardens or up at the castle. Then one sees such a pleasant mixture of people, nice rosy-cheeked light-haired Scotch girls in tarns and golf capes, well dressed Americans, dear old Scotchmen in kilts, and last but not least, the delightful soldiers with their bare knees and their funny little caps.”

“Speaking of weather,” said Sidney, “although it is rather chilly here, who could ever have thought that either England or Scotland would furnish us with so much sunshine? I hope it will continue to the very end.”

It was cool and bracing down by the water when they reached North Queensferry where they gazed up at the monstrous structure which spanned the Firth of Forth. The little village itself was not important, but they wandered about for an hour, finding small matters to interest their vigilant eyes. They had planned to cross upon the ferry-boat and then ride home upon one of the brakes constantly running to Edinburgh.

“I suppose this must be the wharf where the ferry-boat comes in,” said Miss Cavendish when they had come to the landing.

“There are two nice looking girls over in that garden,” said Gabriella; “I will ask them.” She walked a little way up the road, and, looking over the garden wall, put her inquiries, coming back smiling. “They say that sometimes it comes in here and sometimes it goes to the other wharf,” was her report.

“But how are we to tell?” asked Miss Cavendish.

“There is no way; you simply have to watch and when you see that it is not coming here you must run for it.”

“And how far is the other wharf?”

“Oh, a quarter of a mile or so.”

“Will the boat wait?”

“A wee bitty.”

“But suppose we don’t get there in time.”

“Then that will be the fault of our legs; we couldn’t blame the boat, you know.”

“Did you ever!” exclaimed Sidney.

The ferry-boat was now leaving the other side, and the attention of the three, as well as that of the occupants of the garden was fixed upon the movements of the small steamer. For a time it seemed to be deliberately heading for them, but of a sudden, when it appeared certain that the wharf where they stood must be the one selected, it turned and swept on to the further one. “You’ll have to run,” called the girls in the garden, and the three took to their heels and travelled down the road at their best speed. There was a turn ahead of them and here the boat was lost to sight, but they presently saw it again; it had reached the wharf. Would it wait? It seemed a very long quarter of a mile, for they were still at some distance.

“My breath is almost gone,” gasped Miss Cavendish.

“I shall drop,” panted Sidney, falling in the rear. But Gabriella kept ahead, and presently a cyclist came dashing past. “I’ll tell them to wait for you,” he called back and the hindmost ones dropped into a walk while Gabriella stumbled on and finally was assisted, gasping and exhausted, upon the deck.

“There are two others,” she managed to utter the words, and in a few moments appeared Miss Cavendish and Sidney almost in a state of collapse.

But they had made their boat and the very effort gave an added value to their sight of the great bridge so far above them, and to the lovely drive back with Hopetoun House and Barnbougle Castle as distant landmarks.

“It is more than I ever dreamed of having, this glimpse of Scotland,” said Gabriella as they were packing their trunks that night, “but oh, Gem, how it does whet one’s appetite for more. I long for Oban and the skirling pipes, for the Highlands, the Trossachs and the lakes.”

“We shall take some of the lakes from Glasgow.”

“Let us pray for a pleasant day,” said Sidney.

“Of course we shall have a pleasant day,” replied Gabriella. “Haven’t we always had good weather for all the special things?”

“It was so lovely in Lucerne at the feast of Corpus Christi,” returned Sidney.

“But that was the only time we had it so dreadfully wet, and there has to be an exception to prove the rule.”

But alas, for Gabriella’s optimism, the day appointed for the lakes promised doubtfully enough in the early morning, though a sudden burst of sunshine just before the time of departure gave them courage to undertake the trip. For an hour or so there was no rain, but they had scarcely embarked before the clouds thickened and a drizzle set in. “It is real typical Scotch weather,” said Miss Cavendish; “we may as well accept it cheerfully.”

“But why,” said Sidney, gathering her golf cape around her and drawing her feet under her stool, “why, in all conscience, if this is the general condition of things, of all countries, must Scotland be the only one which does not provide a cover for the decks of her steamers? There is not a dry spot where we can creep except that stuffy cabin full of crying children.”

“I suppose simply because it is the general state of things no one minds it,” returned Miss Cavendish. “Everyone prepares for it, and they are disappointed if they don’t get wet.”

“Then we must continue to sit here with dripping umbrellas over our heads, golf capes over our knees and our heels in little puddles of water.”

“I am afraid that is the best we can do.”

“I shouldn’t mind the getting wet so much if we could only see the landscape,” said Gabriella. “If we must be uncomfortable we should at least get the benefit of what we came for.”

“You can have the satisfaction of enduring a real Scotch mist.”

“Which I am not at all enthusiastic about,” said Sidney.

“Perhaps it will clear at noon and the coaching part will make up for this part of the trip,” suggested Gabriella cheerfully.

But the drizzle was constant; the char-à-bancs was no better provided with a protecting cover than was the steamer, and the dripping umbrellas were in requisition the entire day. Yet there were suggestions of magnificent scenery once in a while when the clouds lifted and they could behold the rolling hills and the stretches of purple heath beyond the wooded shores of the lovely lake. “It must be beautiful beyond description,” sighed Sidney, “and it is too exasperating to feel that you are really here in the heart of this lovely scenery that we have read about and dreamed about and that this veil of mist hides everything.”

“And to think we have paid to get soaked and to see only a grey wall of mist,” said Gabriella chuckling, her sense of fun getting the best of the situation.

“We might stop off somewhere and try what to-morrow will do for us,” suggested Miss Cavendish, “though there is no surety that to-morrow will be any better.”

“Oh, no, we’d better go back and get dry,” said Sidney resignedly.

The journey ended at Glasgow and here letters awaited them. Among these was a glad and eager one from Gabriella’s mother, who counted the days till her child’s return. There was also one from Miss Bailey for Gabriella. She read it through, then thoughtfully folded it. “What do you think, Gem,” she said, “Miss Bailey asks me to come and make her a visit. Isn’t she kind?”

“Very. And should you like to go?”

“And desert you? Oh, no. She proposes that you sail without me, but with this dear letter from my patient little mother, whose longing pervades every line, with my passage taken and all that, I simply couldn’t.”

Miss Cavendish made no answer for a moment. “What else does she say?” she asked presently.

“She says she cannot bear that I should go back with wrong impressions, that she wants me very much, and that she and Miss Mildred will do all in their power to make me content and will see that I have a proper companion for the home voyage. But I shall not go to her, Gem, don’t think that, and please don’t take me to Wales.”

“I thought that was a place you felt you must see.”

“I did, but now I’d rather cuddle down with you and Sidney in some restful place for the little time that is left. You are tired out, although we have not travelled with such distractingly rapid rushes as some do, and I think we shall be in a better state for our ocean trip if we take things easy for the next two weeks.”

“Shouldn’t you like to go to Miss Bailey for that time? It would be a very pleasant experience to enjoy the hospitality of a real English home, and in that beautiful Devonshire, too.”

But Gabriella shook her head. “She has written to Mr. Morgan, she says, but has had no reply. I know what she thinks. She believes if I were to stay that perhaps she could arrange a meeting, that if he knew I were in England with her it might make a difference, but if he is so cautious, so deliberate that he must be urged, I would rather never see him again. I think now that what I want most in the whole world is my precious mother.”

“Dear child, it will not be long.”

“No, and I am glad. It has been a happy, happy six months, Gem, and I shall enjoy it all over again, for ‘Who can take from us what has been ours?’”

Miss Cavendish kissed her softly and drew her down by her. “We will go down to the Wordsworth country and spend our last two weeks. I have been going over the route with Sidney, and we could find no spot more restful and beneficial for our final enjoyment than the English lake country, I am sure.”

“Let’s find some little village, then; not one of the larger places.”

“That is what I intend to do. I am thinking of Grasmere or Ambleside.”

“Which is the smaller?”

“Grasmere, and it was Wordsworth’s home; there he is buried and there, too, lived De Quincey and Hartley Coleridge in Nab Cottage. The whole countryside is full of suggestion.”

“Then do let us go there; it sounds perfectly fascinating.”

“We’ll take a day or two for Keswick and the Derwentwater section and then go on by coach.”

“Charming. But won’t it be very expensive?”

“Not at all. I am still keeping within my thousand dollars, Gabriella, and have a good margin. Since we came to England our expenses, yours and mine, have been only about a hundred and fifty dollars, an average of about twelve dollars a week, and I am sure we have been comfortable, have travelled where we liked and have not stinted ourselves.”

“As usual I am lost in admiration of your ability as conductor. Then we are to start to-morrow for the lakes and after them comes Liverpool and home. I shall write to dear Miss Bailey that I cannot make her the visit, for across the ocean there is a little mother longing for the unworthy daughter who has spent half a year away from her.”

Sidney was awake as Gabriella entered her room. “Did you have good news, Rella?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so. And you, Sidney?”

“I had better news than usual, for some one will meet me at the steamer whom I shall be very glad to see.”

“Ah, I can guess; it is the writer of the thick letters.”

Sidney gave a swift amused look at Gabriella. “Yes, it is,” she said.

“Aha! I thought there was something in that. Are you open to congratulations, Miss Shaw?”

Sidney made no answer, but continued to look with an amused expression at Gabriella.

“Tell me, you wretched little clam,” Gabriella went on. “I have a mind to shake you.”

“When one has the dearest, most devoted mother in the world, I think she is to be very much congratulated.”

“Sidney, you are hedging.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Do you pretend that all your absorbing interest and your eagerness were given to your mother’s letters?”

“Yes, my romantic friend.”

“And not to a man? Is there no man at all in the case?”

“Yes, there are two; my brother and my grandfather.”

“Oh, pshaw! I don’t believe it.”

“Fact, my dear. I suppose you can’t conceive of such a thing as a girl of my age never having had a lover except our friend the Dutchman. I have been more grateful to him than I acknowledged, for he has added immensely to my self-respect. I never confessed this even to mamma, Rella, but I did hate to go through life without having had even one proposal.”

“As if any girl ever did. You are full young yet, and will probably have dozens before you get through.”

Sidney shook her head. “I’m not the kind that induces them, and I doubt if I ever have another, but I am mightily uplifted by having had just that one, and I am perfectly content to go back to my mother and live my life, for it will now be broidered with memories of this lovely trip.”

“It has been a lovely trip, hasn’t it? And we have come to know each other so well. I shall always think of you as one of my best friends. I hope we shall be comrades all our lives.”

“I hope so, too, Rella. You have been the life of this trip, and I shall always remember how much you added to my enjoyment of it.”

“That’s awfully sweet of you, Sidney. Do you know what the next part of the programme is?”

“Yes, Gem and I have been going over our Baedekers together, and I think we have planned a delightful time.”

“So do I; that doesn’t disappoint me in the least.”

“Does anything?”

“You do; I had counted on a romance coming out of those letters.”

Sidney laughed. “I am satisfied, and if there is any future romance I am willing to wait for it.”

“In your case the waiting will be easy,” said Gabriella as she blew out the candle.

At Keswick with its suggestions of Shelley and Southey, they entered the Lake District to take “the finest drive in the kingdom.” Buttermere Lake, Borrowdale, Howiston Hawse, and back again to lovely Keswick. An enthusiastic three they were who occupied the front seats of the coach, and whose spontaneous admiration of the beautiful district brought an appreciative smile to the face of the driver.

“Dear, dear,” exclaimed Gabriella, “I am getting back my Italian sensations and am realizing again the paucity of adjectives in the English language. Help me out, somebody. Aren’t those beeches beautiful? And look at the color on that dear little mountain, isn’t it enough to drive one wild? It is all such a perfect miniature section, the mountains and lakes and all are so little and yet so perfect. You feel such a sense of nearness while they are entirely satisfying. Now at home, if we want to climb a mountain, we can’t go out the back door after breakfast and get home in time for dinner; and if we want to cross one of our lakes we must wait for a steamboat. Here you simply drag out your row-boat from under the bushes and pull across, run up your mountain and turn round and come back again by supper time; it is so perfectly dear and friendly and satisfactory.”

“I simply adore the names they have for things about here,” declared Sidney. “It is so refreshing to get hold of tarns and gills, forces and becks for the watery places, and combes and hows, nabs and holmes for the dry ones. We must learn them all, Gabriella. Now what would that be over there?” she asked the driver.

“That’s Castle Crag, miss. Hit’s between ’Igh Fell and Great ’Ow.”

“Lovely!” exclaimed Sidney. “Do you hear that, Gem?”

“Yes, but I am trying to remember what it is that Wordsworth says about ‘Castrigg’s naked steep.’ We must read up Wordsworth, girls, when we get to Grasmere.”

“If I am disappointed in Grasmere it will be a dreadful shock,” said Gabriella. “The very name enchants me, and I have pictured just what it must be like. Since I have seen Keswick I can better believe that I shall find the realization of my dreams at Grasmere.”

She was not disappointed, for when the coach swept by the old Swan inn and down the road to the middle of the little village resting quietly upon the margin of its lovely lake encircled by mountains they all looked around in delight. “It is, it is all I have dreamed,” cried Gabriella. “Oh, Gem, it is as perfect as if it had been made to order. No inn, please, Miss Gem, but simple lodgings in some cottage; then we can enjoy every minute in the jewel of a place. I take off my hat to Wordsworth. Anyone with the good taste to select such a spot to live in I have the utmost respect for.”

They watched the coaches rattle off down the road and on to Ambleside, and then they turned their attention to the search for lodgings. It was so late in the season that these were not difficult to obtain, though it was not easy to find the ideal place, but at last it was discovered in a cottage which gave them a garden on one side and green fields on the other; the highroad and the lake seen through the trees were in front of them, and behind them, hurrying past the garden wall, was the river Rothay. Everything about the house was spotlessly clean, the landlady was the softest-voiced, gentlest of creatures, and they settled down for their two weeks’ stay with contented hearts.

“Are you perfectly satisfied, Gabriella?” asked Miss Cavendish.

“Satisfied?” echoed the girl, “I am more than that; I am happy.”

“And you would not rather be with Miss Bailey?”

A slight shadow crossed Gabriella’s face, but she answered, “No, this is Heartsease Cottage, Gem.”