Part 16

However, they would see. It was true that Aunt Emily seemed to be wavering. Eton v. Harrow was through. People were packing up and clearing off to Goodwood and then to Cowes for the yachting. Lady Violet obtained an invitation for her little friend aboard the _Excelsior_ with those comic people the Dunnings. Glorious beer. But in Britain these days there was great competition even for that. It was one of the key industries that had done very well in the War. She herself was going to spend five days aboard the _Excelsior_, if she was able to survive them. No doubt she would. New people were so much more amusing than the old. But she had rather made it a condition that she should be accompanied by her little friend.

Still, Cowes and the Dunnings were a mere side show. Scotland at the end of next month would be the joy wheel. And Aunt Emily seemed to be wavering. To Celimene’s chagrin, Mame had not been included in the invitation she herself had already received. If it went phut, it would be one up to the other side.

A proper score for Mrs. Creber Newsum if Miss Du Rance was left out. Her friend and partner chivalrously felt she must be up and doing. In some ways it would suit the firm better for Mame to stay in town gathering news while Celimene was sunning herself on the moors, but that hardly seemed fair. Besides, their job could be carried on anywhere within reach of a telegraph office; and in that respect Dunkeldie was very well off.

Honest work and real grit had earned the reward of a jolly fortnight. Celimene was fully determined that Mame should have it. She was beginning to take a personal pride in the success against odds of this clever child. Besides, if little Miss Chicago was left out in the cold, there would be smiles.

The thing hung fire so long that it began to look as if the day was going against them. Mame herself inclined to think so. The Colony was very active; it was always trying to call her bluff. All through the summer she had managed to keep her chin above water, but she could not expect to go on like that forever. Soon or late, something was bound to happen.

There were several reasons why Mame’s heart was set on an invitation to Dunkeldie; but one must not look for everything in this world. All the same it was a defeat. And the moral of it was, no doubt, that at last the tide had begun to turn.

XXXVI

Cowes was very enjoyable. The _Excelsior_ was a comfortable yacht. Its hospitality was lavish. Dunning _père_ was perhaps inclined to set a value on himself; the same applied to Dunning _mère_; but Sidney Dunning, heir to half a million six per cent debentures, was well mannered and attentive. On the slightest provocation he showed a decided tendency to come along.

For some reason Lady Violet did not seem to warm to the Dunnings, although she managed to take money off them at bridge, a game in which Miss Du Rance had been recently initiated and for which she showed quite an aptitude. But in the matter of Sidney Dunning, the sponsor was inclined to think Mame might do worse. New money of course. Still. _Que voulez vous?_ They lived in times when all money was new; the Bolshies of the earth, by no means confined to Russia, had seen to that. Sidney Dunning was really not so bad. Eton and Christ Church: a little comically so, dear lad! But if Miss Du Rance was giving her mind to such matters there could be no harm in Sidney Dunning. A _mère_, of course, was bent on a title; still in Celimene’s opinion it was rather up to Mame.

Sidney Dunning would be an insurance anyway. He was not the only dabchick on the water; there were others good and plenty; but his plumage was more richly feathered than theirs; and in the circumstances he would perhaps be safer. Half a million six per cent, high-class brewery debentures are nice things to have locked up in your husband’s strong box when you have no money of your own. Still, a little impertinent all this of Celimene, was not it?

Not at all. Kind of Celimene to be so interested. But Mame felt she must take time to think over the matter. Some of the other birds on the water were such sweet ducks that it seemed a pity to grab at the nearest, merely because of its geographical situation.

XXXVII

At the last moment, almost, came the much-desired invitation to Dunkeldie. Lady Violet having heard that Mabel, her recently married sister, had decided not to go north this year, although expected to do so as usual, took the news in person to the ducal yacht as soon as it entered the harbour. As the astute Violet foresaw, Aunt Emily felt herself to be in rather a hat. It was a bit late in the day. Whoever filled the vacancy would do so now as an obvious substitute. Nobody likes to be that, as her niece was careful to point out. But her clever little American friend who was seeing as much of Britain as she could in the shortest possible time was likely to have no feelings of that kind. And everybody found her such fun!

It was always Aunt Emily’s instinct to take the line of least resistance, particularly where the enterprising Violet was concerned. Dear Violet had her peculiarities, but she was a general favourite. She was so vivacious, so modern, so good-natured. You couldn’t help liking Violet.

On this occasion Violet did not disdain a tactical _coup_. While Aunt Emily wavered she presented a kind of ultimatum. She had taken it so much for granted that Miss Du Rance would be included in the invitation to Dunkeldie, that she was afraid she could not go north without her little friend. This rather “put it up” to Aunt Emily. But as the clever niece surmised, her own position with Clanborough House was strong enough “to try it on.”

Aunt Emily had really no very strong feelings in the matter, even if some of her friends appeared to have. There was no harm in the little American beyond the fact, as one of the most influential of her countrywomen had quaintly expressed it, “she was as common as pig tracks.” But as the unconventional Violet pointed out, it all came down to whether one cared for a little garlic in the salad. Most people, nowadays, liked a dash of pungency. Even the most fastidious were in favour of a touch of spice in the social dish. There was no harm in Miss Du Rance. Her only crime, even in the eyes of her critics, was that she was so very amusing. She would certainly add to the gaiety of Dunkeldie and that was all that mattered.

Face to face with dear Violet, Aunt Emily did not take long to yield. Of late years this clever niece had been the life and soul of the party; her absence would now make a gap that nothing could fill. Besides, in some ways Miss Du Rance was the obvious solution. If she didn’t really mind being asked at such short notice she would be made very welcome at Dunkeldie.

The invitation was really obtained by _force majeure_. But none the less it came in its way as a triumph. Yet it was not so much a triumph for Miss Du Rance as for her friend and sponsor. Mame was still rather unsophisticated. Certain social nuances meant less to her than to Celimene. One set of “the folks” was much like another; so long as she could keep getting about to this function and that, she would not worry. But Lady Violet had made her protégée’s cause so much her own that she felt she could hardly afford to have her publicly slighted.

Odd, was it not, that dear Violet should be so determined to run the funny little American? But Violet was like that. She was always “running” someone. And as a rule the someone was more or less impossible. One year it was a Russian dancer, another a cubist painter, or a Polish musician. She seemed to take up queer people and develop a passion for them as others did for pekes or bulldogs or chows or angoras. Dear Violet’s trouble was too many brains. Her vein of freakishness sought expression in the freakishness of the world at large.

Dunkeldie, as usual, was a huge success. The weather was perfect; the sport excellent. But the sport hardly mattered so much, even if it were heresy to say so, as in less attractive places. It was the people who gathered there who counted most. Year by year they came to Dunkeldie to have a good time. Along with some of the finest shots in the kingdom were others who, if they did not add to the prowess of the field, were highly accomplished in the arts and the graces of life.

For Mame this was a fresh phase of existence. Her few days at Cowes aboard the _Excelsior_ had done something to prepare her for the freedom of the moors; but Dunkeldie itself, gorgeously set in the lee of the Grampians, was something new. Dunkeldie was beyond her dreams. On the August evening she motored with Lady Violet from the train at Inverauchty, which was fifteen miles away and the nearest railway station, and saw the great house of stone nestling against a background of mountain and forest and the heather billowing around it, she gave a little gasp. In rich and mysterious beauty it was a place of faëry. She had read of such homes, she had seen them pictured on the screen, but even in her most fanciful moments she hardly expected to find them in her life good and real.

When they wound uphill, in rather precipitous half circles, that last astonishing mile to the proud keep of Dunkeldie, and drew up in the golden light before the low lintel of the main entrance to the Castle, the first person to welcome them was Bill. He stood in the doorway looking superbly handsome in a sporran and kilt. The place itself was a thing of sheer beauty and somehow Bill matched it.

At the sight of him Mame’s heart began to dance. He sent a loud who-whoop echoing among the angles of the stone walls and again danced her heart. And when he flung open the door of their car, before the douce footman could get down from his box, or another of his like could spring out from the portico, her blood thrilled. There seemed to be magic in the air.

From the very hour of her arrival this feeling of magic in the air was upon Mame. And all the wonderful days she was at Dunkeldie it never left her. The house itself was an embodied tradition. Its glamour was haunted by the spirit of place. That ancient roof-tree held strange secrets; and nothing so far in Mame’s life had quite prepared her for them.

The train had reached Inverauchty an hour and a quarter late, as the trains in that part of the world had a way of doing. Dinner was due in twenty minutes. Therefore it was a bit of a scurry to change. Bill’s only accomplishment, at least to which he owned, although other people rated him a pretty useful shot and a fairly straight rider to hounds, was that he could “dress” in ten minutes; but neither his sister nor Miss Du Rance, even with Davis to help them, was quite up to that. Still in a quarter of an hour Celimene was looking her gay and cool and distinguished self in an old and plain black gown. It took Mame longer than that to don a frock rather more pictorial; but with Davis “to do her up,” she was looking presentable if not quite as Chick as she could have desired by the time dinner was announced.

The guests, to the number of a round twenty, assembled in the armoury, a sort of large hall whose ancient usage had been agreeably softened by modern comfort. It sounded dull, dismal, draughty, dour; as a fact it was quite cosy; and it had the advantage of being cool in summer, warm in winter. This evening at the end of August, its temperature was a happy medium. Whatever chill there was in it, due to the lengthening of the shadows around the mullioned windows, was merged in a general atmosphere of cheery good will.

Even Uncle John and Aunt Emily, whose long suit was not exactly cheeriness, at any rate of a wildly festive kind, made a heroic effort this evening to assume that virtue. Nothing could have exceeded the kindness of their welcome. If they did not pretend to intellectual brilliance, and they had to be on their guard lest a sense of dignity was a little overdone, they were very sensible, well-meaning people; and if you were invited to their board they laid themselves out to see that you had a good time.

Mame soon felt at home. The day’s journey had been long and tedious, but with the resiliency of youth she was able thoroughly to enjoy her dinner. Bill sat one side of her and a very distinguished politician who knew America and had a keen appreciation of all things American, sat the other. Conversation flowed. Good stories crossed the dinner table. A piper came skirling round the chairs of the guests. Wine, wit and good fellowship circulated freely. Mame surrendered to the feeling that this was life.

She took her sponsor’s advice and went to bed early and in that wonderful highland air slept as never before unless it was in the early days on the farm after many hours of drudgery. It was a dreamless and renewing sleep and was only terminated when a sonsy lassie set some tea and bread and butter by the side of her bed, unbolted the large shutters and let in the sun.

Five minutes later when Mame sprang out of bed and gazed through the window upon the glory of the scene, the first object to catch her eye was a young man on the fair green below. He was diligently coaxing a small ball into an invisible hole by means of an odd piece of iron. Mame’s education, as yet, had not included the game of golf. But she knew it when she saw it. And as she stood watching this player she felt the time had come to develop her knowledge of a science peculiarly Scottish.

The player was Bill. There was no escaping him. Early and late he seemed to be always in the centre of the picture. But why should one wish to escape him? Who could be fairer to look upon? A sight for sair eyne, as these quaint Scots said, this tall, brown, upstanding young fellow.

By the time Mame was through the business of dressing, she had made up her mind to repair one more gap in her education. She must learn to play golf. And Bill it should be to give her a first lesson. A believer in the definite object, and a mark to aim at in the life of each day, she was as confirmed a go-getter in the Scotch highlands as on Broadway or in the Strand.

Quickly she swallowed her porridge and bacon and sought the diligent Bill. He was still putting. In his way he also was a go-getter. For the time being, at any rate, he was the slave of ambition. Twelve was his present handicap, yet he saw no reason why concentration on the short game should not soon reduce it to a more seemly nine.

With the genial forthcomingness that Mame considered to be not the least of Bill’s merits, he made his ambition known to her as soon as she came upon the scene. And she, with the engaging frankness which in his eyes was so attractive, promptly confided her own resolve. No hour like the present, declared Bill. The stalkers would not seek the hills before noon. Plenty of time for a lesson.

“I’ll borrow a club off Gwendolen Childwick. Mine are a bit heavy for you. Then I’ll show you the swing. In this game the swing is everything; and it’s jolly difficult.”

Mame was sure that it was. With a merry eye she watched Simplicitas stroll away in quest of Gwendolen Childwick’s bag. Gwendolen was a “scratch” player. Her bag was simply bulging with drivers and brassies, not to mention irons and spoons.

If Bill was not, broadly speaking, one of nature’s most solid chunks of wisdom, that is to say he was a most deliciously tactless young man, he was yet brimming over with other qualities. And these greatly commended themselves to Mame. She broke into a low carol of pure joy when the sweet boob returned in about five minutes with Miss Childwick’s second-best driver.

“Didn’t seem very keen on lending it, for some reason.” He proceeded to lock Mame’s fingers round the leather in the Vardon grip. “Worst of these classic gowfers is they are so fearfully particular about their clubs. But we can’t possibly do this one any harm, can we?”

Mame was sure they could not.

They spent a profitable hour. This pretty and clever Miss Du Rance was a very apt pupil. Bill was convinced the root of the matter was in her. These Americans had a wonderful faculty for picking up games. And their minds were so fresh and so cute. Most amusing che-ild he had met in a month of Sundays. The things she said and the way she said them! Yet learning, mark you, to swing that bally old club better and better all the time.

“You’ll make a player,” was Bill’s pronouncement at the end of the lesson. “If you stick to it.”

Rejoined little Miss Chicago: “I’ll stick to it like a sick kitten to a warm brick. Once I take a thing up I just hold on by my teeth. Do you think you can give me another lesson to-morrow, at the same time and the same place?”

“I’ll be delighted.” And Simplicitas looked as if he meant it.

XXXVIII

The next morning Mame received her second lesson in the art of golf. On this occasion the reluctant Gwendolen’s mashie was commandeered. As the amount of “pretty” at the edge of the putting green was strictly limited--the whole thing was no part of a _bona fide_ course, but a makeshift affair--Bill thought, dear fellow, that Miss Du Rance had better start with the serious business of “the short approach.”

Her faculty for the short approach was marvellous. Physical power was not required. Mental concentration it was that did the trick. You kept your eye on the ball, you sort of coaxed it right up to the hole, then you took a putter and there you were. Just as easy as falling off the Monument, as Miss Du Rance drolly remarked.

Bill took so much interest in the development of her latent skill that a morning lesson of at least one hour became a permanent daily feature. In seven days she had seven lessons. And she was such a sport, and so keen to learn, and Bill took such a pride in her progress and she was altogether so jolly that before half the period was through he was calling her Mame. This course of lessons was quite the most thriving study he had ever undertaken.

Little Miss Chicago’s success was not confined to golf. After dinner there was generally music of one kind or another. Sometimes, if the day’s sport had not been too strenuous, there was dancing for the younger guests. Mame’s intelligence and lightness of foot made her an admirable pupil for several gentlemen wise in the native arts. Sometimes there were foxtrots to the strains of the victrola. In these Miss Du Rance needed no instruction. Nay, she was in a position to impart it. And there was competition to receive the same.

When the day’s stalk on the purple hills had been too fatiguing, as was sometimes the case, for even the junior sportsmen to take the floor after dinner, a piano was brought into use and comic songs were sung. Natural comedians were of the party. Bill was one. He could imitate certain music-hall stars to the life. Then there was a young chap in the Foreign Office who was so giftedly impecunious that he was seriously considering the question of exchanging a career in diplomacy which means so little in the way of lucre, for a contract with an Anglo-American syndicate to do a single on the big time. He could conjure and sing and play the fool “like old boots.” And he was so popular in consequence that he was asked to half the great houses in the kingdom.

After all was said and done, however, the biggest success in this kind was reserved for little Miss Chicago. That was the name she went by with everybody. Somehow the title seemed to fit her. Even stately Uncle John and statelier Aunt Emily, striving always for a sense of humour, that one real asset of which they had nothing to spare, alluded to her as little Miss Chicago. It was she who made the biggest hit of all.

As Lady Violet said, it was when the minx sat down to the piano that she really got away with it. Her great song, which she had heard in one of the few successful New York revues that had not yet reached London, was called “I’m the Beautest Little Cutie in the Burg of Baltimore.” And she sang it with such conviction and spirit and drollery that “the folks” seemed never to tire of listening. The music was topping and the words had a swing; while Miss Du Rance’s rendering of this gem of humour was such that, had it not been for Pop’s dollars, his reputed heiress might have turned to “the halls” as a means of livelihood.

Indeed, Mame had the conviction of that within her in the Cowbarn days. She had quite a reputation at the homely parties and sing songs of that small town. And when Elmer P. had crystallised the local feeling in the words, “Mame Durrance is a kind of natural droll,” that lady had spent a whole fortnight gravely considering whether she could not make good in vaudeville.

It was gratifying to know that the early Cowbarn success could be repeated in the highlands of Scotland. To be sure, the audience was much more easily pleased. It appeared to consider her lightest word funny. Even her way of just sitting down to the piano and picking out the notes with one finger seemed to give some of them fits.

Strange to say, however, among an audience which was so sympathetic, were one or two who seemed to be left quite cold by “The Beautest Little Cutie” and that other Broadway gem, which became only slightly less popular, “How’s Tricks?” These critics belonged, oddly enough, to Miss Du Rance’s own sex, and still more oddly, considering the great and deserved reputation for humour of the American people, they belonged, or had once belonged, at least their forebears had, to that up-and-coming nation.