Part 17

For instance, there was that Miss Childwick--Gwendolen she was called. If ever there was one, that was a hard girl. She seemed to have no use at all for the clever and lively Miss Du Rance. Indeed, Mame, whose power of ear was so acute, overheard her saying to a sister compatriot, Mrs. Prance Horton, a social leader who had been recently imported from over the water, “that privately she considered that style of singing rather vulgar.” And Mrs. Prance Horton, whose home town was Boston, quite agreed with her.

It was not so much what Miss Childwick said, it was the way she said it. She was always trying to put one over on Mame, or what came to the same thing, Mame thought she was. There was a certain amount of provocation, no doubt. All the world knew it was only a question of time for the fair Gwendolen’s engagement to Bill to be announced. Why it had not yet been made public and the day fixed, even Bill’s sister, who was so informed upon every subject, was at a loss to understand.

Towards the end of the first week Miss Childwick’s attitude to “the little American”--as though she were not American herself, dear soul!--grew so marked in Mame’s sight, that she felt it would not take much for her to begin seeing red. The airs of Miss Three Ply Flannelette grew so insufferable that Mame was inclined seriously to ask herself the question whether she ought to take them lying down.

_Cet animal est très méchant. Quand on l’attaque, il se défend._ Having regard to what happened the problem arises: Was it really necessary for Miss Du Rance to defend herself in the way that she did? Opinions may differ. Yet few will deny that only a little fool would have missed such a chance.

It was after a week of highland magic that Mame felt the fierce impact of poetry and romance. Hitherto in her twenty-two years of existence precious little of those elements had come her way. But life at Dunkeldie was so different from any she had known. This was a new kingdom. And in the heart of it was the queer thing that makes some guys ramp and rage with rapture and those more worldly shrug and smile and shake their polls.

XXXIX

Things went from bad to worse between Mame and Miss Childwick. The Three Ply Lady had a clever and spiteful tongue under a proud reserve of manner, a discovery made by Miss Du Rance when quite by accident she overheard her small self being dissected by certain members of the house party.

“Violet will soon tire of her.”

Tire of whom? That was the question for Mame, as those significant words stole on her keen ears. This conversation followed an enjoyable _al fresco_ luncheon on the hillside. The guns had gone on while the ladies rested a little from the heat of the day. Mame had got her back to a shady fir which concealed her effectively and was composing herself for a siesta when she caught those words proceeding from the bole of an adjacent tree.

“She reminds me of an opossum.” It was the aristocratic voice of Mrs. Prance Horton, whose first name was Gloria. “Don’t you know, one of those queer little animals who live in the gum trees of the South. They can be taught all sorts of monkey tricks, but are never really tame. It seems to me that dear Violet is teaching this opossum all sorts of tricks, but I don’t think she’ll be amused with her long.”

“Why don’t you?” That was the voice of Miss Childwick. It sounded interested and alert.

“A little too dangerous, my dear. Besides, dear Violet soon tires of her toys. Don’t you remember the young cubist she ran and the Russian pianiste and the Carmanian princess who turned out to be a well-known impropriety? She gives all her toys their heads, for a time, then she drops them and they are never heard of again.”

“But as this girl is so rich--”

“That is the point. Is she so rich? Nobody has heard of her father. Marcella Newsum doubts whether she has any money at all.”

“Violet says--”

“--she is the richest thing that ever happened. And knowing our Violet, that may mean one thing or it may mean another. But I am none the less convinced that if this Miss Thingamy, whoever she may be, is half as cute as she looks, she’ll lose no time in feathering her little nest.”

“Well, I do think it is high time that Violet shed her.”

“I quite agree. And from what one gathers, Violet herself is beginning to think so too. She is afraid the little monkey may get up to some mischief.”

“That would not be at all surprising.” Very dry sounded the voice of Gwendolen Childwick, as she got up with her friend and moved on.

Mame stayed where she was. Grave reflections mingled now with the desire for a gentle siesta. The conversation she had overheard was wounding and it was disquieting. In the last few days a suspicion had begun to dawn upon her of a change in Lady Violet’s attitude. Her friend was not quite so cordial or so light-hearted as she had been.

Lady Violet was known to be capricious. She had proved so in the first place, by taking up on sight a nameless little American newspaper girl. And if she smelt danger, as no doubt she did, Mame Du Rance might wake one morning and find herself “in the discard.”

As Mame tramped slowly back through the heather with the other ladies towards the proud keep of Dunkeldie her mind was working with the vigour of a small dynamo. She must come down to cases. There was a Tide. By hook or by crook these women meant to down her. Moreover, they looked like doing it.

The stalkers made a day of it. Early to bed was the order. Even Bill was tired out. But the morrow was spent in the less strenuous pursuit of a few stray grouse. And after dinner the younger sportsmen being game for a hop, the whole party except one or two of the seniors, who were incorrigible bridge players, adjourned to the ballroom. The victrola was brought into use. And after Mame had danced twice with Bill, who had certainly improved since their first essay at the Orient Dance Club, she suddenly began to realise that the time was now.

For one thing it was an evening of warm splendour. The harvesters’ moon was near its zenith. When in the middle of the dance the massive windows of the ballroom were thrown open, the fair scene beyond of woodland, lake and fell looked gloriously inviting.

As Mame stood resting from her labours, with Bill by her side, and with the wary eyes of at least one other lady upon them, she sighed with a certain wistfulness. “That water with the moon on it looks good to me.”

“It is good.” In the last week or two Bill had grown rather quicker in the uptake.

“I wish I could row as well as you can.” Mame was still wistful. Bill was a “wet bob” and already he had demonstrated to Miss Du Rance the worth of his early training. “Any fool can.” Yet he must have known that any fool could not.

“Such a night as it is,” sighed Mame. “I never saw a moon that size.”

Bill, poor loon, had never seen a moon that size either.

“Just dandy how those beams strike the water.” Who was the guy in the office calendar who got away with

The stag at eve had drunk his fill, Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill?

Old man Burns, wasn’t it? Or was it old man Scott? Under the magic spell of the moon on the water, Mame moved a little nearer. “Say, bo,” she whispered in the tone that always amused him, yet with a little shiver of feeling in it that in the trancéd ear of Bill was something more than merely amusing, “that little rill out there _does_ look good to me.”

The mobility of Bill’s mind was still nothing remarkable, but it sufficed. “If you’ll put on a cloak or something, we might go and see if we can find that boat we had the other day.”

“That’ll be bully,” sighed Mame softly to the moon.

XL

She went and got her cloak. Bill was waiting for her below in the hall. They passed out through a side door of the Castle, across the putting green, along a little sidepath to a wicket. Just beyond the wicket was the lake. And by its marge was moored a sort of coracle.

The moon was so much their friend that they had no difficulty in finding this skiff. Getting aboard, however, was not quite such a simple business. She was but a cockleshell of a craft which had to be nicely trimmed to accommodate two. But Mame, sure-footed as a cat, instinctively disposed herself in the right spot. Bill untied the boat and took the oars and then began their odyssey.

In the centre of the lake, which although deep in places was not very wide, was a tiny isle. There was room for Miranda and Ferdinand upon it, for a few birds and a few rushes and a few trees and for not much else. But in the moonlight it shone with the pale magic of faëry. Here, sure, was the local habitation of romance. The lure of that shadow-and-tide-haunted spot was irresistible. Bill began to witch the night with oarmanship; and in five minutes or less the coracle had touched at Prospero’s enchanted island.

As they floated gently through the veil of the trees, while the water lapped musically and one startled bird rose eerily with a loud whir, Mame had the happy illusion that she was a classic heroine. This is how those romantic janes must have felt in old days when those poetic guys wrote sonnets to their eyebrows.

Plying the oars with uncommon skill this guy appeared too much of a man to be a poetry addict. He was a regular fellow of the twentieth century; a practical modern with all the latest improvements. There was nothing highfalutin about him. Yet even he, as seen by the light of that wonderful moon, had rather the air of a venturer in strange places.

“Say, listen, bo, this seems pretty good to me.” Hardly more than a whisper those half comic words, yet full of feeling, full of comradeship, full of whimsicality. Bill chuckled softly. The charming minx had expressed his own idea of the subject. Yes, it was pretty good. There was magic in the water, in the trees, in the very air and texture of this wonderful night. He had never lived such moments. This highland country with the power of the moon upon it sort of carried one beyond oneself.

What a topping little girl! So different from the others. Not that they were not good and jolly in their way. In the sight of Bill all girls were good and jolly; but some, of course, had more vim and sparkle, more originality, more zip. Yes, a good girl. The way that old moon picked out the curve of her chin and the way the blue-green water was reflected in her rather queer but alluring eyes gave one a corking feeling of living the big, glad life.

Bill’s ambition, at that moment, was to take her in his arms and kiss her. But an unwary movement must overturn them sure. He must wait until he could beach the skiff and dispose of the oars.

Coasting around they entered a small shallow cove, where the tree-laden banks came down gently to the water’s edge. This was the spot. Bill ran the boat on to a tiny strand. Yet by occult means the dark purpose in the mind of Ferdinand was already communicated to the heart of Miranda.

Just as he was about to lay aside his oars, she rose like a bird and flew ashore. It was now a case of come and find me. Heedless of her slippers she sprang up a dry grassy knoll with Bill in quick pursuit. She flitted behind a tree and then another and then another. The pursuit was hot but she was agile. Through heather and ferns she flew. As she passed from tree to tree, a moonlit wraith in her white cloak, she was like a naiad, an incarnation of elfin laughter and mirth.

Bill was a good trier, but this woodland sprite took a lot of catching. He was one of those hefty fellows whom nature had not designed for mobility. Something better, however, than mere speed was his. He was a stayer. Even if not fleet of foot he took a lot of shaking off once he had hit the trail.

She darted like a squirrel from tree to tree. But Bill the relentless was always there. Presently she would tire, but no tiring for him this side the rising of the sun. Already she was slowing down. Yard by yard he was gaining. There was only one tree between them now. There was less than a tree; there was less than half a tree.

Now, you nymph! She was as slender in his arms as a young willow. But her motions were very wild and quick. The bright red life was tingling in every electric inch of her. It was wonderful what force and liveliness she had. This was a girl. A sweet little mouth. She fought a bit, she kicked him on the shin, but it was not the sort of kick that meant anything.

Blown and tossed, yet hooting with a laughter that shocked the island’s other inhabitants, they came presently to earth on the dry bank above the pellucid water. But Ferdinand held Miranda close. Not a chance for her to slip from his arms and elude him again.

The witch seemed to have no especial desire for more feats of the kind. That strong and manly arm was far too good to have around one. And there was such a slender hope of getting free. One half-hearted attempt was the sum of all her struggles.

What was that plopping in the water? A fish? Some funny old bird? Was that a coney? What a moon it was! How weird and yet how grand it made the Castle look. To think that pile of stones had stood just so in the time of Robert the Bruce.

Had Bill read any of the romances of old man Scott?

Yes, he seemed to remember having read Robinson Crusoe. That was mainly about an island, wasn’t it? Then there was Don Quixote. Those were the only works he had read of Sir Walter Scott. Personally he always felt that real life was so much better than simply reading about it....

She had a most kissable mouth.

“Tell me, Puss, do you think you could stick me for always?”

The Simplicitas question seemed to jump so abruptly upon her that Mame was caught unawares.

It was not that she hadn’t seen it coming. Sooner or later it was bound to arise. But she hadn’t expected the boob to take off quite so soon. Here he was fairly plopping into her pocket, without giving her a chance of making adequate preparation to receive him.

Even at Cowbarn, Iowa, where the roughneck abounds, Bill’s form would have been rated a trifle crude. The question had been half invited, yet certainly she would like to have had a little more in the way of notice. Still there it was. No parrying, no parleying, no evading. Excited she was, but she must pull her fool self together; she must bring her wits into play. This was a matter for now.

Never had she felt so near complete happiness. A big moment. The romance of the circumstances made her feel a wee bit delirious; the pressure of life in her veins was terrific. A spell was in the trees and the mountains; on the heather; on the keep of Dunkeldie; on the moon-haunted lake. Magic had got into her blood.

She must take a pull on herself, she must look around. This was a powerful question. There were many implications. But why bother her head about them, even if at this moment she was capable of doing so, which beyond a doubt she was not.

“Sorry to rush my fences like this.” The voice, deep and level, was very close to her ear. “But we are just made for one another. And I mean to have you.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, honey.” That was the answer she meant to give. Had she not been carried so completely away by the enchantments of that old and wicked moon, it would have been given beyond a doubt. But just now she was not able to do as she liked; that was to say, being half off your balance simply reft you of the power of doing what you didn’t like. It would go to her heart to throw away this golden chance. Empire over oneself would be needed for that. Besides, the trees of the island whispered to her, Mame Durrance, what a fool puss you’ll sure be if you do.

XLI

The best of times come to an end. And they have a trick of coming to an end abruptly. Such was Mame’s thought, when on the morning of the thirteenth day of Dunkeldie, or to be a little more precise, on the morning after the visit to Prospero’s magic island, there came a knock on her bedroom door, while she was sewing lace on a camisole. Lady Violet entered.

She was a bearer of ill tidings. “We must pack up to-morrow.”

Mame’s countenance fell. She had been cherishing a hope that her clever friend would be able to wangle at least one week more. It was the good life; everything was going swimmingly; this was the first suggestion that it was about to end so soon.

“Won’t your Aunt Emily stand for us a bit longer?” Mame was inclined to question the fates.

“It isn’t altogether that. Aunt Emily would like us to stay on, but there’s bread and butter to consider, you know.”

Ruefully Mame supposed there was. Still the firm seemed to be carrying on pretty well at Dunkeldie. And their locum tenens, one Gerty Smith, was diligent and trustworthy.

“But aren’t we rather taking chances? There’s New York to think of now. It won’t do to be too much behind with our information.”

“We’re not so behind as all that. There’s nothing much doing in London, and what there is Gerty Smith can attend to. Seems to me an extra seven days here isn’t going to matter.”

Disappointment was in Mame’s tone and there was no attempt to conceal it. She had counted on another magic week. But Celimene was adamant.

“There’s that new play on Monday at the St. James’s, also one on Tuesday at the Shaftesbury.”

“Gerty can fix those.”

“Unfortunately they are both American pieces. And New York won’t like it if we don’t give of our best.”

“Shucks!” protested Mame. “Gerty can mug up a notice as slick as we can. If you tell her just what to say beforehand--uproarious welcome, speeches before the curtain and all the rest of the dope--New York’ll never know the difference.”

“I don’t quite agree.” Celimene’s voice had grown particularly calm and quiet.

Once before and once only had Mame heard that voice. On that occasion it was the prelude to trouble. She looked shrewdly at her mentor. And what she saw gave her pause.

The gay and laughing eyes had hardened. They were still gay and laughing, but behind them was an elusive something Mame did not like. Her keen perception had noted for some days past a subtle change in the manner of Bill’s sister. The thought had already crossed Mame’s mind that those prize cats had been getting at the friend to whom she owed so much.

“Davis will give you a hand with your packing.” The tone, light and gentle as it was, sounded absolutely final. “To-morrow morning we must catch the ten o’clock from Inverauchty.”

There was nothing to be done. Short of open defiance, to which Mame was sorely tempted, and yet was wise enough not to yield, no alternative was left.

Bill was bitterly disappointed when he heard the bad news. He had taken it for granted that Mame was staying on. But in his way he was a philosopher.

“I’ll be in London about ten days from now. And then--and then we’ll roll along to Cartier’s and choose a ring.”

Mame’s eyes shone. It was the tangible evidence of her triumph and of her happiness. Yes, there was magic in the air of Dunkeldie. Life might be a long round of daily disappointment, but back of everything was always the Big Stuff, if only one had the luck and the pluck to be able to pull it.

“Have you told Violet?” She was able to ask that serious question in spite of a tumultuous heart. There was reason to suppose that he had.

“Not yet. I’ll tell my mother first, if you don’t mind. No need to set tongues wagging too soon. You can tell Vi when you like, of course; but people when they get publicly engaged look and feel such fools, don’t they?”

Mame supposed they did. And her triumph would keep. The announcement, when it came, would be rather like exploding a bomb in the new world she had entered. Gwendolen Childwick would be furious. So would the other furry ones. And Violet certainly was not going to like it.

How could she? Mame did not disguise from herself that she was worried by the thought of the friend to whom she owed so much. An uncomfortable feeling overtook her. To have caught this much-cherished bird was perilously akin to ingratitude.

Disappointing as it was to cut short the time of one’s life at Dunkeldie, out of regard for another’s caprice, London, on Mame’s return, did not seem so bad. She had found it a funny old burg and in some respects an overrated one; yet it is the sort of place to which most people don’t mind going back once in a while. There is usually something doing in London in the early fall.

To begin with, there was the question of daily bread. And Mame’s heart was really in her job. She had made good in the highlands; yet one glamorous hour, no matter how crowded and glorious, cannot undo the mental habits of a lifetime. She was now the bride-elect of a marquis, but first and foremost she remained a go-getter. It gave her a wonderful thrill to receive every morning a rather illiterate-looking letter with a Scotch postmark; but it was still her nature to be up and coming.

She liked the true London-and-New York sort of feeling of being a busy young bee; of doing the work of the hive. There was a sense of power in gathering news first-hand; of putting it in tabloid form; of sending it over the wires of divers oceans and continents. She had lived magic hours. But wise folks don’t put their trust in magic. London and the daily round were a useful antidote.