know them well?”
“I have never known one but Wee Brown Elspeth,” I answered, thinking it over.
He did start then, in the strangest way.
“What!” he exclaimed. “What did you say?”
I was quite startled myself. Suddenly he looked pale, and his breath caught itself.
“I said Wee Elspeth, Wee Brown Elspeth. She was only a child who played with me,” I stammered, “when I was little.”
He pulled himself together almost instantly, though the color did not come back to his face at once and his voice was not steady for a few seconds. But he laughed outright at himself.
“I beg your pardon,” he apologized. “I have been ill and am rather nervous. I thought you said something you could not possibly have said. I almost frightened you. And you were only speaking of a little playmate. Please go on.”
“I was only going to say that she was fair like that, fairer than any one I had ever seen; but when we played together she seemed like any other child. She was the first I ever knew.”
I told him about the misty day on the moor, and about the pale troopers and the big, lean leader who carried Elspeth before him on his saddle. I had never talked to any one about it before, not even to Jean Braidfute. But he seemed to be so interested, as if the little story quite fascinated him. It was only an episode, but it brought in the weirdness of the moor and my childish fancies about the things hiding in the white mist, and the castle frowning on its rock, and my baby face pressed against the nursery window in the tower, and Angus and the library, and Jean and her goodness and wise ways. It was dreadful to talk so much about oneself. But he listened so. His eyes never left my face—they watched and held me as if he were enthralled. Sometimes he asked a question.
“I wonder who they were—the horsemen?” he pondered. “Did you ever ask Wee Elspeth?”
“We were both too little to care. We only played,” I answered him. “And they came and went so quickly that they were only a sort of dream.”
“They seem to have been a strange lot. Wasn’t Angus curious about them?” he suggested.
“Angus never was curious about anything,” I said. “Perhaps he knew something about them and would not tell me. When I was a little thing I always knew he and Jean had secrets I was too young to hear. They hid sad and ugly things from me, or things that might frighten a child. They were very good.”
“Yes, they were good,” he said, thoughtfully.
I think any one would have been pleased to find herself talking quietly to a great genius—as quietly as if he were quite an ordinary person; but to me the experience was wonderful. I had thought about him so much and with such adoring reverence. And he looked at me as if he truly liked me, even as if I were something new—a sort of discovery which interested him. I dare say that he had never before seen a girl who had lived so much alone and in such a remote and wild place.
I believe Sir Ian and his wife were pleased, too, to see that I was talking. They were glad that their guests should see that I was intelligent enough to hold the attention even of a clever man. If Hector MacNairn was interested in me I could not be as silly and dull as I looked. But on my part I was only full of wonder and happiness. I was a girl, and he had been my only hero; and it seemed even as if he liked me and cared about my queer life.
He was not a man who had the air of making confidences or talking about himself, but before we parted I seemed to know him and his surroundings as if he had described them. A mere phrase of his would make a picture. Such a few words made his mother quite clear to me. They loved each other in an exquisite, intimate way. She was a beautiful person. Artists had always painted her. He and she were completely happy when they were together. They lived in a house in the country, and I could not at all tell how I discovered that it was an old house with beautiful chimneys and a very big garden with curious high walls with corner towers round it. He only spoke of it briefly, but I saw it as a picture; and always afterward, when I thought of his mother, I thought of her as sitting under a great and ancient apple-tree with the long, late-afternoon shadows stretching on the thick, green grass. I suppose I saw that just because he said: “Will you come to tea under the big apple-tree some afternoon when the late shadows are like velvet on the grass? That is perhaps the loveliest time.”
When we rose to go and join the rest of the party, he stood a moment and glanced round the room at our fellow-guests.
“Are there any of your White People here tonight?” he said, smiling. “I shall begin to look for them everywhere.”
I glanced over the faces carelessly. “There are none here tonight,” I answered, and then I flushed because he had smiled. “It was only a childish name I gave them,” I hesitated. “I forgot you wouldn’t understand. I dare say it sounds silly.”
He looked at me so quickly.
“No! no! no!” he exclaimed. “You mustn’t think that! Certainly not silly.”
I do not think he knew that he put out his hand and gently touched my arm, as one might touch a child to make it feel one wanted it to listen.
“You don’t know,” he said in his low, slow voice, “how glad I am that you have talked to me. Sir Ian said you were not fond of talking to people, and I wanted to know you.”
“You care about places like Muircarrie. That is why,” I answered, feeling at once how much he understood. “I care for Muircarrie more than for all the rest of the world. And I suppose you saw it in my face. I dare say that the people who love that kind of life cannot help seeing it there.”
“Yes,” he said, “it is in your eyes. It was what I saw and found myself wondering about when I watched you in the train. It was really the moor and the mist and the things you think are hidden in it.”
“Did you watch me?” I asked. “I could not help watching you a little, when you were so kind to the poor woman. I was afraid you would see me and think me rude.”
“It was the far look in your face I watched,” he said. “If you will come to tea under the big apple-tree I will tell you more about it.”
“Indeed I will come,” I answered. “Now we must go and sit among the other people—those who don’t care about Muircarrie at all.”
CHAPTER V
I went to tea under the big apple-tree. It was very big and old and wonderful. No wonder Mr. MacNairn and his mother loved it. Its great branches spread out farther than I had ever seen the branches of an apple-tree spread before. They were gnarled and knotted and beautiful with age. Their shadows upon the grass were velvet, deep and soft. Such a tree could only have lived its life in such a garden. At least it seemed so to me. The high, dim-colored walls, with their curious, low corner towers and the leafage of the wall fruits spread against their brick, inclosed it embracingly, as if they were there to take care of it and its beauty. But the tree itself seemed to have grown there in all its dignified loveliness of shadow to take care of Mrs. MacNairn, who sat under it. I felt as if it loved and was proud of her.
I have heard clever literary people speak of Mrs. MacNairn as a “survival of type.” Sometimes clever people bewilder me by the terms they use, but I thought I understood what they meant in her case. She was quite unlike the modern elderly woman, and yet she was not in the least old-fashioned or demodee. She was only exquisitely distinct.
When she rose from her chair under the apple-tree boughs and came forward to meet me that afternoon, the first things which struck me were her height and slenderness and her light step. Then I saw that her clear profile seemed cut out of ivory and that her head was a beautiful shape and was beautifully set. Its every turn and movement was exquisite. The mere fact that both her long, ivory hands enfolded mine thrilled me. I wondered if it were possible that she could be unaware of her loveliness. Beautiful people are thrilling to me, and Mrs. MacNairn has always seemed more so than any one