Ardfalloch House was swept and garnished, there were fires in the rooms, and lamps shed their soft circles of light upon the polished surfaces of tables and furniture. Everywhere there were vases, filled with chrysanthemums—yellow and bronze and white. The front part of the house was very quiet, there was an air of expectancy about it. Mrs. MacAslan sat in the drawing-room near the fire, she was making a cross-stitch mat in gay colouring. Sometimes her small white hands paused in their task, and she lifted her head and listened.
In the kitchen premises there was a soft babble of talk. Janet and Donald, and Morag, and Alec MacNeil were sitting round the kitchen table—they had finished their tea and now they were waiting for the sound of a car in the avenue. The two young Highland maids moved about with their quiet tread, clearing away the remains of the meal, and chattering softly to each other in their own tongue.
The four at the table were speaking English out of politeness to Janet (she had never troubled to learn the Gaelic in all her long years’ sojourn at Ardfalloch. “What’s the use of yon outlandish gibberish?” she would say, tossing her head scornfully. “If folks canna speak like Christians I’ve no desire tae ken what they’re speirin’ at.”) As a rule the mere sight of Donald was enough to rile Janet—she was inordinately jealous of MacAslan’s affection for the sturdy Highlander—but, to-night, there was a temporary truce between them. Janet was too excited to be thrawn. Her excitement would not have been evident to a casual observer, nor to anybody who did not know her well; it was evident only in the unusual glitter of her eyes, as they darted about the kitchen after the maids, and in the unusual loquacity of her tongue.
“I was jist thinking the ither day,” said Janet in a conversational tone. “I was thinking tae maser it’s changed days for Ardfalloch. There was naething ever happened in the place—but we’ve had oor share of excitement in the last wee while.”
She looked round at her companions for their agreement, but they were all three silent and withdrawn.
“You will be meaning the detectives, Miss Walker?” said Morag at last.
“Jist that,” nodded Janet. “It was a queer-like thing—yon man’s deith. I declare it gives me the shivers when I think on it. A fine stir it made, too—Ardfalloch in a’ the newspapers, an’ pictures o’ MacTaggart’s Inn where the man bided when he was here, an’ pictures o’ MacTaggart at the door. I’m thinking MacTaggart made a guid thing oot o’ it, what with detectives drinking at the bar, and folks coming a’ the way fra’ Inverness tae see the place oot o’ sheer curiosity.”
“It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good,” said Donald a trifle sententiously.
“You’ll have seen the man, I doubt,” Janet asked him with interest.
“I saw him often enough,” replied Donald. “He was often enough to be seen in the bar, or walking in the village. A big man with feet that turned outwards a little as he walked.”
“Och, and I, too, have seen him,” put in Alec eagerly. “He was good company—so he was. He would stand a drink to anybody, and he was full of stories. Some of his stories were very funny. Did you be hearing the one about the miller’s wife, Donald?”
“There’s nae need tae blacken the man when he’s deid,” said Janet quickly—it was obvious from Alec’s grin that the story about the miller’s wife was unfit for mixed company, and she was afraid it was going to be retailed, “There’s nae need tae blacken the man when he’s deid, Alec.”
“But maybe he is not dead,” Morag said quietly. “They have found no proof that he is dead—it was in the newspapers I was reading that,” she added. “They were saying that he may have gone away to America—”
“He’s done nae such thing!” exclaimed Janet. “It’s just noansense saying that he’s away tae America. Would the man be away tae America and leave his luggage lying in Glasgow?”
“It is queer,” Alec agreed thoughtfully. “It is very queer that he did not be taking his luggage with him if it is to America he is gone—”
“There’s naething queer aboot it,” Janet told him, “for the man’s not gone to America. The man’s deid, an’ doesna’ need his luggage—he’s deid, I’m telling you. They’re just saying he’s mebbe no deid tae clear themsel’s. They canna find the murderer an’ they dinna like tae look fules—an’ that’s a’ there is tae it.”
There was nobody with sufficient temerity to contradict Janet’s assertion, and a little silence ensued. Their thoughts veered from the mystery of Medworth’s disappearance which had been more than a nine days’ wonder in the quiet glen.
“They will be here soon now,” said Donald at last. He took his big silver watch out of his pocket and glanced at it as he spoke.
“Och, they will be tired!” Morag said compassionately. “It is a long way to come—so it is—they will be very tired.”
“It is to be hoped they will be here soon,” put in Alec, “for there is snow coming. I have been smelling snow in the air all day.”
“Dae you say so!” Janet exclaimed. She had lived in the glen too long to disbelieve in such weather prophecies. Snow had no smell for her, and she was never aware of its imminence until the first flakes fell, but the Highlanders were seldom wrong when they smelt snow—Janet knew it to her cost. She went to the window and drew aside the heavy curtain; a few big flakes of snow had begun to fall, they floated past like feathers in the black darkness of the night.
“Aye, it’s begun,” she said, frowning.
“It will not be much, and they will be here very soon,” Donald assured her with his usual optimism.
Janet dropped the curtain and went back to her seat. The young maids had withdrawn, there was a light clatter in the scullery to show that they were busy washing up the dishes.
Donald broke the little silence that had ensued.
“Does Mistress MacAslan know?” he enquired in a low voice.
“Know! Of course she knows,” replied Janet with a truculent look. She was always on the defensive when her mistress’s weakness was hinted at. “She’s been told that they’re married and expected home—how would she not know?”
“I was chust wondering if she had taken it in,” said Donald meekly.
“You and your wonderings!” Janet said scornfully. “Could anybody fail tae see that MacAslan was expected? The whole hoose is prepared for him an’ his bride. Mistress MacAslan kens mair than you’d think, she was as pleased as a bairn when Miss Finlay came over wi’ flowers—helping her tae pit them in vawses—”
“Did Miss Finlay bring flowers, then?” asked Donald with interest.
“She did indeed,” replied Janet. “Great bunches o’ thae chrysanthemums—the hoose is like a wedding wi’ them. Miss Finlay brocht them hersel’ and dressed them—she was here the whole forenoon at it.”
“Och, and that is very nice—it is very nice indeed,” said Donald. “MacAslan will be glad.”
“I’m no sae sure of that,” said Janet with sudden jealousy—what did Donald know of MacAslan’s likes and dislikes—“I’m no sae sure he’ll be pleased. MacAslan likes fine tae see flowers growing, but he’s no sae partial tae them in the hoose—”
“MacAslan will be glad,” said Donald with gentle stubbornness.
There was a threat of war in the air. Alec averted it with commendable promptitude.
“Will Richard be coming with them, Miss Walker?” he enquired.
“Richard!” exclaimed Janet, her attention distracted by this new foolishness. “Richard’s biding wi’ Mistress Hetherington Smith. You never heard tell of a bairn going on a honeymoon, did you, Alec?”
“I did not,” admitted Alec meekly. “But I do be knowing very little about honeymoons at all.”
“This puts me in mind,” said Janet in a more amiable tone—she had squashed Alec successfully and felt all the better for it—“This puts me in mind o’ the time the old Chief brocht hame his bride. It’s the waiting puts me in mind o’ that, for it was a deeferent kind of hame-coming they had.”
“Tell us about it, Miss Walker,” said Morag.
“Och, there’s little tae tell. The hoose was full then—there’s the deeference—auld Mistress MacAslan was alive, and she was fond of company. There was a wheen o’ tenants tae welcome the couple, and an airch on the drive, and there were folks frae Cluan and Achnafettel and Balnafin in the drawing-room, an’ pipers skirling forbye.”
“I could be giving them a wee skirl,” suggested Alec diffidently.
“Weel, an’ there would be nae hairm in that,” agreed Janet with surprising graciousness. “I’m no saying but what MacAslan might like a wee bit tune.”
Alec smiled with pleasure. He had brought his beloved pipes with him in the hopes that there might be a chance of playing a welcome for MacAslan and his bride.
“Weel, there we waited,” continued Janet. “There was nae motors in those days, and the Chief and his lady had tae drive frae Balnafin in the carriage. We haird them coming in the distance, an’ auld Mistress MacAslan called us in tae the hall. It was dark as pitch an’ the lamps o’ the carriage were shining in the drive—”
Janet broke off. There were steps outside and a knock on the back door. “Wha’s that?” she said in surprise.
It was Calum Mor. He entered rather sheepishly with his pipes under his arm.
“I was wondering,” he said, looking round at the little group in the lamplight. “I was wondering could I be playing for MacAslan when he is here—”
“I am playing for MacAslan,” said Alec, frowning at his cousin in annoyance. “It is not the right thing at all that you should play for him, Calum Mor. I am MacAslan’s man—I live upon his ground—”
“And what harm is there that you should both play for MacAslan?” enquired Donald peaceably. “It will be all the better, and Calum Mor is MacAslan’s man even though he is living at the other side of the loch. The MacNeils are all MacAslan’s men—so they are.”
Calum looked doubtfully at Alec. He was anxious to play, but he did not want to offend against the laws of etiquette.
Alec smiled at him. “We will both play for MacAslan,” he agreed.
“I was wondering,” Calum said again. “I was wondering if I could be playing MacAslan’s own tune for him. I was thinking, maybe, he would be liking to hear it. He was calling it ‘A May Morning.’”
Alec’s face fell. “A May Morning!” he exclaimed. “That would be a strange tune to be playing—it is ‘The Highland Wedding’ we should be playing for MacAslan—”
“It is MacAslan’s own tune,” Calum urged.
“It is a foolish idea,” Alec said sullenly. “A foolish idea to be playing ‘A May Morning’ for MacAslan on a November evening with snow in the air.”
Calum’s eyes blazed with sudden rage; he was about to reply, but Donald was before him:
“Och, do not be quarrelling, then!” he besought them. “It is not a good thing to be quarrelling on such a day as this. And you are both in the right—so you are. This is what you will do, you will play ‘The Highland Wedding’ for MacAslan, for it is the right thing to be playing and it is a good tune, so it is. But first you will play ‘A May Morning’ as a compliment to MacAslan. It is his own tune and it will please him to hear it—I am thinking there will be a May morning in MacAslan’s heart when he brings his bride home to Ardfalloch, whatever the weather.”
Donald’s decision was diplomatic and psychologically sound. It appealed to the imagination of his hearers, to the vein of romanticism and sentiment in their Celtic blood. Alec and Calum were pleased and satisfied. They murmured their approval. Calum sat down and was provided with tea—all was peace once more.
A gust of wind rattled the window and moaned eerily in the chimney.
“Och, do be hearing the storm!” Morag cried.
“Whisht!” said Donald.
They all raised their heads and listened.
“Aye, it’s them right enough!” Janet exclaimed.
They all rushed out into the hall—Donald flung the doors open. The little car (a wedding-present from Mr. Hetherington Smith) was just drawing up at the bottom of the steps. The ground was already white, and the snow was still falling softly. It was very dark, but the headlights of the car streamed out in front, lighting up the snow-covered ground and the bushes on the farther side of the drive with a queer artificial effect.
MacAslan climbed out of the car. He took his bride in his arms and sprang up the steps and across the threshold of his house—it was the age-old custom—they were both laughing happily and excitedly as he set her down.
“Ceud mìle faìlte!” cried the Highlanders.
“Gum a fada bèo thu!”
“May you live for ever in peace and plenty!”
“This is a good day for Ardfalloch!”
They were beside themselves with joy, showering blessings and good wishes on the bridal pair. It was a great moment for them—a moment after their own hearts—the Chief had brought his bride to Ardfalloch. They saw the romance of it, the historical importance—the torch of the MacAslans had been carried forward a step further. Soon there would be an heir—another link in the chain—their eyes strained forward into the future and backwards into the past. It mattered nothing to them that there was no arch in the drive, no company of guests and tenants such as Janet had described—they were there themselves, and MacAslan had come. It was a moment none of them would forget.
Janet alone said nothing. She was no less moved than the Celts, but it was not her way to show her feelings. She thought, as she looked at the bride’s flushed face and sparkling eyes: this is no dwaibly body, MacAslan has chosen better than his father—and she was glad that it was so. She busied herself with their comfort, helping them to unwind their scarves and to take off their coats.
Linda was excited and pleased with the welcome; she shook hands with them all and tried to thank them, tried to tell them how happy she was to come back to Ardfalloch. She glanced at Iain—his eyes were shining with excitement, he was unconscious of himself—as she could never be. She saw that he was like these people beneath the surface, they were his people in very truth. He could understand them, could share their enthusiasms and express his feelings in gracious terms. It was a great moment not only for them but for Iain also, a moment for consummation towards which he had been moving for months. It was perfect happiness—this home-coming—Ardfalloch his own once more, and Linda to share it—there was nothing more he wanted in the world. Iain realised his own happiness and savoured it like an epicure. Troubles might come later, money was still scarce, but he would not look forward into the future to find troubles, he would make the most of this moment of pure joy.
The flood of greeting had scarcely abated when the drawing-room door opened and Mrs. MacAslan appeared. She was smiling happily and her small child-like face was a little flushed. Iain put his arms round her, and kissed her tenderly; then he pulled Linda forward.
“Linda is your daughter now. You know that, don’t you, Mother?” he said.
She nodded and held up her face for Linda to kiss. “I have a present for you,” she said in her soft fluty voice. “A present for Iain’s bride. I waited up to give it to the bride, but I am going to bed now, because you would rather be alone.” She nodded gravely like a child that knows it is being good and clever. Linda found a little parcel being thrust into her hand.
“But, Mother—of course you must dine with us—how absurd!” cried Iain, catching her arm as she turned away.
“Not to-night,” she said, smiling her little sad smile. “Other nights I will, but not to-night. You will like it better alone. I remember I liked being alone best. It was clever of me to remember—wasn’t it, Iain? It was so long ago—long long ago. But I can remember things that happened long ago better than things that happen now. I remembered when I was sitting in the drawing-room waiting for you to come—I remembered that I liked—that I liked it best when we were alone—together. Janet will bring me my dinner in bed. I like having dinner in bed, don’t I, Janet?”
They were all standing in the hall listening to her. None of them spoke. They were all—in their different ways—moved by her pathos, by the unconscious courage of her, and by the simplicity of her words. She had lost so much—so much that she had almost lost herself. She was scarcely a denizen of their world, she was only a forlorn little ghost, remembering her past happiness in a former existence.
Morag’s hand crept into Donald’s. “We will be going now,” she whispered. “She is right, it is alone they should be—those two.”
They went out together into the snowy darkness of the night, Alec and Calum followed them; Janet ran upstairs after her mistress; Iain and Linda found themselves alone in their own home at last. They stood in the hall, scarcely realising the fact that the others had gone; the house seemed strangely silent after the chatter and bustle which had followed their arrival.
Suddenly there was a skirl of pipes outside the window, as Calum and Alec began to play “A May Morning.” Iain lifted his head and listened, there was a little smile lurking at the corners of his mouth; he had expected a tune when he saw the pipes tucked under the two men’s arms, but he had not expected that they would play “A May Morning.” By playing his own tune they had paid him a very charming compliment, and the hidden significance which Donald had intended was not lost upon him. It was spring in his heart in spite of the softly falling snow. Iain marvelled afresh at the instinct of the Celt for the deeper things of life—the meaning that lay beneath the surface. As he listened to the gay tune his mind went back to the night when he had whistled it to Calum on Cluan pier. He thought of all that had happened since that night—he had found Linda, and lost her, and found her again. His happiness enfolded him.
“They are playing a welcome for you,” said Linda softly. “How happy they are to have you home again.”
“They are playing for you, too,” Iain said.
She shook her head smilingly. “It is for MacAslan,” she said. “And, perhaps, a little, for MacAslan’s bride—they don’t know me yet, but I love them already—your people.”
Iain did not answer—it was true, what she said, but some day they would know her and love her for herself, he was sure of that. They went into the drawing-room and stood there near the fire looking at each other gravely.
“I really believe it now,” Iain told her. “It was all a dream before, but now that I see you here it is real—and you are real, Linda.”
“I am real, and you are real,” Linda said. She put her arms round his neck and drew his head down on a level with her own—she was no ice maiden now, no fairy woman; she was warm and living, and wholly mortal as she melted into her husband’s arms.