Rose Galbraith (19 page)

“Well,” said Lady Warloch, “you can't tell what strange ideas American women have. I understand they are used to doing all sorts of things themselves in business. Besides, you have no assurance that there was any great fortune.”

“Yes,” said the uncle convincingly, “I feel sure there is. If there had not been, why would she be unwilling to tell me the amount?”

“Well, I know nothing whatever about her financial affairs,” said Lady Warloch coldly. “My sister never told me. Through all the years, she never told me anything about her husband's people. She was very reticent. She felt she had a great grievance, and I think her husband was proud.”

“Proud! What did he have to be proud of? Had he a castle, or a royal name or fame? Of course, I've heard that there are people in America who have amassed great fortunes by chance out of oil, or coal, or even gold. It may have been something like that, you know. But she distinctly told me her father had left her money; when I asked her how much she answered very impertinently that she didn't think her father would care to have her discuss it. So, you see. If she hadn't a pretty large fortune, she wouldn't have been taught to be so canny about it. And we must be very cautious or we shall lose all advantage. The first thing in the morning we must try to find that foolish girl. Grandmother or no grandmother, she must go to that dinner!”

“I don't see how you're going to find her until we know where she's gone. For my part, I think it would be better to get in touch with Lord MacCallummore at once and tell him that she had word that her grandmother was dying, and she didn't know any better than to go traipsing off alone, thought she had to dance attendance on her relatives just because they sent for her.”

“Well, that might not be a bad idea. We'll see when the chauffeur gets back from town whether he has been able to locate the man who sold that ticket to her. And the baker's boy, too. That's important.”

But though they made cautious inquiry far and wide, they got no further information the next day.

And when the second night settled down, they were no nearer to a solution of the affair than when they first discovered Rose was gone.

R
ose going on her way was seeing the wonders of a new world. For a time indeed she was tormented lest she had left something undone or unsaid about her going away. Had she done this thing in a way that would have pleased her mother and father? But as the train went on by new ways across an enchanting country, she forgot her unpleasant experiences of Warloch castle and only the pleasant things came to the surface of her memory. The dear piano and her mother's precious picture. The lovely old books in the bookcase in her room that she had so hoped to read sometime. Would she ever go back and read them? Some of their names she could remember, and she took out a pencil and paper and wrote them down lest they might slip from her memory. Perhaps someday she would be able to buy some of them.

Ah, there was one thing she would like to buy, and that was that dear piano. Her aunt did not play. It could not be so very dear to her. Would it offend them sometime if she suggested it? Of course, not now. She had no money, except the tiny fortune her father had left. Would her mother have thought it right to spend that for the piano, when she would not let her use it for the journey or for anything else she wanted to get?

Still, the piano would be a help to her. Her music was now her only fortune. She could earn her way so much better if she had a good piano. This was a very fine piano, even though it was so old, a great deal finer than she would need to have for just teaching little children.

Of course, if she were going to be a concert performer, it would be well worth her while to have a fine piano. But that being the case, would her poor precious little five hundred dollars be enough to purchase it? Certainly not if Uncle Robert, Lord Warloch, had the say of it. Aunt Janet might perhaps be a little more lenient.

Of course she couldn't broach the subject now without letting them know that the five hundred dollars was her entire fortune. That would put herself entirely under the power of her uncle, and she did not want to be sold in marriage to any lord, no matter how honorable he was, and certainly not to one who was the son of a man her own mother ran away from.

She shivered a little and settled herself in her seat so that she could better see the landscape they were passing.

There were other castles in the distance, high and clear against the sky. She wondered if these others held such hardhearted, unhappy people as the ones in Warloch Castle. She wondered about the different places they were passing and the people she saw at the railway stations where they stopped. How she wished she had an automobile of her own and could go exploring through the land until she knew all the places her mother had told about.

Now and again they passed wonderful scenery. Great towering rocks shrouded in masses of trees and vines, great stretches of forest, and moor and meadows covered with heather. Then lovely lakes, connected by silver ribbons of rivers. As they came into Glasgow her excitement grew. Try as she would she could not keep herself from thinking how she would tell her mother about it all when she got home.

But there was no home anymore, and Mother was not there. There was nobody to whom she could tell of this exciting journey. Only Gordon McCarroll. Would Gordon care to hear it? Perhaps if he wrote again and seemed to expect an answer, she would venture to describe how lovely it all was to her to see the sights about which she had read in the stories of George MacDonald, Ian MaClaren, James M. Barrie, and others. They had all come to life on this trip. She saw the beloved characters, beheld the mountains where they ranged, the cabins where they dwelt, the pastures where they led their sheep, the places where they folded them. In imagination she rode with old Doctor McClure over the hills to his beloved patients; she even found a real “bonnie briar bush” beside which she fancied Geordie Hoo might have lain in those last beautiful days of his lovely consecrated life. She wondered if there were now any such churches as they had in those days, where people knew the grand old doctrines that her father and mother had taught her from babyhood and where there was a vital Christianity, a spirit of love, like the little chapel at home which she and her dear mother had attended. Would she find a place to worship where God seemed close at hand? Not far away, as in the great cold sanctuary where Aunt Janet and Uncle Robert went. It seemed as if God had never been there, unless it was hundreds of years ago when it was first built, before all those unholy notables had been laid to rest beneath the paving stones. It seemed in that church as if only dead members were there, and the god they worshipped was dead also. She gave a little shiver of remembrance. Oh, she did hope so much that some of her Galbraith relatives went to a real church, where God was beloved, and Jesus Christ was a real vital Person who dwelt with men.

At Glasgow Rose followed Donald's directions and telephoned she was on her way. Donald told her carefully where to get a bus and just where he would meet her.

She had a few minutes there to get a bite to eat, for the bit of scone Maggie had given her had long ago faded from her memory. Then she took the bus and began the lovely ride among the Trossachs.

Now she felt she was journeying through old poems, and began to fancy every bit of water was Loch Lomond or Loch Katrine. Her face was bright with eagerness as she gazed upon the beauty of which she had heard so much.

At last she reached Kilcreggan, more beautiful than them all, it seemed, with a castle there on a mountain, and wonderful vegetation all about. And there was her new cousin waiting for her!

She had had letters and Christmas cards from him and the other cousins now and again during the years, and there had been some snapshots, but she had little idea how any of them would look. It was good indeed to see this hearty, robust lad, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, waiting for her with all the welcome she could have wished.

It was a great contrast to her reception at the castle in Edinburgh. David came hurrying up just as the bus drove away. It was evident that he and Donald were genuinely glad to see her. He was as eager over her as his brother.

“And how is Grandmother?” she asked presently, after they had put her in the ancient car and were preparing to go rattling down the pleasant village street.

“She's not well at all,” said Donald, with a shade of anxiety in his eyes. “It's good you have come. She's been in her bed all the day. It seems that she got the idea a few days back that she was not to see you this side of the Promised Land, and she's well nigh given up. She stayed in bed Sunday, and she's still there. We haven't dared tell her you were coming lest she might be overexcited. Mother is going to tell her when she sees the car from the window. I'm to wave a signal to her when I turn the corner of the street. Oh, but I'm glad you've come.”

“And I'm glad I came at once!” said Rose. “You see, my aunt and uncle were away at a funeral when your letter arrived, and there were only a few minutes to make the only train on which I could have reached here tonight. So I had to leave in a great hurry, and the servants were terribly upset by it. They thought they would be blamed for letting me go that way. There was an invitation to dinner that my uncle had made a great deal of, and I know he would have insisted that I stay for it. So I was glad they were not at home. It may make some trouble later, but I'm glad I'm away, even if it weren't for Grandmother. Oh, I'm glad you sent me word!”

Donald looked at his new cousin with approval and lapsed into Scotch.

“Weel, and gload I am ye're takin' it that wy,” he said. “Thae lord and lady uncle and aunt are what you call in America ‘not so hot' are they no? Is that right? A've been wantin' to sue that phrase on somebody, sae I'm glad ye've come!”

The three of them laughed and joked happily on the way home, till Rose suddenly sobered.

“Is Grandmother really very sick?” she asked with a catch in her breath. “Oh, she isn't going to be taken away too, just when I've got here, is she?”

“I trust not,” said Donald gravely. “I think she's got her nerves all worked up. Though that's not like Gran'mither either. She's always been so calm and matter-of-fact about things all our lives, that we couldna think what had come to her. And when she got to talking in that mournful way about not being able to see you before she was ‘awa' I just made up my mind I'd let you know. It made us all heartsick to hear her grieve.”

“Oh, I'm glad, so glad you wrote to me, and glad I could get away in time to make the train!”

They talked on, getting really well acquainted, and Rose had a quick thought once about how nice it was going to be to have some real relatives to tell Gordon McCarroll about when she wrote again. And then the thought struck her weary young heart that perhaps he wouldn't write again and so she would have no occasion to write further either.

But there was no time to think such thoughts now, for they were passing through lovely mountainous scenery, with charming old houses nestled here and there among the trees, perched up on young mountains, or beside lovely glimmers of lake.

“That's where we go to church,” pointed David suddenly, looking up toward a huge stone house that was almost big enough to be a castle, nestled among tall trees and looking down toward the highway.

“Go to church?” exclaimed Rose in wonder, looking toward the building. “What do you mean? Is it a church?”

“Oh no,” said Donald. “That is, it wasna till oor meenister took it ower. It's no kirk noo, though it's got a pulpit, an' a great congregation, an' the best preacher a've ever heerd. But it's no called a kirk. It's a conference place. Fouk come there from all over the country an' foreign lands, too, an' stay. But they let the villagers in tae their meetin's. Believe me they air blessed meetin's. Yoong people, a many of them, an' testimonies. It's a couthy place. We'll tak ye an' let ye see!”

“Oh, I'm so glad!” said Rose. “I was wondering where you'd be going to church. I went with my aunt and uncle last Sunday and it was so desolate and empty. No helpful words, except from the scripture. You had to preach your own sermon to yourself if you wanted one. I thought maybe that was why my uncle and aunt looked so sad and kind of grim and hopeless.”

“Puir souls!” said Donald pityingly. “From a' we hear they've enough tae be dour aboot. They've na been kind e'en tae their own kin. But you probably know the tale weel.”

“Oh yes,” sighed Rose. “I know the story all the way through, though of late I've tried to forget it for Mother's sake. She wanted me to think as well as I could of her own sister you know. And I did try to see good in her, but it's terribly hidden under formality and subserviency to riches and what people will think, and all that.”

“Weel,” said Donald thoughtfully, “it may be mostly the auld lord's fault. Gran'mither seemed tae think that Lady Warloch micht ha' been something hersel', but she was merried young, an' the auld lord laid doon the law. It minds me my mither heard something o' the life fram yir ain mither. Maybe I'm wrang!”

“No, I think you're right,” said Rose sorrowfully.

“That auld lord ne'er kent his Lord Christ Jesus, I guess. He cudna really ken Him and be sae dour.”

“No, I don't think he could,” said Rose. And then suddenly she turned a blazing smile of joy on her cousin. “Oh, I'm so glad you know the Lord,” she said. “I've been feeling so alone ever since Mother died. Hardly anyone I've met seems to know the Lord. I was almost afraid to come here lest it would be the same.”

“Say, now that's blessed!” said Donald with a shy beautiful light in his eyes. “We wondered what like ye'd be! Ye'll be havin' some guid sorta kirk ower there in America, I'll be thinkin'.”