Rose Galbraith (21 page)

So the days went rapidly, almost happily by.

Rose did not forget her mother's death, but the hardness of it was softened by the atmosphere of loving trust into which she had come for a time to dwell, and she was soothed and comforted.

Then one day a car drew up at the front gate, and the Warloch chauffeur came up the walk and knocked on the door.

It was Donald who opened the door and looked at the man with keen, canny eyes.

“Is Miss Margaret Galbraith staying here?” asked the chauffeur, with something like condescension in his tone.

Donald gave him a withering glance.

“Miss
Rose
Galbraith is here,” he answered with dignity. “Is she the one you wish to see?” Donald could talk as clear-cut English as could be if he chose, and he was not wasting his beloved Scotch dialect on this product of aristocracy.

“Why, I was told to ask for Miss Margaret Galbraith,” said the man, with a worried glance back toward the car standing outside the white gate in the hedge.

“Who wants to see her?” asked Donald with his most lordly manner.

“Lord and Lady Warloch are in the car and would like her to come out and talk with them.”

“Tae come oot an' coonvarse with them!” said Donald relapsing into his native dialect. “Ye may tell my Lord and Lady Warloch they aer wulcome tae come intae the hoose an' coonvarse wi' her as lang as they desire, but Miss Galbraith wull no be comin' oot tae thae car.”

The chauffeur blinked, looked down thoughtfully, and then turned on his heel and marched out to the car.

Donald, standing in the door, noticed there was some little altercation between my lord and my lady, and finally the lady got out of the car and came up the walk, attended at a respectful distance by the chauffeur. Ah, well, Donald knew who the lady was. And his eyes twinkled as he further sighted the lord getting out irately and following indignantly behind. He looked mad enough to set fire to the house. He marched impressively up the walk with a stern eye fixed on what he considered that upstart of a young man in the doorway of the cottage. The idea of any man who lived in a cottage daring to order a lady from a castle to come into the house if she wanted to see her own niece.

There was a shade, too, of amusement in the twinkling eyes of Donald as he watched the approach. It was something he had expected to happen for several days past ever since Rose had told him that she had written to her aunt telling where she was. He knew that sooner or later there would be some move made, that is, if they wanted to have anything further to do with her. And in any event, he knew from what had happened in years gone by, that Rose's sudden flight during their absence would not be left unnoticed. So here they were.

He was quite as much the gentleman by the time they reached the house as Lord Warloch himself, and he ushered them into the wide immaculate living room, where even though the day was mild, a trifle of fire blazed quietly on the hearth and the air was fragrant with a great bowl of sweetbriar roses on the table. He saw to it that both Lord and Lady Warloch were comfortably seated, and then he addressed them with the grace and courtesy of a real lord.

“I will call my cousin Rose. I think she will be able to come very soon. She is with our grandmother just now, but I think she will not be occupied long. I will tell her at once.”

“Do you mean that she is nursing a sick person?” inquired Lord Warloch haughtily.

“Oh no, not nursing. My mother would be doing that whenever necessary. She was reading to her, I think. But she will want to come at once, I am sure, at least as soon as she can do so without disturbing her grandmother.” And Donald left them to themselves.

There sat the lord and lady and gazed about them in utmost amazement. They could but recognize good furniture when they saw it. And there were the walls lined with beautifully bound books, and even a fine old portrait or two. It was incomprehensible to them. They quite resented it that a mere cottage, though of course it had proportions more than most, should contain such valuable things.

“She must have money,” murmured his lordship, “more even than we had supposed. She must have brought all these things over with her. Why did she not bring them to us at the castle?”

“No!” said Lady Warloch sharply. “They look as if they had been here always. They are Scotch things, not American.”

“Nonsense!” said Lord Warloch. “You always pride yourself upon your discernment. But you are not always right.”

Then there was a sound of footsteps, and they relapsed into angry silence. They meant to punish the girl who had run away from them in their absence. They were sitting silently staring about them when Donald returned.

“My cousin will be here in just a moment,” he said and drew up a chair genially, near to Lord Warloch. “You drove up from Edinburgh?” he asked.

Lord Warloch replied by a reproving nod.

“It must have been a pleasant drive. It is a bonnie day.”

The Warlochs evidently did not consider this remark worthy of an answer, though Lady Warloch lifted one corner of her lip, the side away from Lord Warloch, in a faint gesture, which left Donald in doubt as to whether it was assent or merely contempt.

Donald smiled sunnily again and launched into remarks about the region of the Trossachs that would not call for reply, and went rambling on until he heard Rose's step.

She entered as lightly as a bird, quite composed, and not in the least awed by their presence, which not only surprised the callers, but somewhat confused them. The attitude they had assumed did not seem to fit the occasion and made no impression whatever. And an impression was evidently what they wished to make. A severe impression, so that no connection of this obnoxious family should ever dare cross them again.

“Why, Aunt Janet!” Rose said pleasantly. “This was lovely of you to come and see me!”

She reached over and touched her aunt's cheek lightly with her lips and then turned and went over to shake hands with Lord Warloch. But Lord Warloch did not take very kindly to shaking hands and performed his part of the ceremony quite in embarrassment.

“You've already met my cousin, Donald Galbraith, haven't you?” Rose said, smiling toward Donald. “Sorry I had to keep you waiting a minute or two. I was reading Grandmother to sleep, and she was just dropping off. I was afraid to stop suddenly, lest she would waken. It means so much to her to get her afternoon nap, you know. She is very weak yet. But she won't sleep long, and she will want to see you when she wakens.”

Rose settled down beside her aunt.

“No, really, we can't stop!” said Aunt Janet, with a half-frightened look toward her husband. “We only drove over to take you back with us. The dinner to which you were invited has been postponed until tomorrow. It would have been sooner, only that we did not know where to locate you until you wrote me.”

“Oh,” said Rose, somewhat dismayed. “I didn't realize that you wouldn't know the address. I should have left it, of course. But there was so much to do and to get acquainted with when I first arrived that I didn't get around to writing you again as soon as I should have done. You know, Grandmother was quite weak and ill. She is much, much better now, I'm glad to say, and she seemed so pleased to have me here. I was sure you would understand about my leaving in such a hurry. She was quite fearful lest she wasn't going to live to see me, and that seemed to mean a very great deal to her, as of course it did to me. But really, Aunt Janet, I couldn't possibly go with you today. I'm sorry that you've had all this trouble of coming after me for nothing, but I couldn't leave now, and I'm sure you can make your friends understand.”

Then before there could be any protest from the guests, Mrs. Galbraith came sweetly into the room, as quiet as a shadow, as gentle and refined as any lady of the land.

Rose jumped up quickly.

“Oh, and here's Aunt Jessie, Aunt Janet. I've been hoping you two could meet sometime!”

And then Lady Warloch looked at the other woman, who was every inch a lady as much as herself. Her hands were not as lily white perhaps, for they had seen happy service for her beloved family, but they were well cared for, and her face was far sweeter and more lovely with true spirit-loveliness than the grim dour visage of the many-times disappointed, selfish Lady Warloch, for all her castle and her ancestral aristocracy.

Standing thus, within her quaint, sweet home, by grandmother's door from which she had just emerged, with the deep shadows of the room about her and the pale flicker of the fire lighting her eyes, she was almost beautiful, with a beauty that one could not help but remark, at least to one's own soul. And when she smiled as she did now, holding out a friendly hand to the woman who had done so much to bring sorrow into that home, she was certainly beautiful. Not pretty, but really beautiful.

In a daze Lady Warloch put out her hand to greet the other woman and was scarcely aware she had done so. She certainly had not intended to do it. But she found herself enfolded as it were in a great friendliness that surprisingly warmed her chilly heart and filled her with wide wonder. Were common people like this? was her fleeting thought. And then, was this the charm that had captured her young sister Margaret and made her willing to surrender wealth and castles and a lordly estate? Dazed, she sat down and listened to this gracious lady, watched her ease of manner, her lovely smile, and was almost charmed herself by the sweet Scotch accent that tinged her words. She discoursed of the day and the way they had come and the beauty of the season, and then spoke of the years when they had lived in the outskirts of Edinburgh themselves.

Then in came John Galbraith and his tall son Davie. They opened the door without ceremony and stood among them, looking about with clear gaze. Perhaps for the first time in many years, Lord Warloch had the feeling of having been weighed in the balance and found wanting, though he only lifted his chin a trifle more haughtily in consequence and stared at the tall Scots and saw that they were men of keen, wise bearing, men accustomed to holding their own in the world.

Then Rose stepped up.

“Uncle Robert, this is my Uncle John. And this is my Cousin David. Now they're all here but Kirsty. She stayed with Grandmother.”

And suddenly Kirsty was among them. A shy sweet girl, a younger duplicate of her mother, with the same fair skin, dark curls, and wide dark blue eyes and glowing color. A beautiful girl.

“Oh, here she is! This is my cousin Kirsty, Aunt Janet, Uncle Robert!” And Kirsty, with a grace all her own, gave a little curtsy, gravely smiling. And then she spoke.

“I came out to tell you that Grandmother is awake and is very anxious to see Lord and Lady Warloch.”

The lady gave an anxious glance at her husband. “But really, Margaret,” she began, “we cannot take time to stop longer.”

But it was a peculiar thing, how that procession formed toward the old Scotch lady's room, and fairly forced the two reluctant guests into it.

Lord Warloch was the last one to enter the grandmother's room, except John Galbraith, who had pleasantly herded him along, with genial talk about the prosperity of the day and the financial state of the country. Somehow he had to keep constantly reminding himself that this host of his was far beneath him in rank and class, for in spite of himself he seemed almost to be liking him. He hadn't had a man—or woman either—talk to him as if they liked him in many, many years. Could it be that there had been some mistake all these years, and these Galbraiths were really worthy people after all, even if they were not as great as the MacCallummores?

“But really,” said Lord Warloch at the very threshold of that wide old charming room belonging to the grandmother, “we should be going at once. It is a long drive home, and we must get home before dark if possible.”

But John Galbraith only smiled and waved his guest inside, calling out, “Mother, we've come, and here is Lord Warloch come to greet you!”

And in spite of his worst self, Lord Warloch came about to face the great old four-poster bed that spoke of centuries of ancestry, and looked into the sweet, delicate face of the little old lady in her white linen kerchief. He was startled into behaving for the moment almost like anybody. Instead of his lofty haughty bearing, he approached the bed with the ordinary interest of a person who was seeing something entirely new and astonishing. His eyes were on Grandmother Galbraith as if she were a rare old museum piece.

And Grandmother Galbraith's eyes were on the Lord Warloch's face as he approached. When he stood at the very foot of the bed looking at her with keen glance, she suddenly turned her gaze for an instant on Lady Warloch, who stood beside him, and a smile blazed forth on her fine old features.

“A'm rare pleased that ye've come,” she said quietly, that Scotch accent only softening her speech and giving it a fine touch of what seemed unusual culture. “For many years a've been wearyin' tae look upon yir faces. A' cudna believe that luvin' people wud choose for that sweet lassie, Margaret, yir ain sister, riches an' a castle instead o' the luve of a lad she luved like her life! But I see noo, yir not luvin' fouk. But my laddie, Gilber, wes indeed a lad o' pairts, an' prood ye micht hae been o' him gin ye'd but let yirsels ken hoo fine he was. An' he in heaven, but ye never gied yirsels a chaunce tae ken him. A've always hopit ye'd coom tae see yir fault all in guid time. But time has gane intae years, an' the twa ye wranged are baith in Heaven where ye canna ask their pairdon the now! Ye didna do it while there was time, an' noo ye hae the greater shame that the years hae not taught ye better.”

The old voice, strong and clear now, paused as if to give opportunity for denial of her words, but the two stared stonily awestruck, as stiff as two straight-backed chairs.

“And noo,” she went on sadly, “though it's ower late tae speir forgiveness of the two maist concerned, ther's still time tae repent an' tae speir forgiveness o' God. For lord and lady though ye be, ye will baith stand some day before the throne of God, tae give account o' the deed done in the body. An' the Lord your judge will na ask ye, did ye have great riches on the airth, or did ye live in a castle, or run in the royal social ways? He wull ask ye, ‘Hoo did ye treat the Lord's ain bairns?' Sae I'm warnin' ye baith tae get doon on yir knees afore it is too late tae make peace wi' yir God for the wy ye treated the responsibilities He gave. Ye are not sae young as once ye were. Ye've no sae lang ta live ony mair, an' yir ca' may coom ony day, sae waste no time. That's a' I have tae say. Good day to ye, Lord an' Lady Warloch.”