by Roy Vickers
“No, mom,” he answered, “we hef no piper at Mallory. Her leddyship does not like the pipes.”
Not like the pipes! How odd of her, I thought. And upon this scrap of information the latent opposition which I had felt towards Jack’s mother from the beginning swelled and took shape. How strange of a woman who had soldier sons—a son and a step-son—and who wrote as if she were proud of them and their calling; and of one who I knew from Jack was Highland bred to the backbone!
Throughout the journey north-west, now with great hills looming up through mist, now by the side of rushing streams, I was thinking of my mother-in-law, and how much easier it would have been to meet her for the first time if Jack had gone with me to Mallory. I was afraid of her, to tell the truth, and that made me brace myself beforehand to be defiant, picturing a great lady who would stand on her dignity, and think Jack might have done better for himself than in marrying me, an Englishwoman of no particular family and small fortune. She would condemn, she would dictate, she would want to interfere.
The day wore on; the train was not a fast one, and there were frequent stoppages, and every hour Peters would come to the window to know whether I wanted anything. But at last there came the station where we alighted for Mallory.
There was a car to meet us, and in less than half an hour Mallory came into view. Not the fine place I had been picturing to myself, only a moderate-sized country house, but possessing a tower with corner-turrets in the Scottish fashion, which gives it some distinction. The rest of the house is low, with thick walls of undoubted antiquity. The windows are small, but beyond them there are lovely views.
It was only a confused impression I derived from that first entrance—of a hall warm with firelight, decorated with heads of beasts, and skins and weapons, of a room beyond, also warm, and of a frail little lady rising from her chair at the window, and coming lamely across to greet me with an embrace and a kiss.
Such a frail little lady to be the mother of a great, strong man like Jack She, like the house, was not what I expected, but I was right in two particulars. She is grande dame to the finger-tips, and I am certain she views me critically.
Chapter II
On further acquaintance I like Lady Heron better than I expected, and I have been able to express myself somewhat enthusiastically in writing to Jack; this will please him. I would give a good deal to know what her letter—the long letter I saw her writing—said to him about me. She is kind to me, painstakingly kind, but still we are strangers to each other, and I think it likely we shall be strangers to the end. That she is fond of Jack ought to knit a bond between us, but somehow I strongly suspect it is the very thing which holds us apart.
She is always testing and appraising me, though not in the way I expected; she tells me little anecdotes of Jack’s youth, and watches to see if I receive them with the enthusiasm I ought; she shows me some cherished pictures—stupid, old-fashioned photographs—of Jack as a baby, Jack as a toddler learning to walk, and upwards at various stages of his boyhood. It is plainly my duty to care about these, but I don’t particularly; they seem too far removed from the Jack I know. The pictures bore me, and I shudder inwardly when a new anecdote is presented. And, sitting here in the chair of truth, I must confess it—I find Mallory dull.
My chief amusement is going out for rambles by myself, rambles Lady Heron is too lame to share; she can only walk up and down the terrace with her stick by way of exercise, and that at the sunniest time of the day. The surroundings here are certainly beautiful, and the Highland people interest me. I talk to them when I have a chance, and try to get accustomed to their way of speech. It was from one of these Highlanders I found out the reason why Lady Heron does not like the pipes.
I never put the question to her. I do not know why not, as it would have been a simple thing to ask, but whenever it came into my head, something happened to divert the thought and keep the words unspoken. But that thrilling pibroch heard in Edinburgh seemed to haunt me here at Mallory, though not always the same tune. I dreamt of it the first night I was here; it waked me from sleep, as a real thing might have done but when I listened in the deep, country stillness and the darkness of the unfamiliar room, there was not a sound. And each time I walked in the direction of Glen Fruin I heard it with my waking ears, very faint and far in the distance, but I could be certain it was there.
I went some way up the Glen on the third occasion, hoping to get nearer to the sound, but it seemed to recede as I approached; the preliminary skirl, and two or three bars of a tune, as if the musician were practicing, and then a fault and silence. Presently my watch warned me I should return, for Mallory is a punctual household, and Lady Heron would be waiting tea. I was well on my way home when I met an old shepherd I had spoken to before, and, as I still heard the music at intervals, I bethought myself to ask him:
“Who is it about here who plays the pipes? Somebody is practicing away there in the Glen.”
Highland fashion, he met my question by another, and his shaggy brows drew together.
“You be the leddy Frazer, be you not?”
I was Mrs. Frazer, I told him.
“Eh, weel, ye are Frazer married, and so have a right to hear. ’Tisn’t lucky for the Frazers when the pipes are sounding in Glen Fruin, but the Lord be thankit that they don’t come lower down! I do not look to hear them mysel’, being nobbut Steenson that was once Macgregor.”
This was pretty well Greek to me.
“Why isn’t it good for the Frazers?” I demanded.
“Ye’ve never heard the legend? Mebbe ’tis not for the likes of me to tell ye, but seeing as ye ask—Time gone by the chief of the Frazers had his pipers equal with the best, always seven of them in his tail, and callants growing up to take the place—and a proud place it was—of them as were short-winded or old. Glen Fruin was full of folk in those days, where there’s nought now but a wheen ruins, or a square in the green to mark where walls have been. And custom was that Frazer’s pipers should be chosen from the Glen Fruin folk.
“That was a time of battles, same as now, and the Frazers were up in arms. I don’t mind the name of the battle, no, nor how long ago, but there was a great slaughter, and the Frazers fell to a man, and the pipers with their chief. It is said there was none to fill their places, for the callants had not been instructed, and the head of the clan was nobbut a wailing Cairn. And since that day the Frazers have had no pipers—the Frazers of Mallory. Mebbe that is why the dead men are not content, and when a Frazer is about to die they are heard piping in Glen Fruin.”
I am putting down the old man’s words as nearly as I remember them, but I daresay I spell them wrong. As I listened a cold shiver went down my spine and crept among the roots of my hair; if my hair had been undone I think it would have stood up with fright.
“Why, you don’t mean to say,” I stammered—“you don’t mean to tell me that what I have been hearing is a ghost? A ghost in broad daylight and in the open air! And who is it who is going to die?”
“You needn’t be afeared, my leddy, for him as is your own. There’s a many Frazers at the war besides, and the pipers pipe the same for a death in bed. There’s John Frazer near his end at the Mill, and mebbe ’tis for him. He has a son fighting, and Donald Frazer, farmer, has two more. Ye need na fear for the heads of the clan, or for their womenfolk, unless the pipers come right down to Mallory, and go round the house.”
“Do they come as close as that?” I asked, shuddering.
“Ay, my leddy, that they do. And they are heard by all of the Frazer name, and sometimes by them as are not so called, but I never heard tell of their being seen. It is just a sound and no more, sometimes a lament on the pipes, sometimes a fine march for them as fall. And they go once round for a woman, and twice for the heir, and three times for the head of the clan. They went three times round the house when the late lord died, and there was m
any who heard them, together with my Leddy Heron hersel’. And ever since then she hasna been able to bear the pipes, the real pipes, and they are warned not to come nigh.”
After that I wondered no more at what Peters had told me in Edinburgh. The faint, far-off skirling, which had sounded even while old Steenson was speaking, ceased as I hurried back, but Mallory looked a dark blot in the prospect, dismal as it had never seemed before. Was it because of this superstition that Lady Heron had grown old and grey before her time? It would be awful, I thought, to live here year in and year out, eternally listening for those notes of doom. What should I do, I, a married Frazer, if I heard them circling round the house, and if it meant that Jack—
I tell you frankly what was my first impression afterwards; some healthy skepticism came to my relief. An old man’s story of impossible ghosts—where was the need to credit it?
Through that day and the next everything moved on velvet—the quiet, regular hours, the careful service, the slightly formal ways with an old-world atmosphere about them, which I found piquant and attractive when not in one of my impatient moods. And I was perhaps more patient, more inclined to be appreciative, because the weeks of my visit had nearly run out; very soon now I should be setting out to establish myself with Violet at the flat, in the midst of London and life.
I was softened, too, because Lady Heron appeared to recognize my right of choice as to what I would do in Jack’s absence. All she said was:
“Your home is here, my dear, when you care to have it so. When you wish to come back to Mallory you have only to let me know.” Then I heard her sigh softly to herself, perhaps because she recognized that I did not care. I thanked her and said I would write, and she replied:
“I think I shall know without telling.” An odd thing to say.
On the next evening, which was the last but one, we were sitting together in the half-light with the windows open, for although it was late October the weather was still warm. I was holding wool for Lady Heron to wind, and was so close in front of her and could clearly see her face, when, in the distance, and a mere thread of sound, but perfectly distinct, I heard the skirl of the pipes.
I do not think my hands trembled, held out stiffly with the skein, but hers did in the effort to wind. The thin, faint music came near, nearer, and then seemed to turn away. Not to the house; for all my cherished unbelief, I was thankful that it was not coming to the house.
Lady Heron had dropped her ball of wool, and now stooped to regain it.
“We will not wind any more now, my dear,” she said. “I am obliged to you, but I shall have enough.” And then she crossed the room and rang the bell, a hanging bell-pull, old-fashioned like all else at Mallory. Peters came quickly; was it only my fancy that he looked disturbed.
“We will have the windows closed now and the lamp lit.” Such was her commonplace order. I heard no more of the pipes that night, but next morning came the news that John Frazer, the tenant of the Mill, had passed away.
It was no doubt a coincidence, nothing more, but we may put it down as an odd one. That was the day before yesterday. I left early yesterday morning, Peters going with me as far as Edinburgh, and I have been busy writing, writing, all these hours in the train. What a packet you will have to wade through!
Chapter III
You have been good, dear Margaret, in liking my letters about the hospital work, although while I was so busy they could only be scraps. (And, what was worse, I am afraid my letters to poor old Jack in the trenches were scrappy too. Ungrateful, perhaps, for I have lived all this while on his scraps to me.)
But to go back to the hospital. You will be surprised to hear that I have had to give up my work there, which is a great disappointment. But everything has been horrid of late. I am alone in the flat. The beginning of the upset was that Violet turned horrid; wasn’t it nasty of her, when we had been such chums? I told you about Captain Bridgwater, who used to come to see us after he left the hospital; he was cousin to some of Violet’s people, and an old schoolfellow of Jack’s. It seemed right and natural to be friends, as that was so I liked him in the beginning—really I liked him very much, and was pleased when he showed that he liked me. But Violet liked him in a different way, and expected a flirtation they had begun years before to have a serious meaning; she declares it would have meant something serious if it had not been for me. So we had a quarrel, and she said dreadful things, and I was indignant, as I had a right to be, and was not sorry when she packed her boxes and gave up her share of the flat, leaving me alone.
I was not sorry, but I was shaken by it, and it so happened that when Captain Bridgwater came in he found me crying. Then he was horrid, too, and said things—things that at first I did not understand, and that he had no business to say to Jack’s wife, he who had been Jack’s friend. I shall never speak to him again, you may be sure.
After this I went to the hospital, to my work as usual, but I did not feel a bit like myself. I had a fainting fit for the first time in my life, and they were a long while in bringing me to. Afterwards the doctor told me I should have to give up V.A.D.-ing. I am not strong enough.
I am wondering what I ought to do. Jack would not like me being here by myself. He only consented to the plan because Violet was joining me, and I do not know of anybody else. But nothing on earth will induce me to go back to Aunt Winifred.
* * * *
I was interrupted there, and now where do you think I am continuing my letter? I am writing in the train, the Scotch express, and I am on my way to Mallory. There is a surprise for you, and a surprise for me, but I begin to think it is the best solution of the difficulty that could have been found. Lady Heron sent for me, and the queer thing is how she could have known or guessed. I begin to think my mother-in-law must be a bit of a witch.
Where I broke off above was when the servant came in to say a man named Peters had called and had brought a letter. It was a kind letter, so kind a letter that it made me cry, though that is saying little, as tears have been close to my eyes of late. The rigors of winter were past, Lady Heron wrote; the days were already lengthening into spring; a visit would give her the utmost pleasure, and she fancied it might now suit me to come to her again. Peters was her messenger instead of the post, and if I were willing Peters would arrange my journey, and spare me all trouble about it, as indeed he has done. And it was not necessary for me to write. Peters would send her a wire, and a warm welcome would await me.
So here I am travelling North. And I think you will agree it has been a wise decision, and one that will please Jack as things are. I shall post this to you in Edinburgh, my dear, and write again from Mallory.
Chapter IV
Really, Margaret, I am happy to be here, much happier than I was before. Lady Heron is so kind, and I think we understand each other better than we did. I have a lovely room on the south side of the house, and the air is far milder than you would suppose. We never say anything about the pipes, but I fancy they must have been heard twice at least while I was in London, because two more of the Frazers have fallen; sons of the people at the farm; and another of the clan name died in hospital the week before my return.
Alas! We have heard the pipes again, and I will tell you how. They came at the edge of dusk, not what they call here the murk of the night, but while there was still light enough to see, had there been bodily presence to be seen.
Lady Heron likes me to play to her, and I was sitting at the piano, recollecting old airs, and sometimes crooning a bit of song half to myself, when it seemed as if my music had an echo outside the house. My fingers fell from the keys, and in another moment I was sure what it was, and where.
It came with a sweep, swiftly, devouring space, heard afar, and then immediately close, passing our window, which looked out upon nothing—nothing, not a shadow even, nor the print of a foot. The wild pibroch passed by, but it went circli
ng round the house, and, oh, it was coming back? We both sprang up and met in a close clasp together, each of us calling the other by name. “Mother!” I cried to her—the first time I have called her so, but it seemed rent from me without thought. It passed the second time, and now there was a cry with it, like a human voice in pain, and again it went circling through the air which had been still, but was rising with a gust of storm.
Twice for the heir! That was what the old man Steenson said, and, oh, me! Jack was the heir. There was a pause of seconds, and then it passed for the third time, the pibroch and the shriek. Afterwards there was a great silence. The wind which had swept with it fell also—if it were wind indeed; and we two women drew apart and looked at each other. Her face was ghastly, and I expect mine was no better.
“Cecily,” she said, “you know!” And then, “Who told you?”
Soon afterwards Peters came in to light the lamps, and the old servant’s hands so trembled as he performed his task that the glasses clashed and clattered—he who was usually noiseless. He, too, had heard; of that I made no doubt; he had heard even as we.
It was the sign for the head of the house. Lady Heron heard it just so before her husband died. There was some small comfort to us both in the belief that it came for Heron and not Jack. But that comfort did not last. The telegram from the War Office came two days after—“Wounded and missing, believed killed”—the intimation to Lady Heron about both her sons, Lieut.-Colonel Lord Heron, and Captain the Hon. John Frazer; not one alone, but both.
I cannot write about that time. A chink was left to us through which hope came, but one could hardly look at it in face of the awful doubt. And the sign for the head of the house would stand also for Jack, provided Heron had been the first to fall.