“Oh!” said the lady. “Your mother preferred America?”
“Well,” said Rose, lifting her eyes honestly to the lady’s face, “you see, Mother had been sort of alienated from her people because of her marrying Father. They are all dead now but her sister and brother-in-law. But the sister was older, and sided with them all. They didn’t want Mother to marry Father, because he wasn’t rich. They had in mind a wealthy lord who owned a castle and was very influential. He wanted to marry my mother, but she didn’t love him. She loved my father. So when he was graduated she went to commencement, and they were married and went right to America. Her family never forgave her. At least, they were very angry. You see, they had been wealthy people and highly connected, and they felt it was a disgrace to marry just a poor student who had no great prospect of rising in the world.”
“Oh, yes, I remember hearing about that,” said the lady. “Poor mistaken people! And your father was worth being indignant about it, for the Galbraith family were wonderful people, fine and cultured, and truly royal in their character. Your father wrote some notable things before he died. I remember reading them. I have some of his writings now. I know they were very highly spoken of, and brought him honorable mention from his university more than once. But my dear, I’m so glad I have found you! And now, what are your plans? Are you going straight to your Uncle John’s to see your grandmother? Or do you stop in Edinburgh to see your other relatives?”
“I must,” said Rose, with downcast glance. “Mother wished it. She wanted her only sister to see me. She said we owed that to Father, too. And of course, after the years went by, they sort of forgave her, and wrote to her occasionally. Sometimes they sent her useless presents, things that seemed to mock our comparative poverty. And yet her sister, after Father died, seemed to yearn for her, and at last Mother gave in and wrote that we would come. But Mother didn’t live to get there. And sometimes when I think about it, I wonder if it wasn’t easier for her after all. Of course, her own mother and father were dead, long ago. They had been very hard on Mother. They were proud and domineering, and they died without ever coming over to see her or saying they were sorry she had been so treated, though Mother had often written loving letters and begged them to get over it and love my father. Their only answer was to write and offer to adopt me! But of course neither Mother nor Father would have that. And I think my aunt sided with them, largely. Naturally I don’t anticipate my visit there with joy, and I shall get it over with as soon as possible, I think.”
“Yes,” said the sweet Scotch woman, “they were a hard people and very proud. I knew them but slightly myself, but they were so known in the city. They couldn’t brook the thought that their daughter had married a poor man when she might have lived in a castle. It all comes back to me now. But my dear, it is right, I suppose, that you go to them for a visit at least.”
“Yes, I shall have to go,” sighed Rose. “I think I’ll stop there first a few days and then go on to Grandmother.”
They sat there talking a long time, till the sun began to dip in the western water and the sea to put on its holy, jeweled look. And then suddenly they remembered it was time to be getting ready for dinner. Rose went to her stateroom with the memory of a soft clinging hand when they parted and a gentle tender word in her ears.
“I’m so glad we have found each other!”
“And oh, so am I!” responded Rose, with a long drawn breath of relief.
“And I hope you will come and sit with me a little while this evening,” said her new friend. “We have a great deal more to talk about.”
So Rose went to her own table that night with a pleasant thought for the evening that was to follow the meal and with a good excuse to offer if Harry Coster tried to monopolize her again.
But how they did stare, especially Mrs. Adams, when the gracious lady appeared behind Rose’s chair before she had finished dinner and spoke a few low words in her ear, then with a smile went slowly on.
“Well,” said Mrs. Adams in a tone that could be easily heard over the table, “you certainly are flying high! I didn’t know you knew her.”
“Yes,” said Rose sweetly, “she’s an old friend of my aunt’s.”
“Oh, really?” said Mrs. Adams. “On which side? Father or mother?”
“Oh, she’s a friend of the whole family, you know.”
“Well, I thought you were sort of superior,” said Lily Blake. “Now I see you had some reason.”
“Superior?” said Rose, puzzled. “What reason could I have to be superior?”
“Why, because it isn’t everybody who knows Lady Campbell intimately, of course. I heard somebody say today that Lady Campbell was so high up in society she was almost royalty.”
Rose tried not to show her surprise. So her friend was Lady Campbell! Not just plain “Mrs.” “But why should I be superior? Knowing her doesn’t make me royalty, surely!” She laughed.
“Now,” said Harry Coster with his scornful grin, “don’t pretend you don’t know why. You can’t put that over on us. I say, how about giving us an introduction? I wouldn’t mind knowing some near-royalties myself. It might come in handy sometime.”
They did a good deal of kidding and laughing, but Rose could see that they looked at her with a trifle more respect than they had done, and when Harry Coster gave his evening invitation to her to go and dance a while, he only bowed low when she said, “No thank you,” and stared after her thoughtfully, instead of arguing with her about it.
So the days grew to be pleasant ones, with such a friend as Lady Campbell to sit beside her occasionally, and sometimes to invite her up to have dinner with her. She was a friend who could advise her and was wise about things of the journey that she needed to know.
It was pleasant, too, to have Lady Campbell invite her for a visit in her own home. Rose began to look forward to her stay in Scotland with a possibility of pleasure. For her mother’s sake if not for her own, she wanted to enjoy it and see the beautiful things and places and people her mother had loved. So the approaching end of her voyage did not cause her as much anxiety as it had before she knew Lady Campbell.
One night, when Rose crept into bed and lay there listening to the beating of the waves and thinking about her pilgrimage, she reflected that Lady Campbell was another person like Gordon McCarroll, a person with a heart of gold and a life full of love and helpfulness. There were all kinds of people in the world. Some were one kind and some another, and you had to meet all kinds and adjust yourself to each, but there was only one kind that you could take to your heart truly, and admire, and fellowship with. Was it perhaps because they loved the Lord? She would have to think about that. She would have to know people better before she found out how much a knowledge of God helped to make them the right kind.
Then she fell asleep with a smile on her lips.
Chapter 5
Back in New York Gordon McCarroll had not forgotten the girl whom he had helped to speed on her way, who was now out upon the wide ocean. He thought of her often, especially at night when he was alone in his room. He wondered a great deal about her. How was it that he had not known her well, at least as well as he knew the rest of his schoolmates? He had a strong feeling that she was more worthwhile than any of the others.
He had always known that scholastically she was above the rest. She was more of a scholar, or else she was a patient plodder. He had never troubled to find out which. But now, strangely enough, those few minutes he had spent with her on shipboard had made him feel that she not only had a superior intellect but that she had character, and that she was sweet and original.
Not that he deliberately set to work to analyze these thoughts at first. They came gradually to him like a pleasant revelation, and it was then he wondered at himself that he had not somehow discovered this before. Why had he never noticed her before?
What had there been about her on shipboard that was different?
For one thing, she seemed prettier. He had never thought of her a
s being pretty or stylish. But now she seemed very lovely, garbed quite as other girls of her age.
Then suddenly he remembered that he had noticed once before how pretty she was. That had been at commencement. She had been wearing white, like all the others, but something filmy and soft, and her young face had shone out from among the others like a star. He remembered looking at her several times that night and wondering about it. And then, of course, had come vacation days, and he hadn’t seen her anymore till he found her on that boat, with blue eyes like the blue garments she was wearing.
He scoffed at himself for thinking such thoughts. When had he ever noticed clothes, or taken account of them as a measure by which to judge a girl? Probably, though, clothes did count for something in the general appearance of a person, and not everybody could afford lovely garments. As he remembered the Rose Galbraith of school days, she had always been extremely clean and neat and tidy and almost tailored, if one could use that description for garments that sometimes were quite faded, worn almost shiny. Poor little girl! She had probably come from a plain home where money was scarce. And now her mother was gone, and her father too perhaps, because she had said she was alone.
And when he thought about it, he was glad he had kissed her. The touch of her lips seemed still to be upon his own, and a strange thrilling wonder lingered, too, whenever he brought her flower-like face to mind.
He was glad he had happened to pass the flower shop on his way from the ship, glad that he could snatch time to give his order and scribble those few words on the card. It warmed his heart to think he could have that much touch with her. And now, he positively must put her out of his thoughts. He never had a girl entangle herself in his mind this way. And she had not tried to do it. She was just a lonely child, genuinely glad to see a face she could recognize. No, she was never a girl who would set herself to attract a young man’s attention. She had always kept so utterly in the background in school. Strange that he should be so interested in her now, after just those few minutes. That he should so long to do something more for her. He felt he would like to give her another word of cheer as she went on her way. That was impossible, of course. Just because he had kissed a girl good-bye didn’t mean he must follow her all across the ocean and cheer her up. He couldn’t yet understand why he had kissed her. It had been so sudden! But it had been wonderful, the sweetest thing he ever remembered. Well, he could write to her later, though he didn’t feel that she had given him a complete address. He could send her a book or two he thought she would enjoy. That would be perfectly legitimate, without seeming to be rushing her. He must keep steady.
Yet the wish to have another contact with her continued, and toward the end of the week it occurred to him that he could send her a radio message.
He called himself all sorts of names as he turned the idea over in his mind, but in the end the thought appealed to him more and more, until at last one night he resolved to do it. It certainly couldn’t do any harm, and if he worded it casually, it wouldn’t seem ridiculous. She wasn’t a girl with whom one would take liberties of attention. So he gave careful thought to the wording of his message and at last sent it off.
Dear Rose:
Hope you have a pleasant voyage. Best wishes for a happy arrival among your friends. Be sure to send me your full address as soon as you are located. I want to send you a book I think you will enjoy. Hope everything is fine.
Your friend,
Gordon
That message was brought to Rose late Saturday night after she had been asleep for two hours. It filled her with a new contentment. It made her feel that she had one friend who meant to be not a mere casual acquaintance, but a good friend that might last through the years. Such a friendship could be as fresh and pleasant after time had rolled along as when they were just children in school, a friendship of two people who liked the same things, who would enjoy talking and reading about the same subjects. It made life an entirely different thing to Rose, as if she had happy, wholesome contacts like other girls, and was not absolutely alone in the world. Well, anyway, however she reasoned it out, she felt happier, and didn’t quite dread the new scenes and relatives as much as she had. Someone away back across the water was thinking of her now and then and wishing her well, and someday, if she ever met him again, she would remind him of how he had said she would make friends on the voyage, and she would tell him about Lady Campbell and how lovely she was.
Lady Campbell was very kind and helpful at the end of the voyage. She saw to it that all the details of landing were made clear and comfortable for Rose, and that she was put on the train that would take her the short journey to where her mother’s people had promised to meet her.
But before they parted Lady Campbell made definite plans for Rose to visit her, making sure of both the addresses where she expected to be. She kissed her good-bye, calling her a dear little girl, and said she was so glad she had found her. She warmed Rose’s heart and kept away the tremor of half fright at the thought of meeting the new relatives.
Rose wasn’t anticipating any pleasure in this visit. It was going to be hard for her to like the people who had treated her mother so cruelly, on account of her wonderful father. Probably it was right that she should be willing to forgive them, but it seemed impossible. She couldn’t help resenting them for her father’s sake. And they hadn’t even known him! She meant to get through this visit as soon as possible and get on to her father’s family, who had been so lovely always to her mother that she felt as if they were more her relatives than the others.
The way along which the train sped was most interesting. New scenes, lovely lakes, vegetation, flowers, and wide expanses of heather. How lovely it all was!
And the enchanting little villages, Scotch and quaint; and there—she caught her breath—was a tall old craggy castle!
Just then the train stopped at the station where she was to get out, and she arose in fear and trembling to gather up her belongings. There was the tall old castle on the hill not far away, and she was glad for that. Perhaps it would be within walking distance and she could go near and study it. She had always wanted to see a real castle. There was a foreign-looking car drawn up at the station, and a man in livery standing by it.
“Are ye gaen tae lady Warloch’s?” he asked cautiously.
Rose hesitated, then realized that that would be her aunt, of course. Mother had always spoken of her as Aunt Janet, but her name was Warloch. Janet Warloch. And Mother, if she had stayed here, would have been called Lady Margaret. Well, her mother was a lady, that was right, but it would have to be proved to her that her sister Janet, who had treated her own sister so contemptibly, was a real lady also. But Mother wouldn’t like such thoughts, and she must stop it.
She got into the car and the drive began, through the lovely town out into the countryside, where charming vine-clad cottages nestled among the trees by the roadside. Then up, up, winding about a hill, with always that castle above and a little beyond. Perhaps they were going to pass it. Wouldn’t that be wonderful!
At last she summoned courage to ask a question.
“Is the castle a private dwelling, or some public building?” she asked timidly.
The old Scot looked back at her and raised his bushy eyebrows.
“Thot’ll be Warloch cossel,” he said cryptically. “We’ll be soon thur the noo!”
“Oh!” said Rose, awestruck, almost speechless. Of course! Mother had always addressed her letters to Warloch Castle. But would she be able to live up to life in a castle?
The car swept around the drive, and up, until they circled the castle itself and came to a standstill before a great entrance. Another servant, also in livery, opened the front door and stood at the top of the stone steps. Back in the shadow of the doorway she could see a lady standing, tall and quite angular and haughty. Her hair was white, and although there was a slight family resemblance to Rose’s mother, it was not a pleasant one. She had a firm, determined mouth and a disagreeable, determined t
ilt to her chin. But there was so much shadow up there inside the hall that Rose decided perhaps it was only her prejudice that made her think that. There was a tall elderly gentleman standing just back of her, with an arrogant lift to his head. Oh, she was quite sure she was not going to enjoy this part of her visit. She wondered how it would have been if her dear mother had been with her. Would she have enjoyed getting back to her people, such people as these were? Could one love even one’s own when they had done a thing such as these had done?
These thoughts raced through Rose’s mind as she went slowly up the steps and stood finally in the dark hall, facing the cold-eyed woman in stately garments. Then her mind went back to the gentle words of her mother, how she had instructed her to be entirely natural with these people, to forget all she had heard about them, and to remember that Aunt Janet used to be very dear to her mother when she was a child. Determinedly she took a deep breath and summoned a smile and a little cheery voice which was far from being her own natural one, and asked sweetly, “Is this my Aunt Janet?” and then thought too late that perhaps her aunt wouldn’t want to claim her as a niece and added: “I mean, is this my mother’s sister Janet?’
“It is!” said the lady icily. “Will you come in?”
But suddenly, because there came a quick rush of memory that if her dear mother were here there would surely be a warmer greeting, impulsively Rose put her arms about the tall repellent woman and laid a soft little kiss on her cold lips.
The amazed woman returned the unexpected salute with a cold semblance of a peck on Rose’s pretty cheek, stepped back with a motion of rebuff as if to forbid further demonstrations, and turned toward the gentleman.
Rose Galbraith Page 6