She slid into her room and fastened the door behind her. Then she leaned back against it, her hand on her heart, and breathed hard, partly from the speed with which she had flown up those last few stairs, but mainly from the horror she felt at the conversation she had overheard.
Her uncle was actually bargaining to sell her in marriage!
Had this uncle had anything to do with that other proposed marriage of her dear mother, from which the bride had flown so suddenly? She tried to think, to remember what her mother had said. Yes, her mother’s sister had been married then, and it must have been this uncle who was at the bottom of all that trouble. What an old miser he must be! Or else he was now learning from that past idea to try the experiment again and feather his own nest in the same way that probably had been planned by the grandfather years ago.
Well, inadvertently perhaps, she had helped to further his plans by saying her father had left her money, without telling how very little it was beside the fortune they were figuring on. But of course her uncle had no right to ask such questions, and she simply could not discuss with him what her father had done. She had not intended to give him ground for supposing she had a large fortune; whatever conclusions he had drawn were of his own creation. And now, short of telling him just what her father had left her, the only thing that seemed left to do was to clear out of the neighborhood as soon as possible, which very well accorded with her own desires. The only things she would be sorry to leave would be that wonderful picture of her mother and that darling piano. Was it conceivable that sometime they would let her buy them? Why, she would feel justified in taking that money her father had saved for her in order to get possession of those. But of course that wasn’t the thing to think about now. She must somehow get away from here just as soon as possible. And how could that be managed?
Just staying around and saying no to this possible would-be suitor wouldn’t be enough. Her mother’s experience had shown that. If this young man were anything like his determined father, it wouldn’t be worth the breath she used to say no. Her mother just escaped imprisonment in her own home, with an alternative of kidnapping or something like that if home imprisonment failed. But she had acted quickly and gone away with her lover far out of their reach. And Rose must be watchful now. Of course, as yet, her uncle and aunt did not know that she was aware of any of their plans in the matter. She should be out and away before they had time to say anything about it to her.
Tomorrow was Sunday. Would they go to church? Could she get away while they were gone? No, she couldn’t carry both her suitcases down the mountain alone. There would be no taxis, no way to get hold of them. Should she risk losing her clothes that her dear mother had prepared so carefully for her? No, she mustn’t do that. The whole family had been so ugly to her mother when she spoiled their plans, they would in all probability keep her suitcases just to annoy her. No, she must plan a better way. It wasn’t likely that the uncle and his guest could do anything much immediately. It would be better to wait till Monday, and perhaps a way would open for her to get away without exciting more antagonism. She mustn’t lose her head. Just because she had overheard plans that made her very angry and just a little frightened, she mustn’t go and make a mess in her affairs that she would have to live down afterward. She’d come over here at her mother’s bidding, to try and make peace where disagreement had reigned. Aunt Janet was her mother’s sister, and they used to be dear to one another. She remembered the tears which had flowed down Aunt Janet’s cheeks while she was playing. Perhaps Aunt Janet had wanted to be friends with Mother long ago and somebody wouldn’t let her, perhaps the hard, cold, old uncle!
She crept, shivering, into the big bed, put out the candle and lay there, feeling very small and alone in the great castle. Castles were interesting and beautiful, but when one was all alone in an alien and unloving group of relatives, castles were dreary places to be.
She lay there trying to think how she could get ready to go at a moment’s notice. It wouldn’t do to pack up everything, because that woman Maggie would come up and look around, maybe think she had to make the bed and tidy up the room for her. Well, she could do that herself before she went down to breakfast. But she must leave a few things hanging in the closet so it would not be noticed that she had packed, not until just as she was ready to leave. She must be very wary. If she only could get word to her grandmother and her Uncle John Galbraith to summon her at once so she would have an excuse to clear out Monday morning in a perfectly natural way. She did not wish to continue the ill feeling that had embittered her dear mother’s life. Still, she knew her mother would never want her to compromise the matter so that she would be in danger of being married to the son of the man she herself had spurned.
“Oh, Lord, please fix it for me in the right way!” she murmured as she drifted wearily off to sleep. It had been a long exciting day and she was so tired!
Chapter 8
The Galbraith cottage was low and thatched and smothered in vines that dripped from the gables and encroached upon the small-paned windows. It was hidden behind a tall hedge where daisies nestled and ferns grew sturdily. At the back the ground sloped away to meadows and wilder rolling land where heather bloomed in abundance and a little brook twinkled with a bright sparkle on sunny days, and even sang when it rained.
There were many rooms inside the cottage, wide and low, and broad low winding stairs in the wall. In the main room—it was built before the days of “living rooms,” though they were all lived in a-plenty—there was a deep stone fireplace reaching up to the ceiling, large enough to step inside and sit if one desired. There were lovely old rag rugs strewn about on the firm old floor where they seemed fitted to their places on the wide warped planks pegged in place many many years before. It might have been the original setting for Burns’s “The Cotter’s Saturday Night.” Even the big family Bible was there on a low shelf, where Grandmother Galbraith could reach it from her big old rocker near one side of the hearth.
Always there was a fire of logs laid on that hearth and a kettle hung ready for any time it might be required. This was the kettle that old Grandfather John Galbraith had hung for his bride the night of their wedding day so long ago. It was honored with a place above the hearth, for John’s wife was a Scotch lassie herself and liked it. She loved Grandmother and liked to keep her setting as perfect as it had always been. Old John Galbraith’s body had been lying in its grave many years now, but his spirit seemed ever near to Grandmother.
Though the cottage had been updated, with a regular kitchen, wide and convenient for “Johnnie’s wife,” still Grandmother liked her kettle near to brew a cup of tea for her friends when they came in, just as she used to do in her own home when she was first a bride.
There were bedrooms at either end of the big downstairs room, big airy affairs, with ruffled muslin curtains at the windows and old furniture, much of which had been made in Grandmother’s young days, by men she knew. A four-poster with a real featherbed—that was Grandmother’s bed, and a dresser and washstand to match. Chairs of the same old mellow wood, and a tiny rocking chair that had belonged to her little girl, Rose. Rose, who had married long ago, married a good man, thank God, but they had gone far away to another country. Grandmother cherished the little chair. Sometimes she sat by the fire in her big old winged chair and stared into the brightness of the burning logs. Then she could see quite clearly her little girl, who used to rock in that little chair. Looking up from some small task of sewing stitches into a block of patchwork, she would smile at her mother and say, “You and me!” And now she was so far away! Would she ever come back? It seemed so many years!
Her little Rose’s children had been boys, sturdy little boys who wouldn’t want a rocking chair, so she had kept the little chair in her own room, because it somehow seemed to bring her little girl nearer to her, her little Rose.
But there was another little Rose, now, a granddaughter, the child of her son Gilbert. Gilbert had been very dear, and Grandmother had loved his wife
Margaret, too, perhaps the more because her own people had turned against her for marrying Gilbert. Just because he was poor and had no lordly title! Margaret’s mother must have been very proud and haughty. But Margaret and Gilbert had gone away to America and their little Rose, named after her own lost Rose, had been born in America. She had never seen the second Rose, but a letter had come saying Margaret and Rose were coming to see her. But then Margaret had died. Gone home, where Gilbert had gone several years before. And now Grandmother thought about that dear young Rose, who was alone and was coming to see her some day. She thought more and more about her as the days went by and the time was drawing near for her to arrive. Sometimes she sighed when she thought about it. She wanted to see the second Rose so much.
It occurred to her that perhaps she might not see her after all. She was getting old, and perhaps her call would come before Rose got here. Sometimes at the thought a tear would steal out down her withered cheek and drop softly on her folded hands. Then she would rouse and take her knitting from the little stand drawer by her side and begin to knit quickly. She mustn’t give way to tears. She had never done so. She mustn’t get childish and do it now.
Grandmother came slowly out of her own bedroom where she had been taking an afternoon nap and went and sat down in her big chair by the fire. It was a spring day, but there was a little fire, for the air was brisk. She liked a fire.
But a nap was something Grandmother didn’t approve of. Why should one waste time like that? She had all John’s stockings to knit for next winter, and stockings for the boys! They all seemed to think that nobody could knit such good socks as Grandmother. Why, even those expensive ones that came from the London shops weren’t nearly as soft as Grandmother’s, and didn’t wear half as well.
Grandmother was knitting hard when John came in from his day’s work at the office. Her needles were flashing in and out with quick bright clicks. Jessie, John’s wife, had just come in from the kitchen, “coom ben the hoose” Grandmother called it, and stirred up the fire. The dancing flicker of the flames glanced over Grandmother’s needles with a pretty bright rhythm, like soft music.
John hung up his cap in the little entryway by the front door and came over to his mother, stooping to put a gentle kiss on her soft cheek.
“Weel, Mither,” he said in his kindly tone, “hoo air ye feelin’?” The family usually talked to Grandmother in the old Scotch dialect. She liked it. She said it made her feel “mair’t’hame.”
Kirsty came in, John’s child. She had dark clinging curls about her roseleaf face and deep natural roses in her cheeks. Her eyes were bright like stars and she brought the breath of the flowers in with her when she came. She, too, kissed her grandmother. She was a dear child, but she did not look like the little Rose, nor remind her grandmother of the little rocking chair. She had been allowed to sit in the chair as a small child, but it had never been given to her, and she quickly grew out of it anyway. Kirsty looked more like her mother, Jessie, John’s wife, who was a strong wholesome woman, though gentle in spite of her energy.
Kirsty hurried down presently with a pink cotton dress on and a little white ruffled apron. She pulled out the big table at the far end of the large room, opened up the leaves, and spread a clean linen tablecloth on it. She got fine old sprigged china dishes out of the corner cupboard and began to set the table. Then with brisk steps she went out into the kitchen and brought in a plate of bread, the butter, the pitcher of water fresh from the deep well, and a pitcher of milk from a neighbor’s cow. Then Jessie came in with a covered dish of some hot vegetable and then a great platter of Scotch stew. Its odor filled the big room with cheer, and John put down his paper and went over to his mother.
“Mither, will ye set by the noo?” he asked, and reached down to help her rise, guiding her to the table.
Then the door opened and John’s two big boys, Donald and David, hurried in, tossing their caps to their respective hooks and calling greetings to Grandmother as they passed, dropping quick brusque kisses on her cheek. They hurried up to their room above and could be heard splashing in the washbowl hastily. They soon appeared with fresh faces and wet hair scantily brushed and took their seats just as their father bowed his head for the blessing.
It was a cheery, happy table, full of love and good fellowship, the grandmother being a part of it all, not just tolerated.
The tasty stew was all demolished, every crumb of the scones gone, even the second lot hot from the oven, and they were lingering over the “sweetie” as Jessie called her delicate pudding dessert.
“Well, say, when’s that American cousin of ours coming, I’d like to know?” questioned Donald as he held out his dish for a second helping of pudding.
“Oh, no telling!” said David bluntly. “She stopped off at the high and mighty relations first, and if they find out she’s coming here, they’ll put an end to that! They’ll never hear to having her come to us.”
Kirsty flashed him a warning look.
“That’s silly!” she said sharply. “You know she said she’d stop off in Edinburgh first and get that off her conscience and then she could have a really nice visit with us! You know she’ll be here as soon as possible!” She gave a glance at Grandmother and saw a faint shadow of quick understanding dawning in her eyes.
“Well,” said Donald, with his eyes on his dessert, “she hadn’t been there yet. She didn’t know what she was up against. Those Warlochs are a determined lot, and they still hate the Galbraiths, or I’m missing my guess! You can’t tell if she’ll even get here at all!” Donald hadn’t seen Kirsty’s warning look toward Grandmother. The only word that could bring a bitter look to the face of a Galbraith was “Warloch,” because the Warlochs had let their beloved Gilbert go down to his death without reconciliation.
“Don!” came the reprimand from the gentle Jessie as sharply as Jessie’s sweet voice could ever speak.
Donald looked up and saw his mother’s warning glance toward Grandmother.
“A’ was no meanin’ that, Mither,” he said. And then with a loving smile toward his grandmother he added, “She’ll soon be comin’ the noo, won’t she, Grandmother?”
The old lady looked at him lovingly, but her eyes bore the troubled hurt, and her smile was very faint. She didn’t finish her pudding, but sat back with her hands in her lap and the shadow growing about her eyes. Before she knew it she had heaved a very heavy sigh, right out there before them all! She was usually very careful about not sighing when they were all there. They were a family who watched carefully, each not to trouble the rest more than necessary.
“Now, Grandmither, none of that!” broke out Donald. “It was naethin’ but a bit jooke I was makin’. She’ll be coomin’ the noo, verra soon, I’m thinkin’. Dinna ye fret.”
“I’m no frettin’, Donnie,” said the old lady in a small tired voice. “I was only thinkin’, gin it might be a’m nae tae see her on this side. Gin it’s tae be lang a’micht be called awa’ afore she cooms. But it’s a’ richt, laddie. Ye’ll juist tell her a’ve slippit awa’, an’ a’ll be watchin’ for her on the heavenly shore along wi’ her grandfeyther, an’ her feyther. An’ thast a’ luve her!”
The boy Donald brushed a tear from his clear young eye and made out to smile.
“Oh, Grandmither, ye maunna talk that wy. She wants to see ye the noo. She’s lost her feyther an’ her mither, an’ she’s come awa’ acrost the sea tae see her grandmither, an’ yir no tae gang awa’ till she sees ye. Mind that, Grandmither! Yir no tae think o’ it even. It’s agin the Lord’s wy. He’ll na be callin’ ye yet, not afore she cooms.”
“Of course!” said Kirsty briskly. “It wudna be richt!”
“Dinna ye feel well, Mither?” asked Jessie anxiously.
“Wud ye like me tae ca’ the doctor, Mither?” asked John with concern.
“Na, na,” said the old lady with sudden brisk determination. “A’ll be a’ richt! Nae fear aboot me! Kirsty, bring me the silver tae dry. A’ like tae hev some pa
irt in the worruk of the day. A’ get sair weary of juist sittin’ tae knit.”
Kirsty hastened with the silver and brought it on a towel-lined platter to the table with a big clean towel, and the old lady dried each piece slowly, happily, while Kirsty and Jessie cleared off the rest of the table.
John went back to his evening paper, sitting at one side of the fire. David went out to get more logs, for the evening was cool and Grandmother must not feel chilly, but Donald went over to the old desk between two windows and wrote a letter to Rose.
Dear Cousin Rose,
I don’t want to spoil your plans if you are having a good time, but if you could see your way clear to come to us right away it would be a good thing for Grandmother.
You see, she feels she has been watching and waiting for you a long time, and as the days go by she gets more and more excited about your coming, wondering if you’ll come today, or how long it will be.
She isn’t exactly sick, she’s up and around. But you know Grandmother is very frail, and she’s getting old.
If you can’t get away from Edinburgh soon, perhaps you’ll write her a bit of a letter, and say when you are coming.
But if you can come soon, let me know and I’ll meet your train and we’ll spring a surprise on her.
Your loving cousin,
Donald Galbraith
“Come on, Davie,” he said as he sealed his letter, “walk doon tae the village wi’ me.”
“Oh, are you going out?” asked John, looking up from his paper. “Suppose you stop till we have family worship. You might be late coming in and Grandmother will want to be going to bed.”
“No, Father, we’ll be right back,” said Donald. “I’m just going down to mail a letter—some little business I wanted to have go off in the early post.”
By the time Grandmother finished drying the silver, Kirsty had the dishes washed and put in the cupboard and the table let down and shoved back in its place against the wall, and Jessie had finished setting the bread and left it tucked up under its linen and bit of blanket in its warm corner against the chimney. They came in and sat down just as the boys returned. David handed his father the big Bible from Grandmother’s shelf, and they all settled for the bit of the holy Word and the tender trustful prayer that followed. Especially did their hearts swell as the father prayed for his mother so tenderly, asking that the Lord would give her strength to go through her days to the end and not be discouraged by the way, praying for the as yet unknown grandchild who was supposedly on her way to see them soon. Everyone kneeling there in that circle near the beloved grandmother was echoing that prayer in his heart, that nothing should happen to her before the expected Rose should come.
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