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.”
She lifted one frail hand and waved them away then dropped back on her pillow, closed her eyes, and turned her face quite away from them.
It was her son John Galbraith who touched the image Lord Warloch had become, and whispered, “She na sae althegither there at a’ times,” he explained sadly. “Times she wearies for her ither lassie Rose who married and went to Australia. It was for that reason we wanted the other Rose to come and help to comfort her. And she has indeed done much to help.”
But Lord Warloch marched along with a grim bow of his head, as if he were at a funeral and one of the pallbearers had spoken to him. He stalked straight through the big room looking at nothing, and over to the open door, a half-frightened look in his eyes, darting a quick backward glance now and then as if something terrifying were following him.
“Won’t ye sit doon an’ have a coop o’ tea wi’ us?” came Jessie Galbraith’s sweet voice. “It’s a’ ready the noo. Kirsty, bring the tray. Sit ye doon, Lay Warloch!”
But Lady Warloch cast a frightened glance toward the lean stalking form of her husband as he stepped from the door and started down the path to the gate.
“Oh, no thank you,” she said in an undertone, as if she feared Lord Warloch might hear her. “We must go. We really must go. It’s a long drive back to Edinburgh.” She fairly scuttled from the door and down the walk, leaving no room about her for the gentle voice of Jessie Galbraith, who was trying to tell her how glad she was that they had come.
Tealess, the Warlochs climbed into their car and sped away without so much as taking time for the gesture of a farewell bow. Into the sunset they went, while David stood in the doorway looking after them and said aloud, “Well, I like that! They even forgot what they came for! They never said another worrud aboot takin’ Rose alang wi’ ’em. Grandmither’s worruds must hae gane deep!”
Lady Warloch sat with bowed head by her husband’s side with wet tears streaming down her face, and never an attempt to wipe them away. But the hard cold eyes of her husband did not even notice them. He was staring down at his feet like one accused.
They might have gone perhaps a mile out of the little town when Lady Warloch spoke.
“You know it was all your fault!” she said, and her tone was full accusation.
Lord Warloch turned his head and looked at her, and she saw his eyes looked frightened.
“What was all my fault?” he asked fiercely. There was threat in his voice and glance, but Lady Warloch was not noticing.
“It was all your fault that my father and mother turned so against my sister. It was you who told them that was the way to manage her. And then after she went away it was you who said she deserved her own punishment, and they must never forgive her nor take her back, or they would lose prestige in the county. You said that she would be sorry by and by and would come back and ask to be forgiven and taken back; that then they could have that common marriage annulled and marry her to Lord MacCallummore in the end. You said it would bring them great wealth. You knew my father was in distressful circumstances and that he would listen to such an argument.”
“What if I did?” asked the dour voice. “Your people might have had minds of their own, if they hadn’t known I was right. They didn’t have to do what I suggested.”
“But you said the Galbraiths were a low-down family, and you threatened not to marry me if we were connected with such common people. You were wrong! They are not common people!”
Lord Warloch was purple with rage. “I am never wrong,” he growled warningly.
But on went the steady, relentless voice of the woman who had not dared for years to speak her own mind. “You have seen today that you were wrong. Those are wonderful people, and my sweet little sister found it out, and you separated us from each other, and kept us separate all these years! It isn’t true that you are never wrong. You have been wrong all the way through. I could see that you believed it when the old lady told you. And it won’t be long now before we have to meet God, just as she said, and then what shall we do? You won’t dare tell God that you are always right!”
Lady Warloch was almost beside herself with hysteria. She had never so given way to her feelings before in her life. She had been brought up to reverence wealth and castles and her husband, but now suddenly they had failed her, and she was trembling.
“Be still!” thundered the hard old voice. “I am your husband, and I am in place of God to you, and I say be still! I am never wrong!”
Then he closed his tight old lips and they rode in utter silence all the way to Edinburgh.
Chapter 15
Grandmother Galbraith was very weak for several days after this visit of the Warlochs, and the family walked softly, not sure but the angel of death might be hovering near.
“It was a great strain for her to speak that way,” said Donald gravely. “She ought not to have done it. It wasna what you’d call courteous.”
“Na, I wudna say that, Donnie,” said his father. “Ye canna tell what the heavenly Feyther tellt her tae say. It was a’ true, an’ she hes had mony a year to con it o’ver in her hert. Who shall say the Lord Himsel’ didna gie her the verra worruds? It mayhap have been the Lord’s way o’ sendin’ Lord Warloch His message. Grandmither is on the borderland of anither worruld. A worrud frae her would na come sae ill as frae you or me. Didna ye see the lord’s ashen face as she spake? An’ he no took his eyes frae the face of her. We are no tae judge. But it went sair with my mither tae allo sic worruds tae pass her gentle lips. She ws e’ver sae sweet spoken.”
Around the fire that night at worship they felt the lingering shadow of death again, and prayed one by one that the beloved grandmother might be spared yet awhile in their midst.
Slowly she seemed to rally again and come back almost to normal. One day she came out among them of her own accord, with her old plaid about her shoulders, and sat d
own and smiled at them all.
But she never mentioned the recent visit of the Warlochs, and they never mentioned it to her. Perhaps they hoped that she did not remember it. Certainly it was locked behind her sealed pleasant lips. Though they did notice that her eyes sought all around the room, until Rose came in and sat down with a bit of sewing she was doing, and then her sweet smile bloomed out.
“The Lord be thanked that ye’re here yet, lassie. A’ was sair tribbled in a dream last nicht that ye had gane awa back tae thae castle.”
“Oh, no, Grandmother,” said Rose happily. “I like it here best, the way my own mother did. I love you all. Some day I may have to go back to America, but not until you’re quite well, Grandmother!”
The old lady smiled tenderly.
“My lassie! My ain wee lassie!” she murmured, and then they could see that it was the other Rose she was thinking of, the Rose who was so far away in Australia, and whose letters seemed to her so far apart. “My wee lassie Rose,” she said softly, “that used tae sit in her wee chair by my side an’ smile at me!”
But one day there came a letter from that other Rose saying that she was coming home at last to stay. Her husband had a promotion, and he was to represent his company in England. She wanted to know if there was room in the cottage for them all to come home and stay awhile, at least until they could look around and find a house for themselves.
And there was great rejoicing that day. Somehow the weakness of the old lady seemed suddenly to become strength, and she was awake more and about the house, doing this and that and the other thing until the boys had to bring her bodily from the kitchen and tell her that she must not do anymore, she must lie down and rest.
But how they did gather around the fire that night and talk it over and plan how they would stretch the dear wide house and make it big enough to gather in all the “bairns.”
“I don’t need a whole room to myself,” said Rose thoughtfully. “Can’t I go into that tiny room at the top of the stairs? Or did you need that for one of the children? What I really ought to do, of course, is to go back to the castle for a few days and then take a ship back to America and get at my teaching. But I would love to stay a few days just to see Aunt Rose, I’ve heard so much about her.”
“You dear lassie!” said Jessie, looking lovingly at her. “Ye’re na tae think of sic a thing. This hoose is plenty big for a’ the family, an’ we’d be sair disappointed tae hae ye gane when the ither Rose comes alang. Ye’re sae much alike we’re wearyin’ tae see ye tagither. An’ Grandmither, here, wud miss ye sair.”
And they all chimed in to assure her that she could not go.
“You’ll come and sleep with me, of course,” said Kirsty happily. “I’ve always wanted a sister and now I’ve got you. My room is wide and there is plenty of space!”
“But of coorse, gin yir hankerin’ for a gran’ castle,” broke in Grandmother with a twinkle, “we’ll na hold ya tae a cottage!”
“Oh, Grandmother! If you only knew how glad I was to get away from that ‘gran’ castle.’ It was just my mother’s portrait and her darling piano that kept me there as long as I stayed, but it would fill me with horror to go back. Oh, I’ll be only too glad to stay here and have all the fun of getting ready for Aunt Rose.”
So the very next morning, although it was yet many days before the Australians could be expected, the two girls began fixing up their room together.
“There’s na need for you to disturb yourself yet, dear,” said Jessie. “Better stay in the big room till juist before they coom.”
“Oh, but we want to,” cried Kirsty. “It’s going to be fun. Mither, I’ve cleared out one of my two cupboards, and Rose has her things hung there already, and we’re going to have grand times together.”
So they moved in together, for they had grown heart to heart already, and were happy in the change. And then they went at fixing up the guest room that had been Rose’s, getting it ready for Aunt Rose and Uncle Harry. They brought down a quaint little mahogany crib for the new baby of whose arrival they had just heard, and a third chair that Grandmother had been saving so carefully.
And while they were putting up the fresh curtains at the windows and arranging where the crib should stand, Grandmother came walking in and looked around a bit, her eyes growing dreamy and sweet. Then, suddenly on the alert, she said to Rose, “Come ye! Come wi’ me!”
She led Rose into her own room whose door always stood open wide except when she was asleep, and pointing to the little rocker, she said:
“Tak the wee chair in tae the room for the wee bairnie. A’ve been savin’ it ower lang. It’s time it was used, the noo. Praise God, her name’s Rose, too!”
So Rose carried the precious little chair into the room, and they all were bright and cheerful as they put the finishing touches to that room.
It was a very happy household, with Grandmother feeling daily more like herself and getting about slyly, managing to do things that she wasn’t allowed, just to feel herself a part of the general joy over the homecoming of her daughter and her family. It seemed wonderful to Rose to be in the midst of real happiness.
And then came another letter from Gordon McCarroll. Her heart gave a leap and sent the lovely color to her cheeks as the postman handed it to her at the door. It seemed to her that no handwriting had ever been so fine and clear and wonderful as the hand that Gordon wrote.
She slid it quickly inside her blouse and took the rest of the mail in to the family. Then slipping out the back door, she made her way to the little rustic seat the boys had made between two trees back in the shady part of the yard, and there she settled down to read her letter. He had written again! He seemed to like to write to her. That is, he hadn’t forgotten her.
It thrilled her inexpressibly, and there was a lovely look on her face as she read on. Jessie, from the pantry window where she was sifting flour for setting bread, caught a glimpse of her and smiled.
“Dear child!” she said to herself. “How happy she looks! Oh, I hope it’s not some silly sweetheart who is writing to her, making her uneasy to go back to America! She seems like our very own child! If Don and Davie did not each have a girl already I could think of no better wife for either one than this sweet Rose. But of course they’re cousins and it wouldn’t be good. But I do dread something unpleasant that may be coming for this little girl, with no mother any more to guide her!”
But if she could have looked over Rose’s shoulder and read part of that letter, she would not have been so worried.
I’m so glad, wrote Gordon McCarroll, that you have got away at last from that grim old castle. I had a feeling from the first that that wasn’t the place for you. Odd, isn’t it, when I don’t know the place nor any of your people. But when you feel you know somebody pretty well and their reactions, you can’t help forming some idea of what they are going through. And I’ve been thinking a lot about you since the night on the boat when we said good-bye, and also since your letters have come. And somehow it seems as if I’ve known you very well always.
Why, I can look back to those days in school and see you standing beside the third seat from the front, looking with such a clear untroubled gaze toward old Miss Criswell as she asked you questions in algebra. You were never caught napping, and I got used to listening when you got up to recite, because you always had something interesting and new, or else it was put in an original way. I mean this. I always admired the way you took your education, as though it was something you really wanted and not just something that was being stuffed down you. I’m not just trying to throw bouquets at you across the water. I’m only proving to you that you and I are old friends and have known each other always. That is, a long time. And we have a right to take it for granted that we understand each other’s company. Is that all right with you? Because that’s the way I feel about it.
So, after a long day’s work in a hot city, I’m enjoying coming back to the comparative coolness of my room and having a chat with you.
<
br /> I liked your description of your Uncle John’s cottage. I’d like to see it in person someday.
And your introduction of the whole family was rare. I’d like to meet them all. I think I’d know them if I passed them on Fifth Avenue someday.
And how great to have a grandmother like that! I like Uncle John and Aunt Jessie, too. I’d like to be one of the group that kneels around the fireplace mornings and evenings to worship. That was never a part of my experience since Grandfather died, but I wish it had been. I’d like to begin and end the day that way.
And I like the church you are attending. I’d like to hear that great, simple man. Not everyone can form a single sentence that can travel across the ocean and stir a fellow’s heart the way the one you quoted stirred mine. You’ve given me food for thought for many days. I wish you would go to that church among the trees many times again, and tell me all about it every time. I mean it. I want to hear more.
She caught her breath, and tears of joy sprang to her eyes. It seemed so wonderful to her that anybody from school should be interested in Christian things. The group she had known thought that high school was the time to cast away such outworn things as the Bible and church prayer. Oh, some of them still went to Sunday school, but they didn’t take it seriously. Therefore she rejoiced that this boy, who had seemed so fine and far above the ordinary, should react toward this wonderful gospel she had been hearing with the same enthusiasm she felt herself.
A bird in the tree over her head fluttered out to the end of a twig on the branch, turned his head this way and that, eyed her trustfully, and said “Tweet, tweet, tweet!” Then it hopped about and flew away unfrightened, and Rose, with a light in her eyes, went on with her letter.
There is just a possibility that I may get a long enough vacation this summer, probably along in September, to run across the water. If I do, will you let me call and see you?
Rose Galbraith Page 17
