XII
An old man cried, “Umbrella to sell.” It had no handle.He met an old woman who cried she had an umbrellato sell, but only the handle. Each called what they hadan umbrella, but only the man’s could keep off the rain.
An old man cried, “Umbrella to sell.” It had no handle.He met an old woman who cried she had an umbrellato sell, but only the handle. Each called what they hadan umbrella, but only the man’s could keep off the rain.
An old man cried, “Umbrella to sell.” It had no handle.He met an old woman who cried she had an umbrellato sell, but only the handle. Each called what they hadan umbrella, but only the man’s could keep off the rain.
An old man cried, “Umbrella to sell.” It had no handle.
He met an old woman who cried she had an umbrella
to sell, but only the handle. Each called what they had
an umbrella, but only the man’s could keep off the rain.
Thereis a small book, written by one of the greatest masters of fiction. No romance stirs the blood, excites the imagination of weary men, as this book does. Lever, Dumas, Hugo are pigmies compared to this giant among story-tellers.
It is a small book—no matter its colour—its pages number some hundreds, and they can be read, re-read, and read yet again. On every page is the same story differently, and delightfully told. It never palls. A wise woman is she who, seeing her husband tired and perhaps bored, slips into his hands this volume of immortal prose. If he be a sportsman, his chair comfortable, and the fire brightly burning, all his worries will vanish like “smoke” on the hillside, and for the space of some hours he will be at peace, tramping once again the moors, fishing the rivers, the lochs, and climbing the hills he loves. Marcus, lonely and deserted, opened the book and read:
Marcus leant forward and re-filled his pipe—the shadow of a great peace in his eyes—a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He had no wish to be disturbed—let Shan’t stay with her aunt, and Diana, too, if she wanted to—it was like the old game of Oranges and Lemons. They could choose; he was Oranges—
Last season’s bag—6 stags, 200 brace grouse, 20 wild fowl, 111 hares, and 90 sea trout—
Last season’s bag—6 stags, 200 brace grouse, 20 wild fowl, 111 hares, and 90 sea trout—
He sighed and turned the pages.
“Not much,” murmured Marcus.
£250.
£200.
£270.
£300:—each in its small way buying for August and September perfect happiness, and Marcus knew what that perfect happiness might be. Agents say much, sometimes more than they need, but do they ever say anything of six o’clock in the morning, on the moor, when the spiders’ webs, set with diamonds, are slung from one tuft of heather to another, making a wealth of jewels of untold value? Do they ever describe the joy of walking home knee-deep in scented purple heather right into the setting sun, after a day on the hill? Do they ever describe a fine day on the West Coast, as the West Coast alone knows it? A fine day in Skye? No day, for pure glory of fineness, can compare with it. (And it might always be fine in Skye if peoplereally believed in fairies.) Skye paints her foreground as no other foreground is painted, so rich in colour, so deep—so varied. No skies can vie with hers in blueness, when they are blue. No distance is so enchanting in its softness. No breeze so caressing in its gentleness. No hills can compare with the Cuchullins in their splendid ruggedness, and the sun never sets in Scotland, leaving behind him more glorious promises of his coming again than he does in Skye. Do agents count these things? They must—and that is why—if the grouse fail, the deer fade away, and the fish sulk—the man who truly loves his Scotland will always pay his rent without murmuring, for those glorious two months: and the day he gets back to London, if he be a proper man, he will sit himself down in his chair, his hand will reach out to the table at his elbow, and he will take from the table a book that his wife, if she be a wise wife, has placed there, and he will open it at any page and read—
£500—beau-ti-ful lodge, 40 miles from station—Contains—etc.—bag should include—250 brace grouse, good woodcock and snipe—wild fowl—in the winter—Exclusive right—
£500—beau-ti-ful lodge, 40 miles from station—Contains—etc.—bag should include—250 brace grouse, good woodcock and snipe—wild fowl—in the winter—Exclusive right—
This is the book Marcus read on his return to London after sending Shan’t back to the aunt of his detestation. It is a work of fiction that should be in all circulating libraries, yet it is in none. Duringthe reading it came upon him—the inspiration—to offer as a counter-attraction to Bestways—Scotland!
Could Diana resist a moor in Scotland? To shoot over which she might ask any one she liked. What would Aunt Elsie do against a force so overwhelming as this? It was late in the season to get a place, but sometimes late in the day even a good place is to be had. Sometimes the best places might be picked up at the last moment.
The next day Marcus lunched at his club, having interviewed agents both hopeful and depressing. At the club he met a friend plunged in the depths of melancholy. So deeply immersed was he that Marcus rose buoyant on the crest of a wave of exultation. The friend’s wife was ill. Marcus, sobered, expressed sympathy: the man, to a certain extent, had brought it on himself by having a wife, but still Marcus was sorry she was ill. Added to that the man had taken a place in Scotland to which he could not go in consequence of his wife’s illness and the agents said it was too late to sub-let it. Here Marcus was really sympathetic. What sort of a place was it?—and out it all came—the same grand old story. The blood that had run through the veins of Marcus now coursed and by the end of luncheon the moor was practically his—he had walked it. Its geographical position wasscored on the tablecloth: its marches defined by spoons and forks. So much was the place his that he felt justified in telegraphing to Diana—“Got place Scotland, will you come?” What about the hill now upon which Elsie had imagined herself standing looking down upon poor Marcus?
When Diana got the telegram she read it aloud, and Elsie began feebly about a picnic—and more picnics—and a possible dance—and more dances, but Diana’s heart was already in the Highlands. “Darling Uncle Man!” she cried. “Delicious old Marky Man!” And Marcus put his head under her hand and swallowed with gratitude. “Not you, you darling, blessed black angel,” she said.
“Bribery and corruption,” said Aunt Elsie, as she pulled furiously at the weeds in the garden; “pure bribery—it isn’t that the child cares for him—she only goes—because she wants to go to Scotland. I shall at least have Dick. He would never desert me.” And to make sure of that she went in and wrote to Dick—wrote of cricket matches—wrote in glowing terms, showing an amazing knowledge of the game, which she felt was bound to impress a small nephew. To which letter Dick wrote back:
Dear Aunt Elsie,—It’s jolly decent of you, but I’m a bit fed up with cricket, and what’s moreI might get stale if I played too much, and what’s still more to the purpose is that Taboret Major has asked me to go to Scotland. His people have taken a sort of castle there—what d’you say to that? Don’t say no and break the heart of your anxious nephew. Taboret Major says it’s a rippin’ place and there’s lots of shooting and fishing. Old Wane says it’s a chance that shouldn’t be missed—so I say.Your loving and hopefulDickP.S. What about my being confirmed next term? Do you think I need? I don’t feel much like it at present and Taboret Major isn’t going to be because he’s going to join the Scotch religion. I expect I shall be converted when I’m in Scotland, so had I better wait to see? But then I ought to say that Taboret Major is going to wear a kilt. I expect this makes a difference. What do you think?
Dear Aunt Elsie,—It’s jolly decent of you, but I’m a bit fed up with cricket, and what’s moreI might get stale if I played too much, and what’s still more to the purpose is that Taboret Major has asked me to go to Scotland. His people have taken a sort of castle there—what d’you say to that? Don’t say no and break the heart of your anxious nephew. Taboret Major says it’s a rippin’ place and there’s lots of shooting and fishing. Old Wane says it’s a chance that shouldn’t be missed—so I say.
Your loving and hopefulDick
P.S. What about my being confirmed next term? Do you think I need? I don’t feel much like it at present and Taboret Major isn’t going to be because he’s going to join the Scotch religion. I expect I shall be converted when I’m in Scotland, so had I better wait to see? But then I ought to say that Taboret Major is going to wear a kilt. I expect this makes a difference. What do you think?
So even Dick was denied her, and Elsie went out into her garden where the borders were full of blossoms which Diana loved, and into the kitchen garden where grew vegetable marrows, things which Dick had sworn he loved, and the aunt felt she had laboured in vain. She had sown and Uncle Marcus would reap.