Chapter Seventeen.
The Picnic.
Every one agreed that there never had been such a picnic, that it was impossible that such a picnic would ever occur again. In those northern regions it is a rare joy to find a day that is a very incarnation of summer; hot, yet not too hot; bright, yet not glaringly oppressive; a day when even the old and ailing feel it a joy to be alive, and the young and strong unconsciously break into song, and find it impossible to curtail their footsteps to a staid walking-pace.
George Elgood’s “fairy dell” stood in a gorge between two mountains; a strip of velvet green grass sheltered from the wind, such as the monks of old loved to select as the site of the monasteries whose ruins are still to be seen scattered over our land. The Editor had discovered this retreat, and mentally adopted it as his own, keenly resenting the intrusion of strangers; yet to-day he stood surrounded by hampers and impedimenta, playing host to every guest in the inn, and, wonder of wonders! conscious of an unusual sense of satisfaction in so doing.
Up the winding path they appeared, one by one, the clergyman and his son arriving first of all, hot and breathless after climbing a record distance in a record time. Next Mrs Macalister, red and shiny of face, holding up her skirts to display a pair of large, flat-heeled boots. By her side the originator of the expedition, the genial Chieftain, walking with his usual springy tread, twirling aloft an umbrella which he fondly believed to be sheltering the good dame from the rays of the sun, but which never approached much nearer to her head than a couple of yards. Next, Ronald walking alone, as his custom was; thinking his own thoughts, and gazing around with eyes quick to behold that deeper vision which is revealed only to the chosen few. The boy poet, young, strong, and ardent, with his life ahead, and following him with weary tread the tired-out man of the world, weighed down with a sense of his own infirmities, pining after the office desk and the city smoke, and finding nothing but satiety in the lonely hillside—Mr Macalister, with the furrows graven deep as stone on his brow, his lack-lustre eyes glancing wearily around. During the walk uphill Margot had been his companion, cheering him by her merry prattle, but, now that the destination was reached, she hung back, as though anxious to hide herself from view. Marvellous and unprecedented humility, for Margot Vane deliberately to choose a place in the rear!
It was impossible, however, for the only young woman of the party to remain in the background during the hour which followed, and, willy-nilly, Margot found herself forced into a foremost position; almost, it might be said, into the position of hostess to George Elgood’s host. While Mrs Macalister sat on a bank and fanned herself with her pocket-handkerchief, while the Chieftain built up the fires after a patent fashion of his own, Margot unpacked the hampers and laid out the contents on a tablecloth, carefully fastening down the corners with stones from the brook.
There was a goodly supply of eatables, for, as usual, Mrs McNab had proved better than her word. White bread and brown, scones and “cookies” galore, and a flat, round cake of most appetising appearance. There were also little pots of home-made preserves; a large bottle of cream, and a wonderfully exact and thoughtful supply of those smaller necessities which are so often forgotten on such occasions.
There was a frying-pan also, to cook the trout which had been duly caught to order, and were lying in readiness in a shady corner—two big shining fellows, such as would have delighted any fisherman’s eyes to behold. The second fire was built for their special benefit, and, as usual, each separate member of the party had his own suggestion to make as to its construction.
“Pile all the wood in a heap, and set fire to it! It’s as easy as tumbling off a wall!” cried the Chieftain, suiting the action to the word, and puffing cheerfully at clouds of smoke.
“You’ve built it far too tightly. Pull the branches apart, and lay ’em criss-cross—”
“The best way is to get one or two big stones and use them as a grate. Then you can get a draught underneath—”
“Quite so! and just as the water begins to boil, the whole thing collapses, and the kettle is upset!”
“Why can ye not bring up a methylated spirit lamp, and use its own stand as ye would at home?”
This last in Mr Macalister’s weary accents, and a loud groan of disapproval from the younger members of the party testified to the unpopularity of the idea.
“Oh, Mr Macalister, no! How horribly prosaic! It’s just because we do use it at home that we couldn’t think of it in a fairy dell. It’s a thousand times more romantic to use faggots.”
“Well, well! It’s a matter of taste. I should say a spirit lamp was as romantic as smoked water; but don’t mind me, don’t mind me! I have no call to interfere—”
“Mr Macalister was always a very handy man about the house. If anything went wrong with the kitchen range, I would say to the girl, ‘Wait till your master comes home!’ As long as he had his health we never sent for a workman. There’s very few could lay a fire better than he, if he took the trouble—”
“Tuts, tuts!” Mr Macalister frowned darkly at the faithful wife who so loyally chanted his praises, then, turning on his heel, paced solemnly down the dell. The Chieftain seized a sheet of the Glasgow Herald and vigorously fanned the dying flame; Margot coughed, choked, and spluttered before the clouds of smoke, and retreated in dismay to the more distant fire which George Elgood was sheltering with an open umbrella. Behind the impromptu tent he knelt, poking gingerly at the smouldering wood, but at Margot’s approach he sat back on his feet, lifting to hers a laughing, boyish face.
“No go! The wretched thing won’t light! How is Geoff getting on?”
“Your brother?” It was the first time that Margot had heard the Chieftain called by his Christian name, and it struck her as wonderfully appropriate for so bright and happy a personality. “He isn’t getting on at all! His measures are more drastic than yours, and he is at present occupied in fanning smoke into every one’s face, and knocking down sticks wholesale in the process. My hopes of tea are dwindling into the far distance—”
“What about grilled trout?” queried the Editor, pointing with a grimy finger at his own travesty of a fire. “At this rate, it seems as if we should have to come down to buns and milk; in which case I should never again be able to hold up my head before Mrs McNab. She told me that it was madness to think of cooking fish in the open.”
“But it isn’t, and it shan’t be, and we’ll make up our minds that we will!” cried Margot gaily. “Let us build up a little grate of stones, on which the pan can rest, and lay more faggots round the outside, to get warm and crisp before they are needed. We must keep the flame as clear as possible, so you can go on feeding it gently, while I attend to the fish. Big stones! We must pick them carefully from the side of the stream. The little ones are no use. I’ll go!”
“No, no! I’ll go!” He sprang to his feet as he spoke, and the umbrella, loosed from its moorings, pitched promptly forward, and alighted in the middle of the fire. There was only the tiniest of flickering flames, but, after the contrary nature of things, though it had scorned to undertake the grilling of trout, it seemed eager to seize upon twilled black silk, and to scorch it into a hole. Margot squealed; George Elgood pounced and stamped and dragged, until the ground was scattered over with smoking faggots, and the last pretence of fire had disappeared.
Just at this moment of thwarted ambition a whoop and crow of triumph sounded across the green, and behold the Chieftain capering round a dancing flame, and Mrs Macalister approaching with a brimming kettle.
“Quick! Quick!” cried Margot, flying brook-wards. “We’ll have it laid again in a moment. The ground is warm, and so are the sticks, so it will light more quickly this time. I’ll lay it afresh on two or three stones while you bring the rest. Big ones! Big ones!”
“But your frock, your pretty frock!” The Editor cast a commiserating glance at the dainty lawn flounces, already splattered with wet; but Margot only laughed, and ran eagerly back to her task.
The tea would be ready first, but that was only right and proper. The company would have time to be seated, and to help themselves to cream and sugar to their liking, and while they were even yet enjoying the first fragrant sips, the smoking trout would emerge from the pan, and triumphantly take its place on the festal tablecloth.
Gingerly picking up the smoking faggots, Margot piled them up in careful criss-cross fashion, sheltering them the while with the stones which the Editor carried back from the brook. Dress and hands alike suffered in the process, but she minded nothing for that. It was recompense enough to hear the crisp crackling of wood, to see the dancing gold of the flame. Almost as soon as the artificial grate was complete, the heat was strong enough to put on the frying-pan, and soon the fish was spluttering and sending forth a pleasant fragrance, at which the picnickers sniffed with anticipatory enjoyment.
A curious company they looked, seated on the ground around the well-spread table; very different from the usual party on like occasions, when a solitary adult is admitted on sufferance to play chaperon to a number of light-hearted youngsters. To-day youth was the exception rather than the rule, and a stolid reserve took the place of hilarious enjoyment. Yet even here the softening effects of tea and trout, and cakes and scones gradually made themselves felt. The clergyman waxed anecdotal, his grim face twitching with unexpected humour, as he related various sayings and doings of his brethren; the son insisted upon refilling the kettle, and superintending its second boiling. Mr Macalister assisted himself to two helpings of trout, and his wife’s disapproving gaze softened into complacence at the sight of the zest which replaced his usual languid distaste.
By the time that third cups of tea had been served round, the subject of music had been introduced, and the company had been made aware of the fact that a one-time singer of note was among their number. From this point it seemed only one step until Mr and Mrs Macalister were safely launched upon the strains of “Hunting Tower.”
There sat he at the one end of the low-spread cloth, eyes shut, brows elevated until they almost touched the locks of sandy hair which discreetly veiled his bald crown, his right hand sawing the air in time to the melody. There sat the guid-wife, beaming goodwill on all around, her bonnet-strings untied, her kindly face flushed to a peony red as the combined result of excitement and indigestion. There was not left much to boast of in the timbre of either voice; indeed, regarded as a musical effort, the duet must have been classed as a failure, had it not been for the hearty sincerity with which the words were voiced.
“Be my guidman yoursel, Jamie,
Marry me yoursel, laddie,
And tak’ me ower to Germanie,
Wi’ you at hame to dwell, laddie!
“I dinna ken how that wad do, Jeanie,
I dinna ken how that can be, lassie,
For I’ve a wife and bairnies three,
And I’m no sure how ye’d agree, lassie!
“Dry that tearful eye, Jeanie;
Grieve nae mair for me, lassie,
I’ve neether wife nor bairnies three,
And I’ll wed nane but thee, lassie!
“Blair in Athol’s mine, lassie,
Fair Dunkeld is mine, lassie,
Saint Johnstoun’s Bower, and Hunting Tower,
And a’ that’s mine is thine, lassie!”
A burst of applause greeted the concluding words, under cover of which Margot’s eyes and those of George Elgood met with instinctive sympathy.
“Aren’t they dears? Don’t you love to hear them?”
“Indeed I do! There’s so much poetry underlying the prose. To me they are far more interesting than a pair of young callow lovers, whose affection has known no trial.”
“Oh!” gasped Margot, and grimaced over her plate. She could not go so far as that, and had not bargained for such a degree of enthusiasm. As she stood side by side with the portly songstress a few minutes later, washing and drying dishes preparatory to packing them away in the hampers, she found herself still pondering over the Editor’s reply, and wondering if really—literally!—he could be more interested in this plain elderly woman than in a young attractive girl, like—like—
And then Miss Margot blushed, and tucked away a fold of the lawn skirt on which the mark of smoky fingers was painfully apparent!
When the hampers were packed ready for the return to the inn, an awkward silence fell upon the little company, while each one looked at the other, mutely interrogating as to what should happen next. It seemed ill-mannered to depart directly after being fed, yet no one knew what to do, or who should take the lead, seeing that the host himself appeared serenely unconscious of his duties. Once again it was the Chieftain who came to the rescue with a brilliant suggestion.
“Now we must clear the courts for Olympian sports, suitable for the occasion! To set the ball a-rolling, I’ll give you my celebrated impersonation of the reel, as performed by the prize dancer at the Athol Sports. Miss Vane! A word in your ear. Will you retire with me to the green-room behind those trees?”
Margot followed dimpling with amusement, and for the next ten minutes outbursts of laughter floated to the ears of the company, and kept them happily expectant of what was to come. Once or twice Margot darted across the green to open a hamper, and pilfer some mysterious article, which she made haste to cover beneath a cloth, and on her return would follow fresh explosions of mirth, the deep “Ha, ha!” of the Chieftain mingling with her own silvery trills of laughter.
Presently out he marched—“The Elgood of Elgood,” stepping daintily across the carpet of grass, his stockinged feet criss-crossed with bindings of tape, Mrs Macalister’s plaid shawl flounced round his substantial waist, and hanging therefrom to the depth of the knee. A roller towel was swathed across his body, and swung gallantly over his shoulder; sideways on his head was perched a cap of brown paper, secured across the chin with a shoelace, while held aloft in his hands was an empty milk-bottle, from the mouth of which issued the wailing notes of a bagpipe.
“Pity me, what’s this?” cried Mr Macalister, in amaze.
“Did ever any one see the like?” echoed his astonished wife.
The clergyman gazed over the top of his spectacles with eyes bulging with astonishment. Ron clapped his hands, and sent up a great shout of delight, while George Elgood sat on the grass clasping his knees with his hands, and shaking with laughter.
“Good old Geoff! Go it, Geoff! Keep it up. Dance, man, dance! Leave the pipes to us—we’ll pipe for you. Give your mind to your steps!”
Even as he spoke he and Ron seized bottles on their own account, and turned themselves into imaginary pipers, rivalling each other in turns and twists and long-drawn-out notes, till presently the infection spread, and every single member of the family was swelling the orchestra, Mr Macalister beating time with vigorous sawings of the arm and shakings of the head. So they piped, this motley assembly of old and young, while in the centre of the green the Chieftain twirled and leapt, and twirled again, and stamped his feet, and gave vent to loud staccato whoops—as deliciously comic a spectacle as one would meet in the course of a very long day.
Then at last, with purple face and gasping breath, he collapsed on the grass, and rolling over on his side lay panting, the while the onlookers exhausted themselves in applause.
“If they could see him now! If they could see him now!” cried George Elgood rapturously to himself; and Margot caught the words, and questioned curiously—
“Who? Whom do you mean?”
“The people at home. In town! What would they think?”
“Does he behave so differently in town?”
He cast at her a glance more eloquent than words. “Different!” he echoed beneath his breath. “Different!” But though she waited eagerly for a further explanation, it did not come. The Chieftain was already sitting up, mopping his damp face, and gesticulating energetically towards the other members of the party.
“Now then! Go ahead. I’ve led the way. Mr Macalister, your turn, sir! Who’s afraid?”
Mr Macalister shook his head. He was not afraid of any man, but his days were past for playing the fool! Not to say there had not been a time when he could dance a reel with the best! There was young Mr Menzies now—
Young Mr Menzies, the clergyman’s apathetic son, blushed crimson at the suggestion, and shook his head until it seemed in danger of falling off altogether. George Elgood stoutly denied his ability to “play tricks,” and tiresome, aggravating Ron flatly refused to improvise a poem on the day’s doings, throwing away a valuable opportunity with a recklessness which made his sister long to shake him.
Nobody would do anything! The Chieftain sat on the grass, divesting himself of his make-up, the while he roundly denounced his companions as the laziest, slackest, most unsportsmanlike crew whom it had ever been his misfortune to meet.
“But if you won’t play singly, you must play in bulk, for play you shall! We are out for a picnic, and must behave as sich. Up with you now, every man-jack of you!” he cried, suiting the action to the word, and springing to his own feet with the surprising ease and elasticity which characterised all his gestures. “We’ll start hide-and-seek along the Glen. We’ll hide, and,”—he glanced round, with an air of innocent inquiry—almost too innocent, it appeared in the eyes of one watcher at least!—and pointed a fat forefinger at his brother and Margot as they sat side by side—“you two will seek! Miss Vane and George... Give us ten minutes to hide ourselves discreetly, and then start out on your search. Between the two fireplaces shall be ‘Den!’ Are you ready?”
Apparently they were all ready. Mrs Macalister creaked and gasped, and finally rose to her feet; the men travelled after her in a long, straggling row. Margot and the Editor were left to themselves.