There is a tide

by J. C. Snaith

For Mame this was a fresh phase of existence. Her few days at Cowes aboard the Excelsior had done something to prepare her for the freedom of the moors; but Dunkeldie itself, gorgeously set in the lee of the Grampians, was something new. Dunkeldie was beyond her dreams. On the August evening she motored with Lady Violet from the train at Inverauchty, which was fifteen miles away and the nearest railway station, and saw the great house of stone nestling against a background of mountain and forest and the heather billowing around it, she gave a little gasp. In rich and mysterious beauty it was a place of faëry. She had read of such homes, she had seen them pictured on the screen, but even in her most fanciful moments she hardly expected to find them in her life good and real.

When they wound uphill, in rather precipitous half circles, that last astonishing mile to the proud keep of Dunkeldie, and drew up in the golden light before the low lintel of the main entrance to the Castle, the first person to welcome them was Bill. He stood in the doorway looking superbly handsome in a sporran and kilt. The place itself was a thing of sheer beauty and somehow Bill matched it.

At the sight of him Mame’s heart began to dance. He sent a loud who-whoop echoing among the angles of the stone walls and again danced her heart. And when he flung open the door of their car, before the douce footman could get down from his box, or another of his like could spring out from the portico, her blood thrilled. There seemed to be magic in the air.

From the very hour of her arrival this feeling of magic in the air was upon Mame. And all the wonderful days she was at Dunkeldie it never left her. The house itself was an embodied tradition. Its glamour was haunted by the spirit of place. That ancient roof-tree held strange secrets; and nothing so far in Mame’s life had quite prepared her for them.

The train had reached Inverauchty an hour and a quarter late, as the trains in that part of the world had a way of doing. Dinner was due in twenty minutes. Therefore it was a bit of a scurry to change. Bill’s only accomplishment, at least to which he owned, although other people rated him a pretty useful shot and a fairly straight rider to hounds, was that he could “dress” in ten minutes; but neither his sister nor Miss Du Rance, even with Davis to help them, was quite up to that. Still in a quarter of an hour Celimene was looking her gay and cool and distinguished self in an old and plain black gown. It took Mame longer than that to don a frock rather more pictorial; but with Davis “to do her up,” she was looking presentable if not quite as Chick as she could have desired by the time dinner was announced.

The guests, to the number of a round twenty, assembled in the armoury, a sort of large hall whose ancient usage had been agreeably softened by modern comfort. It sounded dull, dismal, draughty, dour; as a fact it was quite cosy; and it had the advantage of being cool in summer, warm in winter. This evening at the end of August, its temperature was a happy medium. Whatever chill there was in it, due to the lengthening of the shadows around the mullioned windows, was merged in a general atmosphere of cheery good will.

Even Uncle John and Aunt Emily, whose long suit was not exactly cheeriness, at any rate of a wildly festive kind, made a heroic effort this evening to assume that virtue. Nothing could have exceeded the kindness of their welcome. If they did not pretend to intellectual brilliance, and they had to be on their guard lest a sense of dignity was a little overdone, they were very sensible, well-meaning people; and if you were invited to their board they laid themselves out to see that you had a good time.

Mame soon felt at home. The day’s journey had been long and tedious, but with the resiliency of youth she was able thoroughly to enjoy her dinner. Bill sat one side of her and a very distinguished politician who knew America and had a keen appreciation of all things American, sat the other. Conversation flowed. Good stories crossed the dinner table. A piper came skirling round the chairs of the guests. Wine, wit and good fellowship circulated freely. Mame surrendered to the feeling that this was life.

She took her sponsor’s advice and went to bed early and in that wonderful highland air slept as never before unless it was in the early days on the farm after many hours of drudgery. It was a dreamless and renewing sleep and was only terminated when a sonsy lassie set some tea and bread and butter by the side of her bed, unbolted the large shutters and let in the sun.

Five minutes later when Mame sprang out of bed and gazed through the window upon the glory of the scene, the first object to catch her eye was a young man on the fair green below. He was diligently coaxing a small ball into an invisible hole by means of an odd piece of iron. Mame’s education, as yet, had not included the game of golf. But she knew it when she saw it. And as she stood watching this player she felt the time had come to develop her knowledge of a science peculiarly Scottish.