“Just their photograph-ees, miss,” said John.
He went on to say he had been one day fishing on the loch with a gentleman, and as they had passed an island on the loch they had seen three wee birds just out of the shell, and when they came back five hours later and passed the island the wee birds had swum out to meet them. “And, indeed, they did and the gentleman took them.”
“Not the birds, John,” protested Diana again for the sake of his reassurance, “just their photograph-ees,” and Diana thought of Uncle Marcus, who was also just taking photograph-ees of little birds, and her eyes danced and she saw nothing of the storm that was coming.
She got home and ate a most excellent luncheon cooked in Mrs. Oven’s best manner, and having drunk her coffee sat down to write a letter, and the letter she wrote was this:
Dearest Aunt Elsie,—I am all alone. It’s really rather nice. I think it’s a little tiring being so much with men. They are so exacting, don’t you think so? However, to-day they have left me alone and I don’t feel deserted or in the least unhappy, but I should love to see you, if only for a minute. I don’t know why, but I feel I should like to have some one to laugh with. You are such a splendid laugher. Uncle Marcus has gone on a kind of a scientific expedition. He wants very much to take what John calls photograph-ees of sea-birds on their nests, and he has taken all the men with him.
I suppose there is no better way of judging of a man’s character than to be stranded with him on a desert island. I can imagine that, if by any chance, Uncle Marcus and party were stranded there, Mr. Watkins would read his poetry to him. Wouldn’t the Marky man love it? Mr. Pease? What would he do? Tell him stories of his life as a child?—his lonely childhood? Mr. St. Jermyn, I imagine, would leave him severely alone; would go to the farthest part of the island and would gently curse in an unparliamentary manner. What do you think, my aunt? And Captain Hastings, what would he do? I think and believe he would cook a delicious dinner and feed Uncle Marcus, give him soup in cocoanut shells and seaweed fritters, and fried eggs—gulls’ eggs. We shall see—should see, I mean.
Uncle Marcus is frightfully pleased with life. Of course, the shooting is not what he expected and the river is low, but he is very much softened by his stay in the Highlands, and yesterday he hoped you were quite well: and he wondered if you minded living in a relaxing part of the world; which, by the way, you don’t do. But I didn’t say so because it seems to make him more of a happy Christian to think you do. Pillar is delightful here. He shot a grey-hen the other day, a very bad sin, and when he was reprimanded, he expressed contrition, but added: “It was very encouraging, sir.” I suppose it is when you don’t shoot much. Uncle Marcus forgets that a man, though poor and lowly, may be a sportsman. I want him to give the gillies a day on the moor; and I want Uncle Marcus and all my young men to act as gillies. The boat will be going to fetch Uncle Marcus in a minute, so I must stop. I hope you aren’t very lonely. I wish you were here!
Your loving
Diana
Then she walked to the window and looked out. It was raining, not heavily; but a fine, driving mist blotted out the landscape. The island would be rather a horrible place now—rather horrible! She became grave; she no longer wanted Aunt Elsie because she was a splendid laugher, but rather because she was one to quiet fears, to make things look brighter than they really were. Could any aunt in the world do that now? No glimmer of light pierced the grey pall that hung over the Lodge of Glenbossie.
Diana went to the door and called John, and out of the mist stepped John, and Sandy with him. Beads of moisture stood all over their rough tweed coats and they looked as serious as they looked moist. They said: “What aboot the gentlemen, now?” and Diana asked, “What about them?”