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!