CHAPTER XVIII
ON A SCOTCH MOOR
| 'Time, so complained of, Who to no one man Shows partiality, Brings round to all men Some undimm'd hours.' Matthew Arnold. |
In future days Audrey always looked back upon those seven weeks at Braemar with the same feelings with which one recalls the memory of some lake embosomed in hills, that one has seen sleeping in the sunlight, and in which only tranquil images were reflected—the branch of some drooping sapling, or some bird's wing as it skimmed across the glassy surface.
Just so one day after another glided away in smooth enjoyment and untroubled serenity, and not a discordant breath ruffled the two households.
The house that Dr. Ross had taken had originally been two good-sized cottages, and though the rooms were small, there were plenty of them; and a little careful adjustment of the scanty furniture, and a few additional nicknacks, transformed the parlour into a pleasant sitting-room. Geraldine wondered and admired when she came across, the first morning after their arrival. Audrey had arranged her own and Michael's books on the empty shelves; the little mirror, and indeed the whole mantelpiece, was festooned and half hidden with branches laden with deep crimson rowan-berries, mixed with heather and silvery-leafed honesty; a basket of the same rowan-berries occupied the centre of the round table; an Oriental scarf draped the ugly horsehair sofa, and a comfortable-looking rug was thrown over the shabby easy-chair. The fishing-tackle, butterfly-nets, pipes, and all other heterogeneous matters, were consigned to a small bare apartment, known as 'Michael's den,' and which soon became a lumber-room.
Geraldine looked at her sister's handiwork with great approval. She considered her father's household was magnificently lodged; she and her husband had taken up their quarters in a much less commodious cottage—their tiny parlour would hardly hold four people comfortably, and the ceiling was so low that Mr. Harcourt always felt as though he must knock his head against the rafters. When any of the Ross party called on them, they generally adjourned to the small sloping garden, and conversed among the raspberry-bushes.
It was delightful to see Geraldine's enjoyment of these primitive surroundings. The young mistress of Hillside seemed transformed into another person. Percival's clever contrivances, their little makeshifts, their odd picnic life, were all fruitful topics of conversation.