LOVE IN MIST.

Otago Witness, Issue 3987, 12 August 1930, Page 77

LOVE IN MIST.

By

Mary I. Findlay.

John Mearl stopped his car because steam was rising from the bonnet. He < had noticed that the radiator had been leaking slightly before he started, but he had been impatient to get away. The morning sunshine had called him. He had travelled many miles since then, and now evening had come and everything was quiet on this lonely moor over which the setting sun was casting some mysterious spell. Where could he get w’ater? As he had spun along he had noticed many things —grouse, rabbits, black-faced sheep, wild duck, gorse, foxgloves ? heather, and again heather stretching away across the moor and over the low hills in the distance, but of water he had seen none except a loch several miles back. Not far away, in front of him, stood a solitary cottage. There must be a well of some kind near it. Leaving the car at the side of the road that had neither fence nor dyke, he set out on foot for the cottage. He enjoyed the walk. He had been sitting too long, but apart from that something of the restfulness of his surroundings came to him as he strode along. He felt in tune with Nature and at peace with the world. Lately he had been rushed with work, and altogether occupied with mundane affairs. Reaching the cottage, he, was almost sorry to have to knock at the door, because someone must open it who must speak and thus break the spell of quietr ness and peace. But to his delight the old man who came in answ r er to his knock “ fitted in.” He was clad in homespun, wrinkled and lined all over his face so that it seemed as if his very eyes were wrinkled, but he had the courtesy of an old-world gentleman and the face of a prophet. He insisted upon going to the well near by and drawing water for the stranger himself. “ It’s no mony folk stop as they go by,” he said in his slow, soft voice. Mearl remembered that it was something between one or two miles since he had last passed a dwelling of any kind, and that a shepherd’s hut, and suddenly he realised the loneliness of it even now in all its late summer grandeur. The loneliness of it in winter—what must it be? He said something of this to the old man. “Lonely? Never a bit! Off and on have I tended sheep on this moor for the last fifty year, and I’ve never been lonesome. Custom, may be. Then I’ve got Mary! She’s my grand-daughter. She’s been with me now for three years, since her father and mother died. Oh! I can tell ye I wasna too willin’ to have Mary when first she came, but now I couldna do without her. She’s a fine girl, is Mary, a bit too fond o’ books, maybe, aye readin’. She’s awa’ in to Elgin the nicht changin’ her books at the librarie. It’s time she was comin! hame. It’s after nine. She disna often bide so late.” “She, Mary?” John hesitated over the name. “Is she not afraid to walk alone so late on this lonely moor?” The other laughed. “It would tak’ a lot to scare Mary. Besides, she’s got Colin wi’ her, my old sheep dog. He ll tak’ good care o’ her.” When at last John drove away the sun had entirely disappeared, but had left behind a trail of wonderful colours to be marvelled at if you happened to b-1 anything of an artist or a poet. Mearl was something of both in his nature, though by profession he was a hardworking journalist, with ambition. Ambition, that was a god to him. ■ He was young yet, but he was determined to go far. His little Clyno now ran sweetly. ; About a mile from the old shepherd’s cottage he came on a shaggy sheep dog, which instead of passing the car, turned and ran alongside it, now and again jumping in front, barking loudly. Mearl had to slow down to keep from running him down. “ Bother the dog! ” Ail at once something occurred to him, and he drew up abruptly. “ Colin ? ” he called. The dog responded to the name by jumping up and down more excitedly than ever, but he continued to bark.

" Where was Mary ? ” Where Colin was the girl ought to have been. Mearl was suddenly anxious. “ Find Mary, old boy ? ” Colin understood. He darted away, and Mearl raced after him. Perhaps it was a matter of life or death ? But it was not so bad as that, though it might have been serious enough for the girl had John not come to the rescue. There she was a little bit off the road, nursing her foot. When he reached her she was sitting on the heather, her arm round Colin, a very proud dog now, wagging his tail and giving short barks of joy. She looked up at Mearl. Never had he seen such beautiful, soft brown eyes. Never had he seen such a sweet, flower-like face. Never had he met before a girl who brought his heart to his mouth, and then suddenly, stranger though she was, stole it away from him for all time. She sat there plainly dressed in a blue linen frock, with nothing more on her head than her own pretty hair, which was the colour of autumn leaves when they are red and golden brown. Gazing at her in wonder it was for John as if the heavens had suddenly opened. He bent anxiously over her, and she gave a half-rueful laugh. Then, because he said nothing, not finding it easy. It was she who first began to speak. “ Please do not look so distressed. It is only a sprain. I was late, so I hurried and tried to cut off a corner. Stupid of me ! It only ended in my stepping into a rabbit’s hole.” “ You are—Mary ? ” he stammered at last. She laughed again. “ Why ? Yes. How did you know ? ” “ Your grandfather told me.” She did not ask for further—explanation, and for a few minutes there was silence lietween them. “ I think I must have walked at least a mile since it happened. It hurts rather- ” “ Can I help ? ” Suddenly he was conscious that she might be in pain. “Can I bandage it or anything? He was down on the heather now beside her, kneeling there, holding her little foot on his knee. “ How swollen it is ! You couldn’t have walked with that

“ T could not very well walk without it ! ” Again she gave a little laugh, though her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. One dropped on his hand as he tried to bandage her ankle with a big

blue silk handkerchief which he sometimes wore round his neck. He looked up startled, and she was instantly ashamed.

“ I beg your pardon. What a baby I am ! ”

“You are not! It is only reaction, relief, that you need not spend the night on the moor, or crawl slowly and painfully home.” “ It isn’t that, though I am grateful for that too. It is ” she stopped and looked away. “ Won’t you tell me ? ” he asked in his most gentle voice. “It is—because'it is lovely being the one to be taken care of—for once.” “ For once ? ” Dear little girl ! He understood. There and- then he had to restrain a mighty impulse to pour forth words telling of his worship and adoration for her. But something stopped him. That something had many names. One of them was Prudence. Prudence told him he knew nothing of Mary. .On the other hand something told him he knew everything. “ Now come,” he said abruptly, “ I will take you home.” “ I think if you help me on one side I will just have to hop on my well foot.” “ You are not going to ‘ hop on your well foot,’ ” he said decidedly, and stooping down.he lifted her up in his arms and carried her to the car. She was very light, very soft, and this •time he was tempted to crush-her to him and kiss her sweet red lips and her russet-gold hair, but then again he thought of her as a sensitive flower and dared not. Perhaps, too, Prudence again stepped in and stopped him. Seated in his comfortable little car Mary’s cheeks were the colour of a red rose, while there was a new light in her beautiful eyes, and somehow, all at once, she it was who now felt at a loss for words. So neither spoke much. “ Comfortable ? ” he asked once, looking down at her. “ Very comfortable, thank you,” she answered softly. Once he threw Prudence to the winds. “I wish we had miles and miles to go —together—-like this ! Don’t you ? ” | “ I wish we had,” she answered, and I sighed because they had not. After that there seemed no need of words between them. The old shepherd was greatly relieved when John brought his grand-daughter safely home, and thanked him warmly. Mearl carried Mary indoors and put her gently down on a haircloth sofa. “ Feel better now ? ” “ Oh ! ” She gave a little cry of dismay. “ I have forgotten my books ! I never forgot iny books before ! ” “ Where ? ” “ On the heather, where you picked me up. I must have left them lying ” “ I’ll go back for them ” “ No. Please, no. It is too late ” But he was off even while she protested. With some difficulty he found again the spot where he had first seen her, and the books were there. When he picked them up and glanced at them he gave a whistle of astonishment. A girl with a face like a beautiful flower who read Carlyle ! A phenomenon I Mary had spoken and acted like a lady. She was a lady, though she lived with her grandfather who had been a shepherd. It was late when at last Mearl reached Elgin, but he found his room ready for him at his hotel. After he went to bed it was long before he slept. He was thinking of Mary. He lay quietly at first, then became restless, always think ing of Mary. He had fallen deeply, madly in love with this unknown girl, and he knew that something in her had responded to him. He had felt that when in the car with her. He had only to go back to-morrow to the fascinating moor and see Mary again, and feel again all the charm of her, and he knew that that would mean he would marry her. He was an honourable man. But Mary was poor, a shepherd’s grand-daughter who, even though her accent was Scottish, had the speech and bearing of a lady. But she had no social standing. She would not further his ambition. She might even be out of place in his social circle in London—yet. she read Carlyle ! It was one thing seeing her on the moor of which she seemed a very part as the wild birds were a part, but London—that would be different. His London, where he had his club, his friends ! His London that was the centre of journalism ! But again, he argued, she was so sweet, so desirable. Her eyes reflected the wonderful soul of the moor. Dear heart ! Should he go back and find her to-morrow ? About 4 o’clock he fell into a troubled sleep in which he dreamed of Mary. At 5 o’clock he woke suddenly, and the thoughts of Mary continued, and he began going over all the arguments again. This he did until 7, when he got up, had a cold bath, and dressed. Outside a thick fog had gathered. When at last he went out for his car it -was the fog which finally decided him. The fog—along with ambition and prudence. How often in the future he cursed himself for having made that decision!

He went straight to Aberdeen, Perth, and Edinburgh.

Mary had infatuated him, but perhaps it was only infatuation. He would probably forget her in a week’s time. If he did not, if, after all, it was the love which he believed comes to a man only

once in ’his lifetime, then he would go back and find her. Time would show. Time did show. More quickly than he had imagined. More quickly than lie I could have believed possible. * * * Back in London Mearl found he could not forget Mary. She intruded herself into his thoughts all his leisure time, even in his business hours she was there. Soon he realised that she had come into his life for all time. But after his holiday he was busy, and pressure of work kept him from dashing off again immediately. Then urgent, unexpected duty sent him to the South of Europe. Thus several weeks passed, and it was nearly three months before he found it possible to go north again. He went to. Elgin by train this time, and set off for the moor in a hired car. A different moor now, a November moor! Lowering clouds hung overhead, th e heather was black, while the gorse was stripped and windswept. Desolate and bleak was the moor now. But Mearl’s heart was happy. What did winter and weather matter when he was so soon to see Mary again ? He directed the chauffeur to the cottage. It seemed strangely quiet. The door was shut, locked, the blinds were down John knocked and beat on the door. But what use to knock and beat on the door of an empty house? What use to call out? All the reply he. got was an echo that mocked at him and his previous cautious delay. Mary was gone! He must find her, and that quickly. It might not be easy, for he did not even know her surname, but find her he must. They went on to the far-off cottage, where they found an old shepherd living alone who looked older even than Mary’s grandfather had done, and was slow of speech and understanding. “ Yes, old James MacDonald had died somewhere about a month ago. His grand-daughter? Oh, aye! She was a bonny bit lassie! She had gone awa’. What for would a bonny young lassie bide on here alone?” Where had she gone? “That I dinna ken. No. I say I dinna ken. Her name'; I dinna ken that either. I aye ca’ed her MacDonald’s little Mary. I mind fine on her mither. She was just sic another as little Mary—sweet and wholesome as the moor. She went south and married a schoolmaster who came up here for his health, a delicate-looking creature. He didna live long. Then she died. And so little Mary came to her grandfather.” That was all the old man could tell him. John made all possible inquiries in Elgin and in the surrounding country, but could learn nothing more about MacDonald and his grand-daughter. Back to London he went at last, blaming himself for having lost the girl he loved. A schoolmaster’s daughter! He understood now. The flowerlike girl who had read Carlyle! Not good enough for him! Far, far too good and lovely! All his life he must search for her, search until he found her. Some day, please God! he must find her. Back in London he buried himself in his work. But Christmas found him again on the northern moor—a white moor, startingly beautiful. Easter, too, found him on the moor, standing beside the deserted cottage, still unsuccessful Then all at once it caine to him that it was not there he must look for Mary, but in the busy world—perhaps even in London itself. She would be working for her living What would she be doing? Teaching? Working as a typist in an office? A maid to somebody? Being made a drudge of? He set his teeth at the thought of that last, but it was probable. He got into the habit of looking keenly at all the girls he met in the street, in motor buses, in tubes—always searching for Mary. He must find her. Now no other women interested him, and socially he soon became almost a recluse. But even while searching for her he worked hard, and in a year or two he became one of London’s best known journalists. He had “ arrived.” But that did not satisfy him now. He was a success, yet he called himself a failure. “ Look here, Mearl,” Billy Saunderson said to him one day at the Savage Club. Billy was a publisher, and one of John’s old friends. “ You are getting too much of a recluse, old man. There are limits. My wife and I are giving a little dinner this day week, and you have simply got to come and meet Dolly’s latest lion, the new lady novelist, May Leister. Read her book, . ‘ Love in Mist ’? ” “ No, I haven’t.” Mearl’s reply was somewhat tart. “ Soppy title ! ” “ The book is worth reading. Everybody is reading it, yourself excepted, you old curmudgeon ! ” John smiled. “Then I must dip into it one day.” “It will be more than a dip, once you’ve got started. Now, that little dinner on the 14th ?”

“ The fourteenth ? Truly sorry. I promised Rawlston to go with him to Scotland on the twelfth for ten days. He has taken an old house and a ‘ shoot ’ in Aberdeenshire. We are hoping to get some sport.”

“I’m disappointed. The lady is charming, beautiful, more intriguing even than her clever book. You must meet her when you get back.” John did not reply to that, but sent a message to Dolly.

When the time came John went north to Aberdeen by the night train. At King’s Cross, on going to the bookstall,

he found, staring him in the face, a row of May Leister’s books, “ Love in Mist.” He remembered at once—Billy’s friend’s book ! He bought one. After the train started he dipped into it. Then he read it word for word, and it cost him a night’s sleep.

But it was not the cleverness of the book, though it was marvellously clever, that gripped him—it was first its atmosphere, then its plot. It was a North country story. Strange coincidence—it was the story of a man who sacrificed love for worldly ambition, and when he was at last rich and successful came back to his loved one. But he had come too late. She had married. Her husband was a brute to her, and she was miserable, ill, dying, though she would not admit any of that to the man who had always loved her, but heroically sent him away in the belief that she was well and happy. It made John think of open spaces, of heather, and the call of the peewit. Also it made him think of Mary, and again of Mary. Was she married, perhaps unhappily ? The book disturbed his equanimity entirely. Arriving at his destination Mearl continued to feel unsettled. Neither shooting, nor golf, nor friendly talk, nor the bridge table had any fascination for him. Something was drawing him away from the pleasant, well-ordered house, with its smooth lawns, calling him away to his moor, lonely and unkempt as, he knew it to be. And at last, making all the polite excuses, except the real one, he went. Mary herself was drawing him. She was calling him—calling him—and the reading of that book had done it. This time he set out from Elgin on foot for the moor. There was no hurry. He had all the long August day in front of him, and reason told him possibly a fool’s errand at the end of it. He did not actually believe he would find Mary yet. When still some distance away he noticed smoke coming out of the cottage chimney. He began to run. Fool that he was ! A new shepherd would be living there now ! Still he ran. And so he arrived at the cottage breathless. And there, right in the open doorway stood—Mary. After those lonely years it was not a time for dalliance. He simply held out both his hands to her. “Mary ! I have spent years in looking for you ! Now, thank heaven ! I have found you at last.” She did not draw* back, but she blushed red, and the blush spread over her dear flower-like face—which was sweeter than ever, he thought, as he feasted his hungry eyes on it. “I do not quite understand ? ” she began in some confusion. Then—“ Yes, I think I do. Only lam not quite sure ? ” “ Let me make it plainer, Mary. I loved you from the very moment I first saw you three years ago. But I loved worldly success, too, and I was not cer tain if the love for you, coming on me so suddenly, was real love or only infatuation. So I went away in order to find out. Please forgive me for that ? When I came back two months later, realising you were the only woman for me in all the world, I found I had lost you. I have been looking for you ever since, Sweetheart, to ask you to be my wife ? ” She hesitated, then when at last she spoke she did not answer him directly. “ I have been here once every year,” she said quietly. “ I kept the cottage on for that. lam always here in August, because it was in August that you came— —” He jumped to her meaning and caught her hands excitedly in both his. “My darling ! You, too ? ” “ Yes,” she confessed breathlessly. “ Every year I have been expecting you. What brought you now ? ” “ You called me. It is queer. I don’t believe much ifi that sort of thing—telepathy, isn’t it ? But there was no getting away from it. I felt you calling me through a clever book by a girl called May Leister. She must have known a moor like this. She must have known a weak man like me—but I have confessed ! ” Mary laughed and pulled herself a little away from him to watch and enjoy the effect of her words. “ She knew this very moor ! She knew a dear man like you ! lam May Leister, though my real, full name is Mary Leister Stuart.” “ You a writer ? ” “ Why not, sir ? ” She grew suddenly serious. “I, too, have something to confess. John, I meant my book to call you back to me ! I knew from the day I first saw you that you cared for me, and that you would go on caring in spite of yourself, your ambition, everything ! Set my knowledge down to the Highland blood in me if you like, I can hardly account for it myself, only I knew. And the same intuition told me you would seek me here. And now that you have come at last, my dear ” she faltered, and her voice grew softer, while her eyes shone with love for him. " I am glad—-very glad ! ” —Weekly Scotsman.