"it was told me i should be rich by the fairies."—a winter's

tale.

january is always a long, flat month: the christmas festivities are over, the bills are waiting to be paid, the weather is very often of the dreariest, spring is yet far distant. with february, hope and the snowdrops begin to spring, but january is a month to be warstled through as best we can.

this january of which i write jean felt to be a peculiarly long, dull month. she could not understand why, for david was at home, and she had always thought that to have the three boys with her made up the sum of her happiness. she told herself that it was pamela she missed. it made such a difference knowing that the door would not open to admit that tall figure; the want of the embroidery frame seemed to take a brightness from the room, and the lack of that little gay laugh of pamela's left a dullness that the loudest voices did nothing to dispel.

pamela wrote that the visit to champertoun had been a signal success. the hitherto unknown cousins were delightful people, and she and her brother were prolonging their stay till the middle of january. then, she said, she hoped to come back to priorsford for a little, while biddy went on to london.

how easy it all sounded, jean thought. historic houses full of all things lovely, leisured, delightful people, the money, and the freedom to go where one listed: no pinching, no striving, no sordid cares.

david's vacation was slipping past; and jean was deep in preparations for his departure. she longed vehemently for some money to spend. there were so many things that david really needed and was doing without, so many of the things he had were so woefully shabby. jean understood better now what a young man wanted; she had studied lord bidborough's clothes. not that the young man was anything of a dandy, but he had always looked right for every occasion. and jean thought that probably all the young men at oxford looked like that—poor david! david himself never grumbled. he meant to make money by his pen in spare moments, and his mind was too full of plans to worry much about his shabby clothes. he sometimes worried about his sister, and thought it hard that she should have the cares of a household on her shoulders at an age when other girls were having the time of their lives, but he solaced himself with the thought that some day he would make it up to jean, that some day she should have everything that now she was missing, full measure pressed down and running over. it never occurred to the boy that jean's youth would pass, and whatever he might be able to give her later, he could never give her that back.

pamela returned to hillview in the middle of the month, just before

david left.

bella bathgate owned that she was glad to have her back. that indomitable spinster had actually missed her lodger. she was surprised at her own pleasure in seeing the boxes carried upstairs again, in hearing the soft voice talking to mawson, in sniffing the faint sweet scent that seemed to hang about the house when miss reston was in it, conquering the grimmer odour of naphtha and boiled cabbage which generally held sway.

bella had missed mawson too. it was fine to have her back again in her cosy kitchen, enjoying her supper and full of tales of the glories of champertoun. bella's face grew even longer than it was naturally as she heard of the magnificence of that ancient house, of the chapel, of the ballroom, of the number of bedrooms, of the man-servants and maid-servants, of the motors and horses.

"forty bedrooms!" she said, in scandalised tones. "the thing's rideeclous. mair like an institution than a private hoose."

"oh, it's a gentleman's 'ouse," said mawson proudly—"the sort of thing miss reston's accustomed to. at bidborough, i'm told, there's bedrooms to 'old a regiment, and the same at mintern abbas, but i've never been there yet. it was all the talk in the servants' 'all at champertoun 'oo would be lady bidborough. there were several likely young ladies there, but 'e didn't seem partial to any of them."

"whaur's he awa to the noo?"

"back to london for a bit, i 'eard, and later on we're joining 'im at bidborough. beller, i was thinking to myself when they were h'all talking, what if lady b. should be a priorsford lady? his lordship did seem h'attentive in at the rigs. wouldn't it be a fine thing for miss jean?"

miss bathgate suddenly had a recollection of jean as she had seen her pass that morning—a wistful face under a shabby hat.

"hut," she said, tossing her head and lying glibly. "it's ma opeenion that the lord askit miss jean when he was in priorsford, and she simply sent him to the right about."

she took a drink of tea, with a defiant twirl of her little finger, and pretended not to see the shocked expression on mawson's face. to mawson it sounded like sacrilege for anyone to refuse anything to his lordship.

"oh, beller! miss jean would 'ave jumped at 'im!"

"naething o' the kind," said miss bathgate fiercely, forgetting all about her former pessimism as to jean's chance of getting a man, and desiring greatly to champion her cause. "d'ye think miss jean's sitting here waitin' to jump at a man like a cock at a grossit? na! he'll be a lucky man that gets her, and weel his lordship kens it. she's no pented up to the een-holes like thae london jezebels. her looks'll stand wind and water. she's a kind, wise lassie, and if she condescends to the lord, i'm sure i hope he'll be guid to her. for ma ain pairt i wud faur rather see her marry a dacent, ordinary man like a minister or a doctor—but we've nane o' thae kind needin' wives in priorsford the noo, so miss jean 'll mebbe hev to fa' back on a lord…."

on the afternoon of the day this conversation took place in hillview kitchen, jean sat in the living-room of the rigs, a very depressed little figure. it was one of those days in which things seem to take a positive pleasure in going wrong. to start with, the kitchen range could not go on, as something had happened to the boiler, and that had shattered mrs. m'cosh's placid temper. also the bill for mending it would be large, and probably the landlord would make a fuss about paying it. then mhor had put a newly-soled boot right on the hot bar of the fire and burned it across, and jock had thrown a ball and broken a precious spode dish that had been their mother's. but the worst thing of all was that peter was lost, had been lost for three days, and now they felt they must give up hope. jock and mhor were in despair (which may have accounted for their abandoned conduct in burning boots and breaking old china), and in their hearts felt miserably guilty. peter had wanted to go with them that morning three days ago; he had stood patiently waiting before the front door, and they had sneaked quietly out at the back without him. it was really for his own good, jock told mhor; it was because the gamekeeper had said if he got peter in the peel woods again he would shoot him, and they had been going to the peel woods that morning—but nothing brought any comfort either to jock or mhor. for two nights mhor had sobbed himself to sleep openly, and jock had lain awake and cried when everyone else was sleeping.

they scoured the country in the daytime, helped by david and mr. jowett and other interested friends, but all to no purpose.

"if i knew god had him i wouldn't mind," said mhor, "but i keep seeing him in a trap watching for us to come and let him out. oh, peter, peter…."

so jean felt completely demoralised this january afternoon and sat in her most unbecoming dress, with the fire drearily, if economically, banked up with dross, hoping that no one would come near her. and mrs. duff-whalley and her daughter arrived to call.

it was at once evident that mrs. duff-whalley was on a very high horse indeed. her accent was at its most superior—not at all the accent she used on ordinary occasions—and her manner was an excellent imitation of that of a lady she had met at one of the neighbouring houses and greatly admired. her sharp eyes were all over the place, taking in jean's poor little home-made frock, the shabby slippers, the dull fire, the depressed droop of her hostess's shoulders.

jean was sincerely sorry to see her visitors. to cope with mrs. duff-whalley and her daughter one had to be in a state of robust health and high spirits.

"we ran in, jean—positively one has time for nothing these days—just to wish you a happy new-year though a fortnight of it is gone. and how are you? i do hope you had a very gay christmas, and loads of presents. muriel quite passed all limits. i told her i was quite ashamed of the shoals of presents, but of course the child has so many friends. the towers was full for christmas. dear gordon brought several cambridge friends, and they were so useful at all the festivities. lady tweedie said to me, 'mrs. duff-whalley, you really are a godsend with all these young men in this unmanned neighbourhood.' always so witty, isn't she? dear woman. by the way, jean, i didn't see you at the tweedies' dance, or the olivers' theatricals."

"no, i wasn't there. i hadn't a dress that was good enough, and i didn't want to be at the expense of hiring a carriage."

"oh, really! we had a small dance at the towers on christmas night—just a tiny affair, you know, really just our own house-party and such old friends as the tweedies and the olivers. we would have liked to ask you and your brother—i hear he's home from oxford—but you know what it is to live in a place like priorsford: if you ask one you have to ask everybody—and we decided to keep it entirely county—you know what i mean?"

"oh, quite," said jean; "i'm sure you were wise."

"we were so sorry," went on mrs. duff-whalley, "that dear lord bidborough and his charming sister couldn't come. we have got so fond of both of them. muriel and lord bidborough have so much in common—music, you know, and other things. i simply couldn't tear them away from the piano at the towers. isn't it wonderful how simple and pleasant they are considering their lineage? actually living in that little dog-hole of a hillview. i always think miss bathgate's such an insolent woman; no notion of her proper place. she looks at me as if she actually thought she was my equal, and wasn't she positively rude to you, muriel, when you called with some message?"

"oh, frightful woman!" said muriel airily. "she was most awfully rude to me. you would have thought that i wanted to burgle something." she gave an affected laugh. "i simply stared through her. i find that irritates that class of person frightfully … how do you like my sables, jean? yes—a present."

"they are beautiful," said jean serenely, but to herself she muttered bitterly, "opulent lumps!"

"david goes back to oxford next week," she said aloud, the thought of money recalling david's lack of it.

"oh, really! how exciting for him," mrs. duff-whalley said. "i suppose you won't have heard from miss reston since she went away?"

"i had a letter from her a few days ago."

mrs. duff-whalley waited expectantly for a moment, but as jean said nothing more she continued:

"did she talk of future plans? we simply must fix them both up for a week at the towers. lord bidborough told us he had quite fallen in love with priorsford and would be sure to come back. i thought it was so sweet of him. priorsford is such a dull little place."

"yes," said jean; "it was very condescending of him."

then she remembered richard plantagenet, her friend, his appreciation of everything, his love for the tweed, his passion for the hills, his kindness to herself and the boys—and her conscience pricked her. "but i think he meant it," she added.

"well," muriel said, "i fail to see what he could find to admire in priorsford. of all the provincial little holes! i'm constantly upbraiding mother for letting my father build a house here. if they had gone two or three miles out, but to plant themselves in a little dull town, always knocking up against the dull little inhabitants! positively it gets on my nerves. one can't go out without having to talk to mrs. jowett, or a dawson, or some of the villa dwellers. as i said to lady tweedie yesterday when i met her in the eastgate, 'positively,' i said, 'i shall scream if i have to say to anyone else, "yes, isn't it a nice quiet day for the time of year?"' i'm just going to pretend i don't see people now."

"muriel, darling, you mustn't make yourself unpopular. it's not like london, you know, where you can pick and choose. i quite agree that the priorsford people need to be kept in their places, but one needn't be rude. and some of the people, the aborigines, as dear gordon calls them, are really quite nice. there are about half a dozen men one can ask to dinner, and that new doctor—i forget his name—is really quite a gentleman. plays bridge."

jean laughed suddenly and mrs. duff-whalley looked inquiringly at her.

"oh," she said, blushing, "i remembered the definition of a gentleman in the irish r.m.—'a man who has late dinner and takes in the london times.' … won't you stay to tea?"

"oh no, thank you, the car is at the gate. we are going on to tea with lady tweedie. 'you simply must spare me an afternoon, mrs. duff-whalley,' she said to me the other day, and i rang her up and said we would come to-day. life is really such a rush. and we are going abroad in february and march. we must have some sunshine. not that we need it for our health, for we're both as strong as ponies. i haven't been a day in bed for years, and muriel the same, i'm thankful to say. we've never had to waste money on doctors. and the war kept us so cooped up, it's really pleasant to feel we can get about again. i thought on our way south we would make a tour of the battlefields. i think one owes it to the men who fought for us to go and visit their graves—poor fellows! i saw mrs. macdonald—you go to their church, don't you?—at a meeting yesterday, and i said if she would give me particulars i'd try and see her boy's grave. they won't be able to go themselves, poor souls, and i thought it would be a certain consolation to them to know that a friend had gone. i must say, i think she might have shown more gratitude. she was really quite off-hand. i think ministers' wives have often bad manners; they deal so much with the working classes…."

jean thought of a saying she had read of dr. johnson's: "he talked to me at the club one day concerning catiline's conspiracy—so i withdrew my attention and thought about tom thumb." when she came back to mrs. duff-whalley that lady was saying:

"did you say, jean, that miss reston is coming back to priorsford soon?"

"yes, any day."

"fancy! and her brother too?"

jean said she thought not: lord bidborough was going to london.

"ah! then we shall see him there. i don't know when i met anyone with whom i felt so instantly at home. he has such easy manners. it really is a pleasure to meet a gentleman. i do wish my boy gordon had seen more of him. i'm sure they would have been friends. so good for a boy, you know, to have a man of the world to go about with. well, good-bye, jean. you really look very washed out. what you really need is a thorough holiday and change of scene. why, you haven't been away for years. two months in london would do wonders for you—"

the handle of the door turned and a voice said, "may i come in?" and without waiting for permission pamela reston walked in, bare-headed, wrapped in a cloak, and with her embroidery-frame under her arm, as she had come many times to the rigs during her stay at hillview.

when jean heard the voice it seemed to her as if everything was transformed. mrs. duff-whalley and muriel, their sables and their rolls-royce, ceased to be great weights crushing life and light out of her, and became small, ordinary, rather vulgar figures; she forgot her own home-made frock and shabby slippers; and even the fire seemed to feel that things were brightening, for a flame struggled through the backing and gave promise of future cheerfulness.

"oh, pamela!" cried jean. there was more of relief and appeal in her voice than she knew, and pamela, seeing the visitors, prepared to do battle.

"i thought i should surprise you, jean, girl. i came by the two train, for i was determined to be here in time for tea." she slipped off her coat and took jean in her arms. "it is good to be back…. ah, mrs. duff-whalley, how are you? have you kept priorsford lively through the christmas-time, you and your daughter?"

"well, i was just telling jean we've done our best. my son gordon, and his cambridge friends, delightful young fellows, you know, perfect gentlemen. but we did miss you and your brother. is dear lord bidborough not with you?"

"my brother has gone to london."

"naturally," said mrs. duff-whalley, nodding her head knowingly. "all young men like london, so gay, you know, restaurants and theatres and night-clubs—"

"oh, i hope not," laughed pamela. "my brother's rather extraordinary; he cares very little for london pleasures. the open road is all he asks—a born gipsy."

"fancy! well, it's a nice taste too. but i would rather ride in my car

than tramp the roads. i like my comforts. muriel and i are going to

london shortly, on our way to the continent. will you be there, miss

reston?"

"probably, and if i am jean will be with me. do you hear that, jean?" and paying no attention to the dubious shake of jean's head she went on: "we must give jean a very good time and have lots of parties. perhaps, mrs. duff-whalley, you will bring your daughter to one of jean's parties when you are in london? you have been so very kind to us that we should greatly like to have an opportunity of showing you some hospitality. do let us know your whereabouts. it would be fun—wouldn't it, jean?—to entertain priorsford friends in london."

for a moment mrs. duff-whalley looked very like a ferret that wanted to bite; then she smiled and said:

"well, really, it's most kind of you. i'm sure jean should be very grateful to you. you're a kind of fairy godmother to this little cinderella. only jean must remember that it isn't very nice to come back to drudgery after an hour or two at the ball," and she gave an unpleasant laugh.

"ah, but you forget your fairy tale," said pamela. "cinderella had a happy ending. she wasn't left to the drudgery, but reigned with the prince in the palace."

"it's hardly polite surely," muriel put in, "to liken poor little jean to a cinder-witch."

jean laughed and held out a foot in a shabby slipper. "i've felt like one all day. it's been such a grubby day, no kitchen range on, no hot water, and mrs. m'cosh actually out of temper. now you've come, pamela, it will be all right—but it has been wretched. i hadn't the spirit to change my frock or put on decent slippers, that's why i've reminded you all of cinderella…. are you going, mrs. duff-whalley? good-bye."

mrs. duff-whalley had, with an effort, regained her temper, and was now all smiles.

"we must see you often at the towers while you are in priorsford, dear miss reston. muriel and i are on our way to tea with lady tweedie. she will be so excited to hear you are back. you have made quite a place for yourself in our little circle. good-bye, jean, we shall be seeing you some time. come, muriel. well—t'ta."

when the visitors had rolled away in their car jean told pamela about

peter.

"i couldn't tell you before those opulent, well-pleased people. it's absolutely breaking our hearts. mrs. m'cosh looks ten years older, and jock and mhor go about quite silent thinking out wicked things to do to relieve their feelings. david has gone over all the hills looking for him, but he may be lying trapped in some wood. come and speak to mrs. m'cosh for a minute. between peter and the boiler she is in despair."

they found mrs. m'cosh baking with the gas oven.

"it's a scone for the tea. when i seen miss reston it kinna cheered me up. hae ye tell't her aboot peter?"

"he will turn up yet, mrs. m'cosh," pamela assured her. "peter's such a clever dog, he won't let himself be beat. even if he is trapped i believe he will manage to get out."

"it's to be hoped so, for the want o' him is something awful."

a knock came to the back door and a boy's voice said, "is peter in?" it was a message boy who knew all peter's tricks—knew that however friendly peter was with a message boy on the road, he felt constrained to jump out at him when he appeared at the back door with a basket. the innocent question was too much for mrs. m'cosh.

"na," she said bitterly. "peter's no' in, so ye needna hold on to the door. peter's lost. deid, as likely as not." she turned away in bitterness of heart, leaving jean to take the parcels from the boy.

the boys came in quietly after another fruitless search. they did not ask hopefully, as they had done at first, if peter had come home, and jean did not ask how they had fared.

the sight of pamela cheered them a good deal.

"does she know?" jock asked, and jean nodded.

pamela kept the talk going through tea, and told them so many funny stories that they had to laugh.

"if only," said mhor, "peter was here now the honourable's back we would be happy."

"there's a big box of hard chocolates behind that cushion," pamela said, pointing to the sofa.

it was at that moment that the door opened, and mrs. m'cosh put her head in. her face wore a broad smile.

"the wanderer has returned," she said.

at that moment jean thought the glasgow accent the most delightful thing on earth and the smile on mrs. m'cosh's face the most beautiful. with a shout they all made for the kitchen.

there was peter, thin and dirty, but in excellent spirits, wagging his tail so violently that his whole body wagged.

"see," said mrs. m'cosh, "he's been in a trap, but he's gotten out.

peter's a cliver lad."

jock and mhor had no words. they lay on the linoleum-covered floor while

mrs. m'cosh fetched hot milk, and crushed their faces against the little

black-and-white body they had thought they might never see again, while

peter licked his own torn paw and their faces in turn.

* * * * *

it was wonderfully comfortable to see pamela settle down in the corner of the sofa with her embroidery and ask news of all her friends. jean had been a little shy of meeting pamela, wondering if lord bidborough had told her anything, wondering if she were angry that jean should have had such an offer, or resentful that she had refused it. but pamela talked quite naturally about her brother, and gave no hint that she knew of any reason why jean should blush when his name was mentioned.

"and how are all the people—the jowetts and the watsons and the dawsons? and the dear macdonalds? i picked up a book in edinburgh that i think mr. macdonald will like. and lewis elliot—have you seen him lately, jean?"

"he's away. didn't you know? he went just after you did. he was in london at christmas—at least, that was the postmark on the parcels, but he has never written a word. he was always a bad correspondent, but he'll turn up one of these days."

mrs. m'cosh came in with the letters from the evening post.

"actually a letter for me," said jean, "from london. i expect it's from that landlord of ours. surely he won't be giving us notice to leave the rigs. pamela, i'm afraid to open it. it looks like a lawyer's letter."

"open it then."

jean opened it slowly and read the enclosure with a puzzled frown; then she dropped it with a cry.

pamela looked up from her work to see jean with tears running down her face. jock and mhor stopped what they were doing and came to look at her. peter rubbed himself against her legs by way of comfort.

"my dear," said pamela, "is there anything wrong?"

"oh, do you remember the little old man who came one day to look at the house and stayed to tea and i sang 'strathairlie' to him? he's dead."

jean's tears flowed afresh as she said the words. "how i wish i had been kinder to him. i somehow felt he was ill."

"and why have they written to tell you?" pamela asked.

jean picked up the letter which had fallen on the floor.

"it's from his lawyer, and he says he has left me money…. read it,

pamela. i don't seem able to see the words."

so pamela read aloud the letter that converted poverty-stricken jean into a very wealthy woman.

jean's face was dead white, and she lay back as if stunned, while jock gave solemn utterance to the most complicated ejaculation he had yet achieved: "goodness-gracious-mercy-moses-murphy-mumph-mumph-mumph!"

mhor said nothing, but stared with grave green eyes at the stricken figure of the heiress.

"it's awful," jean moaned.

"but, my dear," said pamela, "i thought you wanted to be rich."

"oh—rich in a gentle way, a few hundreds a year—but this—"

"poor jean, buried under bullion."

"you're all looking at me differently already," cried poor jean. "mhor, it's just the same me. money can't make any real difference. don't stare at me like that."

"will peter have a diamond collar now?" mhor asked.

"awful effect of sudden riches," said pamela.

"bear up, jean—i've no doubt you'll be able to get rid of your money. just think of all the people you will be able to help. you needn't spend it on yourself you know."

"no, but suppose it's the ruin of the boys! i've often heard of sudden fortunes making people go all wrong."

"now, jean, does jock look as if anything so small as a fortune could put him wrong? and david—by the way, where is david?"

"out," said jock, "getting something at the stationer's. let me tell him when he comes in."

"then i'll tell mrs. m'cosh," cried mhor, and, followed by peter, he rushed from the room.

the colour was beginning to come back to jean's face, and the stunned look to go out of her eyes.

"why in the world has he left it to me?" she asked pamela.

"you see the lawyer suggests coming to see you. he will explain it all.

it's a wonderful stroke of luck, jean. no wonder you can't take it in."

"i feel like the little old woman in the nursery-rhyme who said, 'this is none of i.' i'm bound to wake up and find i've dreamt it…. oh, mrs. m'cosh!"

"it's the wee laddie scott to say his mother canna come and wash the morn's mornin'; she's no weel. it's juist as weel, seein' the biler's gone wrang. i suppose i'd better gie the laddie a piece?"

"yes, and a penny." then jean remembered her new possessions. "no, give him this, please, mrs. m'cosh."

mrs. m'cosh received the coin and gasped. "hauf a croon!" she said.

"silver," said pamela, "is to be no more accounted of than it was in the days of solomon!"

"d'ye ken whit ye'll dae?" demanded mrs. m'cosh. "ye'll get the laddie taen up by the pollis. gie him thruppence—it's mair wise-like."

"oh, very well," said jean, thwarted at the very beginning of her efforts in philanthropy. "i'll go and see his mother to-morrow and find out what she needs. have you heard the news, mrs. m'cosh?"

mrs. m'cosh came farther into the room and folded her hands on her snow-white apron.

"weel, mhor came in and tell't me some kinna story aboot a lot o' money, but i thocht he was juist bletherin'. is't a fac'?"

"it would seem to be. the lawyer in london writes that mr. peter reid—d'you perhaps remember an old man who came here to tea one day in october?—he came from london and lived at the temperance—has left me all his fortune, which is a large one. i can't think why…. and i thought he was so poor, i wanted to have him here to stay, to save him paying hotel bills. poor man, he must have been very friendless when he left his money to a stranger."

"it's a queer turn up onyway. i juist hope it's a' richt. but i would see it afore ye spend it. i wis readin' a bit in the papers the ither day aboot a wumman who got word o' a fortune sent her, and went and got a' sorts o' braw claes and things ower the heid o't, and here it wis a' a begunk. and a freend o' mine hed a husband oot aboot canada somewhere, and she got word o' his death, and she claimed the insurance, and got verra braw blacks, and here wha should turn up but his lordship, as leevin' as you or me! eh, puir thing, she wis awfu' annoyed…. you be carefu', miss jean, and see the colour o' yer money afore ye begin giein' awa' hauf-croons instead o' pennies."