My guardian was a man whose custom it was to give large and dignified parties.
Among his grand and fashionable guests there was nearly always a sprinkling of the more important members of the literary world. The night after I arrived there was to be a particularly notable dinner. I had come prepared to appear at it. Jean had brought fine array for me and a case of jewels. I knew I must be "dressed up" and look as important as I could. When I went up-stairs after tea, Jean was in my room laying things out on the bed.
"The man you like so much is to dine here to-night, Ysobel," she said. "Mr. Hector MacNairn."
I believe I even put my hand suddenly to my heart as I stood and looked at her, I was so startled and so glad.
"You must tell him how much you love his books," she said. She had a quiet, motherly way.
"There will be so many other people who will want to talk to him," I answered, and I felt a little breathless with excitement as I said it.
"And I should be too shy to know how to say such things properly."
"Don't be afraid of him," was her advice.
"The man will be like his books, and they're the joy of your life."
She made me look as nice as she could in the new dress she had brought; she made me wear the Muircarrie diamonds and sent me downstairs.
It does not matter who the guests were;I scarcely remember. I was taken in to dinner by a stately elderly man who tried to make me talk, and at last was absorbed by the clever woman on his other side.
I found myself looking between the flowers for a man's face I could imagine was Hector MacNairn's. I looked up and down and saw none I could believe belonged to him. There were handsome faces and individual ones, but at first I saw no Hector MacNairn. Then, on bending forward a little to glance behind an epergne, I found a face which it surprised and pleased me to see. It was the face of the traveler who had helped the woman in mourning out of the railway carriage, baring his head before her grief. I could not help turning and speaking to my stately elderly partner.
"Do you know who that is--the man at the other side of the table?" I asked.
Old Lord Armour looked across and answered with an amiable smile. "It is the author the world is talking of most in these days, and the talking is no new thing. It's Mr. Hector MacNairn."
No one but myself could tell how glad I was.
It seemed so right that he should be the man who had understood the deeps of a poor, passing stranger woman's woe. I had so loved that quiet baring of his head! All at once I knew I should not be afraid of him. He would understand that I could not help being shy, that it was only my nature, and that if I said things awkwardly my meanings were better than my words. Perhaps I should be able to tell him something of what his books had been to me.
I glanced through the flowers again--and he was looking at me! I could scarcely believe it for a second. But he was. His eyes--his wonderful eyes--met mine. I could not explain why they were wonderful. I think it was the clearness and understanding in them, and a sort of great interestedness. People sometimes look at me from curiosity, but they do not look because they are really interested.
I could scarcely look away, though I knew I must not be guilty of staring. A footman was presenting a dish at my side. I took something from it without knowing what it was.
Lord Armour began to talk kindly. He was saying beautiful, admiring things of Mr. MacNairn and his work. I listened gratefully, and said a few words myself now and then. I was only too glad to be told of the great people and the small ones who were moved and uplifted by his thoughts.
"You admire him very much, I can see," the amiable elderly voice said.
I could not help turning and looking up. "It is as if a great, great genius were one's friend-- as if he talked and one listened," I said. "He is like a splendid dream which has come true."
Old Lord Armour looked at me quite thoughtfully, as if he saw something new in me.
"That is a good way of putting it, Miss Muircarrie," he answered. "MacNairn would like that. You must tell him about it yourself."
I did not mean to glance through the flowers again, but I did it involuntarily. And I met the other eyes--the wonderful, interested ones just as I had met them before. It almost seemed as if he had been watching me. It might be, I thought, because he only vaguely remembered seeing me before and was trying to recall where we had met.
When my guardian brought his men guests to the drawing-room after dinner, I was looking over some old prints at a quiet, small table.
There were a few minutes of smiling talk, and then Sir Ian crossed the room toward me, bringing some one with him. It was Hector MacNairn he brought.
"Mr. MacNairn tells me you traveled together this afternoon without knowing each other," he said. "He has heard something of Muircarrie and would like to hear more, Ysobel.
She lives like a little ghost all alone in her feudal castle, Mr. MacNairn. We can't persuade her to like London."
I think he left us alone together because he realized that we should get on better without a companion.
Mr. MacNairn sat down near me and began to talk about Muircarrie. There were very few places like it, and he knew about each one of them. He knew the kind of things Angus Macayre knew--the things most people had either never heard of or had only thought of as legends. He talked as he wrote, and I scarcely knew when he led me into talking also. Afterward I realized that he had asked me questions I could not help answering because his eyes were drawing me on with that quiet, deep interest. It seemed as if he saw something in my face which made him curious.
I think I saw this expression first when we began to speak of our meeting in the railway carriage, and I mentioned the poor little fair child my heart had ached so for.
"It was such a little thing and it did so want to comfort her! Its white little clinging hands were so pathetic when they stroked and patted her," I said. "And she did not even look at it."
He did not start, but he hesitated in a way which almost produced the effect of a start.
