Margot was tempted to protest against the accusation, but reflection
prompted silence, since after all she was cross, and there was no
denying it.
She took the little man's advice, and "let off steam" by the vigour and
determination with which she hurled pebbles into the lake, making them
skim along the surface in professional manner for an ever longer and
longer space before finally disappearing from sight.
The Chieftain cheered her on with example and precept, and, as usual,
irritation died a speedy death in the presence of his bright, cheery
personality. While they were still laughing and cheering each other on
to fresh exploits, a lad from the post office passed along the road, and
the Chieftain wheeled round to call out the usual question-"Anything for me? Is the post in already?"
The lad shook his head. He was a red-headed sociable-looking creature
who seemed only too glad to enliven his walk by a chat en route. His
teeth showed in a cheerful smile as he replied-"The post willna be here for an hour or mair. It's just a telegram!"
A telegram! It said much for the peaceful seclusion of the Glen that
the very sound of the word brought a chill of apprehension to the
listening ears. No one received telegrams at the Nag's Head. One and
all the visitors had sojourned thither with the aim of getting away as
far as possible from the world of telegrams, and electric trams, and
tube railways, and all the nerve-shattering inventions of modern life.
Their ambition was to outlive the sense of hurry; to forget that such a
thing as hurry existed, and browse along in peaceful uninterrupted ease.
To-day, however, in that far-away world beyond the heather-clad
mountains something must have happened of such importance to some member
of the little party that it could not wait for the leisurely medium of
the post, but for good or ill had demanded instant attention.
Margot and the Chieftain stood in silence for a moment before he asked
the second question.
"Who is it for?--What's the name?"
"Macalister!"
The name was pronounced with the lengthy drawl to which the hearers were
growing familiar. They looked at each other with sighs of relief,
followed swiftly by contrition.
"I hope nothing is wrong! I hope it's not bad news. Poor Mr
Macalister's `nearves'!"
"No, no! Nothing of the sort. Why imagine evil? Always look at the
bright side as long as you can. Take for granted that it is good news,
splendid news--the news he would like most to hear. Cut along, laddie!
People pay for telegrams with the intention of getting them to their
destination as quickly as possible. We'll defer the pleasure of a
conversation to our next merry meeting."