If Spring Be Late

By Mabel Harmer

(Previous chapter)

Chapter 8

Any plans for making use of the castle or its grounds were left in abeyance for the time being. The Taggarts planned to visit for a day in Edinburgh and then return home by way of the coastal highway through the Lowlands. Maureen decided to remain in the village to do further research at the castle library.

Before leaving, they all went over to the churchyard to look over the ancient family burial ground. A gardener at work informed them that the great yew tree on the grounds was one of the oldest in that part of the country. Maureen was somewhat surprised to find how many of the headstones bore the name of Taggart. “Do you have any records within the church?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss, to be sure,” was the answer. “But you’ll have to see the minister about that. My concern is only with the growing things out here.”

She was very much interested. Right here at the seat of her ancestral home, she might find a wealth of material for her family research. The records might even equal those at the castle.

When she contacted the minister, however, he said that he feared she would find little that was new to her work. He said that photostatic copies had been made of all of their records and he was sure she had seen most of them, either at the Public Records Office or at Somerset House.

The library at the castle was a different matter, however. In addition to the huge Bible, with its lengthy records, there were numerous volumes which gave promise of other data. The prospect of rewards looked enticing — providing she could surmount the problems involved. It was so cold in the library that she dreaded the thoughts of spending many hours there at any one time. Transportation to and from her hotel at the village created another problem.

She partially solved the first by wearing all the warm clothing she owned and, for the second, she purchased a bicycle. It meant an hour’s pedaling morning and evening, sometimes in the rain. The one bright feature was that the uphill ride was in the morning when she was fresh, and the downhill in late afternoon, which turned out to be rather fun.

On the third morning of her work she was happily surprised to find a blazing log in the fireplace. “How wonderful!” she exclaimed. “But where did you get the wood? I haven’t seen any trees near enough to be cut and carried here.”

“The wood wasn’t the main problem,” Robert answered. “I keep rather a good supply on hand. The problem was to get the chimney cleaned out. I had to rustle a good, old-fashioned chimney sweep for that task.”

“You can’t imagine how grateful I am,” she said. “Just to see that cheerful fire lifts my spirits no end. I shall move over as close as I can to do my work.”

“You’ll have to move close to get much good out of it,” he agreed. “After all these years it will take more than one day’s warming to penetrate much of this cold.”

A few days later the sun broke through with such warmth that

Maureen scarcely needed her sweater for the ride to the castle. Just inside the gates at the cottage, Robert met her, saying, “Guess what? You get a holiday. I’ve packed a lunch and we are going for a picnic.”

“How lovely!” she responded. “Where do we go?”

“Just a climb up that hill to the east. There is a waterfall — small but beautiful — which you must see. It’s a good thing you are wearing those stout walking shoes. The climb isn’t far, but it is fairly rough.”

Maureen was glad for a holiday. With the sunshine so bright and the sweet smells of spring in the air, she had not looked forward to going into the dark rooms of the castle.

Robert led the way, carrying a blanket and the picnic basket. There was just the barest suggestion of a path and, at times, he stopped to help her over a rock or a place that was extra steep. By the time they reached the waterfall, she had to pause for breath to exclaim over its beauty.

“I was sure you would appreciate it,” he said, as he spread the blanket. “Now, sit down and rest while you enjoy the view.”

Below the glen stretched out to the castle grounds and beyond, where some of the orchards were just now beginning to show their first blossoms.

“I had hoped to see more spring flowers,” she said. “The daffodils on the mall toward Buckingham Palace were all in full bloom last week.”

“Usually we have more here, too, at this time of year. But spring is late. However,” he added with a smile, “if spring be late, my love, do not deplore. You’ll savor summer’s glories all the more.”

For a moment Maureen was too much taken back to make an answer or comment of any kind. Had he been quoting when he said “my love,” or had he spoken the words with any degree of meaning? Finally, she said, “You are a poet as well as an artist, it seems.”

“Only at times such as this,” he replied. “I think that you would find Scotland quite enchanting, if you should decide to remain.”

“Yes,” she agreed, somewhat hesitantly. “I think that I should.”

“Then we must do all that we can to make you sure,” he said, opening the lunch basket.

They ate more or less in silence. Then Maureen, anxious to keep to a safe subject, asked, “What flowers do you have here, besides the heather, that is?”

“Ah, what flowers do we not have!” he exclaimed. “In the summer there are hedgerows fragrant with honeysuckle, and pink and white roses. Or they are golden with ragwort. The meadows are rich with the rosyred spikes of the loosestrife and willow herb— of white and pink drifts of cow-parsnip and angelica, pink heads of field thistles, yellow heads of sow thistles. There is the hog-bean, a close ally of the gentian, and the slender water lobelia, with its nodding, pale lilac flowers. I suppose I need not remind you of the bluebells. Ah, you must see Scotland in the summer!”

“Now I know that you are a poet,” said Maureen lightly. “And remember, I am a librarian. I know poetry when I hear it.”

“As you will,” he responded with a smile and a shrug. “For you I shall be a poet.”

On their return to the cottage, she stopped briefly to greet the two children, who had just returned from school, and then made her way back to the hotel. She was too much involved emotionally to go to work in the dark library of the castle.

Back in her room, she settled down as best she could to think. Unless she was very much mistaken, Robert McPherson’s words had been the beginning of a serious courtship. No, actually it had begun at Christmas time when he gave her the painting of the cottage. She had denied it to the suggestions of the family and to herself. She could not deny it any longer.

“If spring be late, my love. . . .” The spring in her life was late. She had passed now into its summer. But would she “savor summer’s glories all the more?” Perhaps. What a lovely place and setting for romance! First, the charming and personable Robert McPherson. Then, the delightful children — a readymade family who could well use a mother. The cottage, which she had loved practically unsight and unseen. She must get away, and quickly, to think this over before she succumbed to the spell of its enchantment.

She would go and visit the homes of Bobbie Burns and Sir Walter Scott, for she couldn’t dream of leaving Scotland without doing this, in any case. Now was certainly the right time. She would go to Scott’s Abbottsford and Burn’s Ayrshire. By then she would go back to England and collect her thoughts and emotions in a more mundane atmosphere.

She spent one last day at the castle, working in the library, and then announced that she had completed her work there and was leaving for a tour of the homes of the literary giants of Scotland.

The three McPhersons were openly regretful to see her leave — Jeannie and Jamie quite vocally so.

“But there are hundreds of books in the library,” said Jamie. “Are you quite sure that you have read them all?”

“No, but I have read the ones I thought would help me with my work. The others I shall have to leave until another day.”

“If you will stay I will bake you a cake,” said Jeannie.

“And I shall write you a poem,” said her father.

Maureen had a hard time keeping her composure. For a moment she was sorely tempted to say, “Yes, I’ll stay.” Instead, she said, “I thank you all very much, but I’m afraid that I shall have to go. Perhaps I can come back some other day and read the books, enjoy the cake, and hear the poem.”

She kissed the children and gave her hand to Robert who held it for several long moments. “We’ll be waiting for you,” he said.

She hurried away, but when she reached the bend in the road she looked back for a last glance at the castle and the cottage.

Early the next morning she took a bus for Abbotsford. This part of Scotland was new to her, and she enjoyed it very much. Over and over again she asked herself the question, “Could I be happy here?” So far there was no definite answer.

Not even when she arrived back at Bahlen and to the routines she had left, could she find any answer. “One thing is sure,” she told herself, “my work here is done. I can no longer be satisfied to ride into London each day and pore over the same books at the libraries.”

She arranged for photostatic copies to be made of the records in the great family Bible. She did not plan to take the book itself away. She thought that it should remain in Britain — perhaps even at the castle. When the work was finished, she gave it back to Bruce to keep or return as he might decide.

“Between the records in London and what I found at Kirkwood, I’ve done far better at my research than I had ever hoped to do. I’ve seen the castle and found my treasure there. I think perhaps I shall plan on returning home soon.”

“We had hoped that you would stay,” Bruce began.

“You in the cottage and we in the castle,” interposed Kitty. “Although, of course, if you prefer the castle, there is ample room for all of us.”

“Of the two,” said Maureen with a smile, “I should much prefer the cottage, believe me. But I wouldn’t dream of disturbing the present occupants.”

“I wasn’t thinking of disturbing them either,” related Kitty. “And if you don’t take Robert, I shall hurry and grow up so that I may have him.”

“You have my permission. Now all you need is that of your parents and that of the gentleman concerned.”

Maureen had hoped to see Diane married before she left, but the young couple felt that they should wait until Sydney was out of school, otherwise Diane would have to leave her work and move to Cambridge, which was out of the question for the present. He had agreed that they should be married by the Mormon elders and, for this, both Diane and Maureen were very grateful.

“I feel that this is one more choice reward for my coming here,” Maureen said. “I am sure that Sydney will come into the Church and you will both find eternal happiness.”

“I, also, am sure,” said Diane. “Meeting you on the boat was the greatest blessing imaginable. I only wish that you could find the same happiness.”

“Perhaps I shall,” Maureen smiled.

She had planned on touring some of the principal countries of Europe before her return and had decided to start with Holland, since the tulip season was now in full swing.

Two days before she was to leave she received an airmail letter from Steve Madsen. “I can’t make it all the way to Shannon this time,” he wrote. “But New York City is on the agenda. If you are planning to return home in May — as you once indicated — I can be at the Kennedy airport any day — any hour — in that first week. All I need is the assurance that there will be a passenger who would be willing to be met.”

She made a quick change in her plans. “Paris will have to wait for some later trip,” she said. “Much as I would love to verify the glories of Paris in the spring. So will Rome. It is more important now to get an early plane to New York City.” She found that she could get reservations in Amsterdam, which suited her plans perfectly. In fact, everything seemed to be shaping up altogether perfect.

On a day in late April she bade farewell to her cousins and Diane and left for Dover where she would take the ferry to Calais and then a train to Holland. “At least I shall see part of France in the springtime, if I do have to miss Paris,” she said. “And I’m sure that even a brief view of France will be worthwhile.”

Her two days in Holland were a delight. To ride through acres and acres of tulip fields, bright with blossoms, was something she had expected to see only in pictures. A day at Keukenhof — the beautiful park planted by the various growers, was another delight. The lovely gardens of tulips, in hundreds of different varieties, the hyacinths and daffodils presented a riot of color. She saw beauty even in the brick-lined streets and the never-ending lines of bicycle riders.

The air was almost balmy as she took the limousine for the airport. At the desk the clerk asked, “Where to, Miss?”

She hesitated. She had intended to say, “New York,” but the words didn’t come. She tried to picture Steve Madsen waiting for her at the airport, but the image was dim. The clerk looked at her expectantly and repeated his question.

“To London,” she said. “I am returning to London.”

Then, while awaiting her plane, she wrote two letters. One was addressed to Steve Madsen in Salt Lake City. The other to the McPherson family in Kirkwood, Scotland. The latter read simply, “I am coming back. This is to remind Jeannie of her promise to bake a cake. For Jamie to gather an armful of bluebells, and for Robert McPherson to write a poem. I am looking forward to a very long and very happy summer. Maureen.”

(The End)