There is no sweeter spot in all the west Highlands of Scotland than the valley that runs back from that far penetrating arm of the sea, Loch Fyne, to Craigraven. There, after a succession of wild and gloomy glens, one comes upon a sweet little valley, sheltered from the east and north winds and open to the warm western sea and to the long sunny days of summer. It is a valley full of balmy airs, fragrant with the scents of sea and heather, and shut in from the roar and rush of the great world, just over the ragged rim of the craggy hills that guard it. A veritable heaven on earth for the nerve-racked and brain-wearied, for the heart-sick and soul-burdened; for it was the pleasure of the lady of Ruthven Hall, a kindly, homely mansion house that stood at the valley's head, to bring hither such of her friends or her friends' friends as needed the healing that soft airs and sunny days, with long quiet hours filled with love that understands, can give.
To this spot Lady Ruthven herself had been brought, a girl fresh from the shelter of her English home, the bride of Sir Hector Ruthven; and here for five happy summers they had come from the strenuous life of Diplomatic Service to find rest. Here, too, came Sir Hector, when his work was done, still a young man, to rest under the yews in the little churchyard near the Hall, leaving his lady with her little daughter and her infant son to administer his vast estates. After the first sharp grief had passed, Lady Ruthven took up her burden and, with patient courage, bore it for the sake of the dead first, and then for the sake of the living. Round her son, growing into sturdy young manhood, her heart's roots wound themselves, striking deep into his life, till one day he, too, was laid beneath the yew trees in the churchyard. From that deep shadow she came forth, bearing her cross of service to her kind, to live a life fragrant with the airs of Heaven, in fellowship with Him who, for love of man, daily gave Himself to die.
It was through her nephew, Alan Ruthven, artist and poet, pure of heart and clean of life, that Jack Charrington came to know Ruthven Hall and its dwellers. The young men first met in London, and later in Edinburgh, where both were pursuing their professions with a devotion that did not forbid attention to sundry social duties, or prevent them from taking long walks over the Lammermuirs on Saturday afternoons. To Ruthven Hall, Alan was permitted to bring his young Canadian friend, who, he was secretly convinced, stood sorely in need of just such benediction as his saintly aunt could bestow. The day of Jack Charrington's coming to Ruthven Hall was the birthday of his better life, when he had a vision of his profession in the light of that great ministry to the world's sick and wounded and weary by Him who came to the world "to heal." In another sense, too, it was for him the beginning of days, for it was the day on which his eyes first fell upon sunny, saucy Maisie Ruthven. Thenceforth the orbit of Jack's life swung round Ruthven Hall, and thus it fell that when, on one of his visits to the great metropolis, he found Iola exhausted after her season's triumphs and forbidden to sing again for a year, and so well-nigh heart-broken, he bethought him of the little valley of rest in the far western Highlands. Straightway he confided to Lady Ruthven his concern for his co-patriot and friend, giving as much of her story as he thought it well that both Lady Ruthven and her daughter should know. Hence, when they went north to their Highland valley again, they carried with them Iola, to be rested and nursed, and to be healed in heart, too, if that could be. For Lady Ruthven, with her eyes made keen by grief and love, had not been long in discovering that, with Iola, the deeper sickness was that which no physician's medicine can reach.
Through the early summer they waited for signs of returning health to their guest, but neither the most watchful care nor the most tender nursing could keep the strength from gradually waning.
"She is fretting her heart out. That's the chief cause of this terrible restlessness," said Alan Ruthven to his friend, who was visiting at the Hall.
"Partly," replied Charrington gloomily, "but not altogether, I fear. This restlessness is symptomatic. We must have Bruce Fraser out again. But if we only could get track of Boyle it would greatly help. She wrote yesterday to her great friend, Miss Robertson, who, more than anyone, has kept in touch with him."
"Charrington," inquired Alan hesitatingly, "would you advise that he should be looked up? Of course, you credit me with being perfectly disinterested. I gave up my dream some time ago, you know."
"Oh, certainly, Ruthven, I know, but--"
"You fear I'm prejudiced. Well, I confess I am. I hate to think of a girl like that having anything to do with a man unworthy of her, as from what you have told me of him he must be."
"Unworthy!" cried Jack. "Did I ever call him unworthy? It depends upon what you mean. He gambles. He has terrific passions; but he's a man through and through, and he's clean and honourable."
"Ah," said Ruthven, drawing a deep breath, "then would to Heaven she could find him! For this fretting is like a fever in her bones."
"At present, we can only wait for an answer to her letter."
And so they waited, each one of the little group vying with the other in providing interest and amusement for the weary, restless, fevered girl. Often, at the first, the old impatience would break out, mostly in her talk with Charrington, at rare times to her hostess, too, but at such times followed by quick penitence.
"Dear Lady Ruthven," she said one day after one of her little outbreaks, "I wish I were like you. You are so sweetly good and so perfectly self-controlled. Even I cannot wear out your patience.
You must have been born good and sweet."
