“Did you see it?” Richard enquired.
“No, I did not see it, but my father saw it, and he would be telling us about it when we were children. Often and often he would be telling us. But that was not the only thing that happened. The Little People took away the good that was in the meal, so that the meal had no goodness in it at all, and they took away the goodness that was in the cow, so that there was no goodness in the milk. Well, my uncle he got thin and pale, and there was Fear in his eyes (for he did be knowing what the meaning of it was), so that when his friends went to see him they could not talk to him in comfort. They would sit with him in his little house, talking of this and that—but never talking of the Little People or what was happening to my uncle, for that would not be lucky at all—they would sit there with the collars of their coats about their ears for the wind that was blowing through the walls. And when they would be coming away they would be whispering to one another, and crossing their breasts for the fear that was in that place. Well, one day when they went to see my uncle he was not there, and there was no sign of him in the little field, nor in the byre. Only the cow was in the byre, lowing with pain, for she had not been milked that day, and her bag was full. And everybody knew that the Little People had come at last and taken my uncle away to be their servant to them in their houses; to tend their cattle and to draw water and hew wood. A year and a day passed, and my uncle came back, but there was nothing in him at all when he came back; no memory of what had happened to him, and no sense, no sense at all. He came to my home to live, for he could not be taking care of himself any more. We were in fear of him, for there was a strangeness in him—even those who did not be knowing his story knew the strangeness and turned from him with fear.”
“But they were bad fairies, then!” Richard cried.
“I think they are neither bad nor good—or perhaps they would be both,” Morag said in a puzzled manner. “For there are good things they are doing as well as bad things when they do be liking people.”
“I thought fairies were good,” said Richard. “I thought they were good and pretty and flew about with wings—”
“Och, no!” Morag replied. “Those are not real fairies at all—those are chust bairns’ tales. The Little People do not be having wings. They are like us, only not so big. Down below in their hills they have their homes, and their homes are like our homes. They have fires and beds, and the women cook and spin, and the men take care of the beasts chust like we do. They have no need of wings, the Little People, for they can fly on the wind; and they move about without noise so we cannot be hearing them—and we cannot be seeing them—”
Morag stopped and glanced nervously over her shoulder. She was moved to sudden terror by her own tale.
“Then it’s true,” Richard said, his eyes shining with excitement. “It’s true—it must be true if it happened to your uncle and you saw him—”
“Och, no—it’s chust nonsense! You must not be believing it at all, Richard. It is chust Morag’s story to pass the time away.”
She was half sorry, now, that she had told the story, and more than half afraid. It was not lucky to speak of the Little People—they do not like to be spoken of—and Morag had spoken of them to this child who was not of her own people.
She had started to tell the story in a spirit of disbelief, to while away the time for a sick child—but the story had gripped her in the telling of it, and she believed it now, just as she had believed it when she was a child and the old crazy man had come to live with them in their house. She could see, again, his vacant, staring eyes, and the queer, vague movements of his wrinkled hands, and she felt again the strange cold shudder of fear creeping up her back.
“Och, now, look at the time!” she exclaimed, jumping up and trying to shake off the discomfort that had invaded her being. “I must be putting on the potatoes for MacAslan’s dinner—”
* * * * *
When Linda returned from her walk she found Iain working at the boat. He looked up and saw her coming—he had been watching for her for the last half-hour, with only one eye upon his work. He had thought of all that he would say to her, but, now that she was here, the carefully prepared phrases left him, and there seemed to be nothing he could say. How could he excuse his behaviour? She would be angry with him and justly angry—the child had been left in his care. He put down his hammer and went to meet her.
“Has Richard gone home?” she asked.
His pulses fluttered again at the sound of her voice—how was he to tell her? He must not frighten her, must not make too much of Richard’s collapse. He fixed his eyes on her shoes—neat brown brogues, they were, and the feet inside them were narrow and well-shaped, with arching insteps.
“Where is Richard?” she said again.
“In my house,” Iain replied, finding his voice with some difficulty. “The sun was very hot—I should have seen it was too hot for him—”
“Do you mean he’s ill?” she enquired, her voice sharpened by anxiety.
“He was ill,” said Iain. “He seems all right now. It was just the heat, I think. He never told me it was too much for him. He is such a plucky little fellow—”
She was hurrying up the path, but, at his last words, she turned and faced him. “You really think that?” she asked breathlessly.
“What?”
“That he is plucky.”
“Of course. Most children would have given in. Richard went on until he collapsed.”
“Collapsed!” she echoed, with returning anxiety.
“He fainted,” Iain told her, speaking in a low voice, for they were near the door now and he did not want Richard to hear them discussing him. “He fainted. It was the heat. I can’t tell you how sorry I am—it was all my fault—I should have seen—I carried him into the house and he was all right in a few minutes, but we made him keep quiet.” Iain opened the door as he spoke and showed her into his house.
Richard was sitting on the edge of the sofa. He was carrying on a conversation with Morag who was in the kitchen. Iain was thankful to see that he looked quite himself again.
“Can I get up?” Richard said, smiling at his mother. “Can I get up now? I promised Morag I wouldn’t get up till the Boatmender said I could—so can I now?”
His mother nodded.
He ran across the room and jumped into her arms. “Did you have a nice walk?” he asked her with his arms round her neck.
“A lovely walk.”
Iain watched the little scene with a strange pain. They were so much to each other—these two—so alike in their slim grace, so near to each other. Was there room for another in their hearts? Iain felt left out of it, he felt like an intruder in his own house—it was absurd to feel that, but he couldn’t help it. Perhaps her husband is alive, he thought, and yet, somehow, I feel she is free. How am I to find out? I must know—I can’t bear not to know.
He pulled a chair forward for her, and she sat down with the boy on her knee.
“I hope he’ll be all right,” Iain said anxiously.
“I’m fine,” said Richard, smiling. “That’s what Morag says—I’m fine. Morag is Mr. MacNeil’s wife and she cooks the Boatmender’s dinner for him. She’s nice and pretty and I like her—”
Morag came in and overheard the last words. She blushed and smiled attractively. She certainly was pretty, Linda thought. What was she doing here—besides cooking the Boatmender’s dinner—it seemed queer. Morag was carrying a tray with tea and a glass of milk and some ginger-nuts.
“Oh, I couldn’t!” Linda exclaimed. “It’s almost lunch-time—”
“But you must,” Iain told her seriously. “Morag knows that you can’t go into a Highlander’s house without partaking of his hospitality.”
“That is so,” said Morag, smiling. “It would not be the right thing at all—”
They had tea together and Richard drank some milk. Iain was more comfortable with her now—now that she was actually in his house, partaking of his food, she was no lo
nger a dream. The fairy woman had put on mortality. He watched her white teeth crunching the hard biscuit, and he watched the lovely line of her neck as she turned her head, and the softness of her eyes as she spoke to her boy. He told himself she was all he had thought—and more. She was perfect; she was his; she must be his—nothing could stand in the way.
At last she stood up and said they must go.
“Come, Richard—are you feeling all right?” she said. “Well enough to walk home?”
“But he must have a horse,” Iain cried.
“A horse?” queried Richard. “Have you got a horse? Where’s the horse, Boatmender?”
“Here,” said Iain. He stooped down and made a back for the boy.
“Hurrah!” cried Richard, jumping on to the Boatmender’s back. “Hurrah, I’ve got a horse!”
Iain pranced round the room like a very high-spirited horse indeed—it was great fun, this.
“Well,” said Linda doubtfully, “are you sure he won’t be too heavy for you?”
They went out together and struck up towards the trees. The child was light and he clung with his knees—there was no weight in him at all. Iain felt he could have walked miles with Richard on his back, he liked the feel of the soft arms round his neck. He felt nearer to the mother through the child’s nearness.
Linda went ahead up the rough path through the woods. She stepped, surefootedly, from root to root, raising herself lightly on the ball of each foot; springing over the moist patches like a deer. That was how a woman should walk, Iain thought; and her ankles were right, too—strong and fine (but not too fine) as ankles should be.
“How quiet it is!” Linda said, pausing for a moment on the top of the hill before the path dropped down to Ardfalloch jetty. “How quiet and—and golden!”
It was very hot and still. The skies seemed to press down upon the glen. Across the loch came the sound of a cart rumbling over a stony road. They heard the lurch and rattle as the heavy wheels rocked to and fro, the squeak of the axle.
Iain stood still beside her. He thought: This is perfect.
“Are those pigeons?” Linda asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” he said. “Listen.”
They listened.
“I like it,” Richard said softly. “It’s a sad kind of song—but nicely sad, don’t you think?”
They went on together. There was a bond between them now—a bond between the three of them. There was no need to talk, the woods spoke to them, and the golden sunshine bathed them all in one radiant bath. Iain thought: If the place were mine—if I had not let it—if I could say to her “This is mine,” and take her, and show it to her . . . but if I had not let it she would not be here. . . .
CHAPTER XII
ARDFALLOCH INN
For the remainder of the day Iain could think of nothing but her face—pale and fine-drawn beneath the brim of her shady hat—of the way she moved, the buoyancy of her step as she breasted the hill; he could hear nothing but her soft laugh, and the notes of her voice—It was an obsession. He tried to interest himself in his boat, and, when that failed, in a book that had just come from the library—it was no use. His thoughts wound themselves about this woman who had come back into his life. He could not tear them away.
He went to bed and slept fitfully, dreaming that he had lost her again, that she had gone from the glen and he could not find her. . . . He rose early and made his breakfast, then he took his field-glasses and went up on to the hill. The pull that drew him to her was like the pull of a magnet, it was irresistible. He thought: If I could just see her, even in the distance, so that I would know she was still here. . . . Perhaps she would come. Perhaps Richard would come and she with him.
The day moved on and the sun rose higher; it was not so hot to-day, for there was a breeze, and white clouds moving slowly across the blue sky. He finished tarring his boat that afternoon and left it to dry. By that time he was dirty, and hot in spite of the breeze, and, when he had cleaned most of the tar off his person, he caught up his towel and went down to bathe. The tide was coming in, creeping up the rocks, oozing between the stones, trickling gently between the half-dry seaweed. The water near the shore was quite warm, but, as he waded in, it grew colder . . . he struck out boldly, the small waves flipped him in the face.
When he came out of the water he was tingling all over. He felt refreshed in mind and body, some of his impatience had been washed away. He decided to walk over the hill to Ardfalloch Village and hear what was going on. It would be a change.
Ardfalloch Village belonged to Iain; it was a small place—just a double row of cottages, a post office and a shop. The inn was kept by one of his own people—a big burly man called MacTaggart—it was a comfortable place, clean, and well run, and the village took full advantage of its amenities. There were four or five men in the bar-parlour when Iain walked in and asked for a drink. They greeted him with the respectful familiarity of their breed; one of them offered him an evening paper. They were talking about some sheep-dog trials which had taken place that afternoon, and, after a few minutes general conversation, they returned to the subject.
Iain felt happy and peaceful. The bathe and the walk had eased the fever in his blood. He drank his beer and glanced through the paper and listened with one ear to the conversation. He was at home with these men, and they with him. He understood them. They were staunch and brave, with a kind of childish simplicity of heart; they were also deep and secret as their own mountain lochs; they respected themselves and each other. There were black sheep among them, of course, as there are amongst any community, but, for the most part, they were good-living men with high ideals. It was a fine breed.
MacTaggart left the bar and came over to take part in the argument. Iain observed them all—he tried to see them dispassionately, objectively. He tried to look at them with new eyes. You could tell their professions by looking at them—even if you did not know them. Alec Finlay could be nothing else but a shepherd. He had a weather-beaten face with high cheek-bones, and sunken chops, and pale-blue eyes that could see far on the hills, with deep brown creases at the corners. Nobody except a shepherd could have such patient eyes, Iain thought—and his hands were patient, too. Iain had seen them tending a sick sheep and knew how gentle those great gnarled hands could be. Beside Finlay, MacTaggart was commonplace. His work was different: he was indoors most of the day, but his face was not exactly an “indoor” face, it was round and smooth and rosy. He wore a white apron tied tightly across his broad stomach. The other men were farmers—two of them from Balnafin way, and the third from Auchencraigs, one of Iain’s own farms—Auchencraigs was the smallest croft on Iain’s estate and the poorest. Iain always felt sorry for Alec MacNeil—(he was one of Donald’s numerous cousins)—the man was a speldron, he looked overworked and underfed, and, most probably, was both. That man is a real hero, Iain thought; it’s a lone fight against poverty and the elements. This land is not intended for farming, and Nature seems inimical to farmers. He’s got dozens of children, I know. I must do something for Alec MacNeil when I get the money from Hetherington Smith. What would he like, I wonder?
Iain caught the man’s eyes and leaned forward. “How are things, Alec?” he enquired with his interested smile.
“Things are not so bad at all, MacAslan,” replied the man. “The London shentleman is wanting ghillies and the children are to be beating. It is Donal’ that has been arranging it all—Och, we will be doing not so bad.”
“Perhaps I could build you a few pigsties,” suggested Iain.
Alec’s eyes brightened. “Och, and that would be grand!” he said. “We could be doing nicely with some pigs—Och, it would be grand—if it would not be troubling MacAslan—”
“That’s settled then,” Iain said. “But don’t say too much about it, Alec, or everybody in the glen will be wanting pigsties.”
Alec laughed. “And that is true,” he said. “I will keep my mouth shut, MacAslan.”
“That’s right—keep you
r mouth shut and you shall have what you want,” Iain told him.
They were so intent upon their discussion that they did not notice the door open to admit a new-comer.
“Can I get a drink here?” he enquired, looking round the room.
Iain looked up and saw a tall, very broad-shouldered man in a brown check overcoat and a soft hat. He had a fair moustache—rather bushy—and his eyes were very bright and roving.
MacTaggart started to his feet. “Indeed and you can, sir,” he said politely. “And what can I be giving you?”
“Beer, please.”
The new-comer leaned against the bar counter, and consumed his drink slowly, conversing with the landlord in a pleasant English voice. He asked questions about the fishing in the neighbourhood, and whether there was any likelihood of his being able to get a day on the river.
“The river is mostly Mr. Finlay’s,” said MacTaggart; “but MacAslan could be telling you all this a lot better.”
Iain smiled. “I have let my place for the season,” he said. “But in any case I have no salmon fishing. Mr. Finlay is the man—he might give you a day.”
“I’d like that,” said the stranger. “I’m fond of fishing, but what I’ve really come for is to observe bird life in the district.” He was talking to the whole room now, leaning comfortably against the counter with the glass in his hand. “I’m writing a treatise on the habits of birds.”
The company listened to him politely. If they thought it a queer occupation to observe the habits of birds they did not show it. A man could do what he liked—and, if he liked things that seemed odd to other people, that was his own affair.
“Can you give me a bed here?” enquired the stranger, turning towards the landlord.
“And why not?” replied MacTaggart hospitably.
The stranger looked a trifle puzzled at this truly Highland reply to his question.
“You can?” he enquired again.
“And why not, indeed—it will be a pleasure.”
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