Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Good. That’s settled. I don’t know how long I shall be staying—it depends on the birds,”—he smiled in a queer way, Iain thought, and added, “My name’s Middleton—James Middleton.”

  “And would the gentleman be having any luggage?” MacTaggart asked anxiously.

  “It’s outside in the taxi,” Middleton said. “I came over from a place called Balnafin in the oldest taxi I’ve ever seen—over the worst road. The fellow’s waiting outside with my gear. Hi—I give the fellow a drink,” he called after MacTaggart as that worthy waddled off to the door to arrange for his new guest’s luggage to be brought in.

  Mr. Middleton took off his hat and his overcoat and hung them on the rack behind the door. He smoothed his fair hair and took a seat near Iain.

  “Nice place, this,” he said conversationally.

  Iain was quite pleased to talk to the man, and he found him interesting. He had travelled a lot and he made his reminiscences amusing. Soon they were all listening to him. He told some funny stories rather well—they were not drawing-room stories, but this was not a drawing-room, and Iain, although he would not have cared to repeat them himself, was not such a fool as to take exception to them. He thought the man amusing—rather a good fellow in his way—not the sort of man one would choose for an intimate, but excellent company for an evening of this kind.

  It was late when Iain rose to depart. Middleton rose, too, and offered to walk home with him, saying that he wanted a breath of fresh air before turning in.

  “Can we see Ardfalloch—the house, I mean—from this path?” enquired Middleton as they walked along.

  “No, it’s farther down the loch,” Iain said. “You could see it from the hill, of course.”

  “Hetherington Smith has got it, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, d’you know him?”

  “I’ve met him,” Middleton said. “Don’t suppose for a moment he’d remember me. D’you know who he’s got staying there?”

  Iain smiled—it was easy to see through the man’s elaborately casual questions. Quite obviously Middleton wanted to get a footing at Ardfalloch. It was shooting birds he was after, not observing their habits. Iain had noticed a gun-case amongst the other luggage that had been brought into the inn—rather a battery-looking gun-case with “J. M.” in large letters on the side. He thought: Well, why shouldn’t he shoot my grouse? I don’t care. Why shouldn’t he get a footing at Ardfalloch if that’s what he wants?

  “I don’t know who’s coming for the twelfth,” Iain said slowly. “My keeper tells me he’s got people coming. If you do meet the Hetherington Smiths I’d rather you didn’t mention my name.”

  “Of course not,” Middleton said. “It’s no business of mine—nor of theirs either as far as I can see.” He was silent for a moment and then he added, “I thought the Hetherington Smiths had some people staying with them now.”

  Iain felt a twinge of annoyance—he had not wanted to mention the Medworths to this man. But after all it was foolish not to—he could hear about them from anybody—and he had been quite decent.

  “Yes,” he said, trying not to sound reluctant; “there’s a Mrs. Medworth staying there.”

  “She has a boy, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve met her. Good-looking woman, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” said Iain. He could not help sounding reluctant—he didn’t like to think that this man had met her and admired her. This man wasn’t the sort of man—quite a good fellow, of course, but . . .

  “Have you got a boat on the loch?” Middleton enquired.

  “Yes—such as it is. You can have it any time you like—you get mackerel out there—”

  “Thanks,” Middleton said. “I’ll take you at your word.”

  “Do. Look me up some time and have a drink.”

  They shook hands and parted; Iain went home to bed.

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE STORM

  The day before the twelfth was a Sunday; Iain woke late. He had been dreaming all night—dreaming that he was at home in his own house—and, for a few moments, his sleep-dazed brain refused to adjust itself to its new conditions. Why was it that the window was in the wrong position—and so small? And the roof had been squeezed down over his head. . . . Gradually the realisation of where he was, and of all that had happened, came to Iain. He got out of bed and looked out of the window. The loch was very calm and dark, reflecting grey skies. The trees stood dejectedly, their leaves hung down—there was not a flutter amongst them. It was very quiet, even the birds seemed to have joined in the conspiracy of silence. It doesn’t look too well, Iain thought, and was ashamed that he could not feel sorry.

  He spent the morning wandering about rather aimlessly. Hoping that Richard might come—or Richard’s mother. He was restless and unhappy. It seemed so strange that to-morrow was the twelfth and he would not be shooting. Perhaps it had been foolish to refuse Mr. Finlay’s invitation—it would have been better to be shooting on the Cluan moors than not at all. Perhaps it would be better to go to Edinburgh—to give up the whole thing—if it had not been for Mrs. Medworth he would have gone to Edinburgh. But I can’t leave Ardfalloch while she’s here, he thought—until I know whether she’s free, until I know all about her.

  To-day he felt depressed and wretched about everything. He felt certain that her husband was alive, that she was not for him—everything was hopeless and dark like the skies. The skies seemed to press down upon the glen, the barometer was falling rapidly.

  He ate his dinner in moody silence and watched Morag depart. He felt lonely and deserted; Donald had not been near him all day—he was too busy with all the arrangements for the big shoot, of course, that was why; but Iain was unreasonable enough to feel deserted all the same . . .

  After tea, Iain took his field-glasses and seated himself at the edge of the loch. He had taken a book with him, but his mind was too full to be bothered with books. It had been along aimless day, and it was hours yet before he could think of bed.

  The loch was very still, it was a queer dull-grey colour—like lead—and there was no transparency in the water. The mountains were very clear, outlined harshly against the sky. The air was so heavy that the rare sounds in the glen were intensified—a dog barked twice. A flight of geese flapped heavily over his head and fled away inland.

  There was a storm coming. Iain had felt it all day, had felt it in his head and in every nerve of his sensitive body. It was the imminence of the storm that had depressed his spirits and crushed his optimism.

  “I wish to God it would come, and be done with it!” he said aloud.

  He looked over towards the island—was that a boat? What boat was that? None of the natives would be so foolish and misguided as to be caught in a storm on the loch—who could it be? He focussed his glasses and saw that there were two people in the boat—a man and a woman. They were rowing towards Ardfalloch. Iain kept the glasses glued to the boat—in a few minutes he was practically certain that the woman was Mrs. Medworth.

  He fetched his waterproof from the cottage and strode off rapidly in the direction of Ardfalloch jetty. The storm was coming, he knew that, knew it by some sort of instinct—any hill man would have known. The loch was unnaturally calm, not a ripple broke its leaden surface. He went quickly through the woods; there was a queer sighing sound in the trees now, and a few leaves, immaturely withered, fell about his ears.

  Iain ran on to the narrow breakwater and shouted—the boat was about two hundred yards away. He shouted again and waved and beckoned. The man in the boat looked up and saw him. He waved again and yelled with all his might. He thought: Can’t the damned fool understand? Can’t he feel the tension in the air? Is the man crazy?

  The man evidently did understand at last: he bent to his oars, and the boat shot towards the pier. Iain saw that the second figure in the boat was indeed Mrs. Medworth. She was sitting quite still, with her hands folded in her lap. As the boat came nearer he could see her face—he thought i
t was paler than usual, but it was perfectly composed. They were only about fifty yards away. He thought: They will do it—but only just. . . .

  They were twenty yards away . . . now ten . . . the trees were soughing. A shower of leaves flew past his head. The wind struck him full on the back—it was like a blow—Iain braced himself against its force. He saw the wind touch the surface of the loch beyond the boat, and the loch shiver like a mirror broken to pieces. . . . The boat was quite near now, and Iain was waiting. The full crash of the wind broke upon them as the boat touched the pier. The man scrambled out with the painter; Iain caught him as he stumbled on the rocks and seized the rope from his hand—and then, suddenly, he saw the boat drifting away and realised that the rope was slipping through the ring on the boat.

  There was no time to speak—no time even to think. Iain flung himself into the water and seized hold of the boat with both hands. The wind swept down out of the woods like a mad thing, bending the trees almost double with its force; it caught the boat and swept it out into the loch like a withered leaf. Iain clung to it with all his strength, he was breathless, half drowned with spray. He thought: I shall never be able to climb in—I must just hang on. His clothes were sodden now, heavy with water. The wind roared in his ears. . . .

  Suddenly he felt a hand tugging at his collar and he looked up and saw her face. It was quite close to his face, for she was kneeling in the boat, and he had time to marvel that there was no fear in it, but only determination and urgency.

  “Your leg,” she shouted—trying to make him hear above the screaming of the storm.

  She had one arm over the side of the boat and he saw what she meant him to do. He made a frightful effort and lifted one knee, she seized it and pulled it over the side. With an almost superhuman effort Iain raised his body—the boat heeled over dangerously; for one awful moment he thought it was going to capsize. The water rushed over the side like a torrent, carrying him with it—he rolled over into the bottom of the boat.

  The wind was increasing in force every moment as they were swept farther out into the loch, farther from the shore. It was like a live force, malicious in its intensity. (Fortunately the boat was strong and seaworthy, and broad in the beam, or it would have been overturned.)

  Iain scrambled up and seized the oars—they were almost wrenched out of his hands, but he clung to them stubbornly and tried to get the bows into the wind.

  The wind was too strong, blowing down upon the loch, for the waves to rise; it shrieked and whistled past his head. The boat rocked and wallowed, it was water-logged—the water which had come over the side was swishing about in the bottom. Iain shouted to his companion to bail and signalled to her that there was a tin under the seat. She could not hear a word he said, for the wind took the words out of his mouth and scattered them, but she realised what he meant her to do, and found the tin. She crouched in the bottom of the boat and tried to bail.

  Every nerve and sinew in Iain was concentrated in fighting the wind. He saw that they were being blown straight onto the island—he tried to visualise what would happen when they struck. He knew the island as he knew the palm of his hand and he saw that their only chance was the little bay. If he could arrange for them to be blown into the bay between the two jutting rocks they would have a better chance of safety—and he must save her—he must. It was almost impossible to steer the waterlogged boat, his whole energy was taken up in preventing it from being swamped. There was no rain yet, but the skies were dark and the air was full of spray, so that it was difficult to see where they were going.

  They approached the island rapidly—blown along by the incredible force of the wind—the waves were breaking on the rocks and curling back, green and hungry—or leaping up like fountains. Iain saw that they were being driven straight on to the rocks; he dipped his oars and pulled with all his might. The boat was a little lightened now, and it answered feebly to his efforts—he pulled at the oars like a madman—his chest was almost bursting. A wave broke over the rock and curled back over the boat’s gunwale; it swept them into the bay. He dropped the oars and seized her in his arms—the boat was sinking now—it sank under his feet. He flung himself forward out of the boat and his feet found the shingle—the backwash caught at his legs and the stones rattled down the slope, but the wind was behind him, pushing him on. He staggered for a moment and then stumbled forward up the slope.

  The wind still shrieked and howled amongst the trees and tore at their hair and clothes, the spray was all about them like salt rain, but there was firm earth beneath them—they were safe. He put her on her feet and took her arm In a firm grip—it was impossible to speak, for the noise of the wind was appalling. The trees were bent before it like reeds, broken branches fell upon their heads as they staggered up the slope and through the trees to the entrance of the castle. The wide doorway gaped before them. He guided her inside. . . .

  It was quite dark inside the hall, but they were in shelter, they were out of the wind. They could hear it shrieking outside like a beast deprived of its prey, but it could not reach them now—those battered walls had survived worse gales.

  The sudden deliverance from the wind’s fury was almost uncanny. Their bodies, attuned to its bufferings, had suddenly found harbourage. Iain wondered what she was thinking—and feeling. He could not see her face. It had been a terrific experience for anybody to go through, and this woman was a delicately nurtured woman—a town-bred woman, or so he imagined—She must be half dead, he thought, but I had better treat the whole thing lightly and sensibly. He said in a matter-of-fact voice: “I hope you’re not very wet.”

  He was amazed to hear a low laugh in the darkness.

  “Are you—are you laughing?” he said incredulously.

  “I’m sorry—but it sounded so funny,” she said.

  “What sounded funny?”

  “I hope you’re not very wet.”

  He had to laugh, too, at her mimicry of his casual tone, “Well, but I hope you aren’t very wet,” he told her, “because, you see, I haven’t got anything else for you to wear—and we shall probably be here all night.”

  “It seems to me we’re very lucky to be here at all,” she said gravely. “If it hadn’t been for you I should have been at the bottom of the loch—and that would have been a good deal wetter.”

  He couldn’t deny this if he had wanted to—and he didn’t want to. He had saved her life, and the thought was very sweet to him.

  “We must light a fire,” he said sensibly. “That’s the first thing to do. There’s a part of the castle where the roof is still fairly sound. I have some things there. I’ll lead you if you give me your hand—it’s frightfully dark and the floor is full of holes.”

  She put her hand into his with the confidence of a child—it was a slim hand, very cold and wet. He thought: Good God, she is cold—I must get her warmed or she will be ill. He moved off slowly in the darkness. “This way,” he said, and then: “Two steps up here.”

  Linda thought: He knows this place, every stone of it—who is he? What is he? How strange that I don’t feel frightened!

  Suddenly the darkness was shattered by a blinding flash of lightning which showed Linda massive ruined walls, hung with ivy. The crash which followed seemed to shake the very ground on which they stood—it echoed round the mountains like a salvo of guns.

  “Are you frightened?” he asked, squeezing the cold hand reassuringly.

  “Not very,” she replied, with a breathless laugh. “But thunder is rather—rather horrible, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, horrible,” he agreed.

  They moved on. They seemed to go a long way in the darkness. Presently he said, “Stand still now, until I find a light.” He let go of her hand and moved away.

  Linda stood still, scarcely breathing. She heard the scrape of a match, and saw him standing beside a rough wooden table, lighting a candle in an old-fashioned iron candlestick. The light showed up his face, dark and intent.

  CHAPTER XIV

&
nbsp; THE TOWER CHAMBER

  Linda saw that they were in a large circular chamber—part of one of the towers of the old castle. The walls were of bare grey stone, the floor was of large grey flagstones. There was a big open fireplace in the wall, with a fire laid ready for lighting, and, before the fireplace, was a roughly made wooden settle, very wide in the seat. The only other furniture in the chamber was the table and a cupboard. There were two small windows high up in the walls, barred with rusty iron bars.

  Iain looked at her and smiled. “Not much of a place to spend the night, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically, “but it will look better when we get the fire going.” He took a black bottle out of the cupboard and poured it over the sticks. “Paraffin,” he explained. “The sticks get damp here, so I always keep a bottle of paraffin handy. There’s a kettle here, too, so we can make something hot to drink—I hope you like cocoa.”

  She said, “I think you are a kind of wizard.”

  “If I were a wizard I would do better than this,” he told her. “Dry clothes for us both—and ortolans in aspic.”

  The flames were leaping amongst the sticks by this time. She crossed over to the fire and held out her hands to the blaze. Iain looked up at her and his thoughts were disturbed, scattered. Who was she? What was she? From whence did she come? What had her life been—all these years? He felt those years like a barrier between them—all the years of her life of which he knew nothing. He wanted to know everything about her, every thought that had passed through her mind, every pain she had suffered, every joy she had tasted. He wanted to have been a child with her when she was a child, so that they could share the memories of childhood. It was so dreadful to love her like this and know nothing about her—nothing except that she was good and beautiful and brave. She could meet danger with a laugh—he knew that about her and it thrilled him. He loved her a thousand times more because of that. His heart thudded against the walls of his chest. She was brave, and—God, how beautiful she was! Her lashes were long and curved and dark against the pallor of her cheeks. Her hair was dusky, neither black nor brown, her eyebrows were arched in well-defined lines. They were the same colour as her hair, he noticed.