“You see,” said Jim Wyllie. “The man’s not safe to come out with a party like this. He might pepper anybody, I mean.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Hetherington Smith. “Yes, of course.”
The shooters were all glad to hear the word “lunch,” although Mr. Stacey remarked that lunch was a waste of time—the ideal thing was to have a couple of sandwiches in your pocket.
They put up a small covey as they neared the bothy. Mr. Stacey shot two with an admirable left and right, the remnant swung outwards past Sir Julius at about a hundred yards and were sped on their way with both barrels. Sir Julius never let a chance go by. He was not a bad shot, but he was a very inconsiderate one.
“Damn fool!” said Grant Stacey under his breath. Donald echoed the imprecation silently. He hated his birds to be wounded—a man should know what he could do, and do it, he should not attempt the impossible.
Lunch was all ready in the little bothy at the entrance to the green pass. Mrs. Hetherington Smith and Greta Bastable were there, so, also, the be-whiskered butler. The chauffeur had brought them to within a few hundred yards of their destination over the most appalling road he had ever seen. They had carried the baskets the rest of the way.
The shooters were exceedingly hungry and thirsty, they sat down and ate. There was shepherd’s pie, deliciously hot in a thermos dish, there was cold ham and cold beef and salad, and banana tartlets, crisp and short, with chocolate sauce. The beer had been iced, and there was hot coffee and a bottle of liqueur brandy, and whisky for the men. It was an excellent repast.
Greta sat between Grant Stacey and Desmond Cray. She enquired anxiously how they had got on and received their accounts of their prowess with well-feigned interest. Colonel White managed to obtain a seat near his hostess. He was still interested in her face, although, so far, he had not heard her make a remark worthy of attention. He set himself out to please her and draw her out, and after a few minutes he began to succeed. Mrs. Hetherington Smith was feeling very cheerful—it was a lovely day and she liked picnics. She thought Colonel White was a nice man, and his conversation interested her—he had travelled a great deal and knew how to talk. Very soon Mrs. Hetherington Smith was laughing heartily at his jokes and quite forgetting to be on her best behaviour. Her husband was not altogether pleased at her absorption in Colonel White; it gave him a strange feeling of emptiness, he was used to having the whole of Mary’s attention—when he wanted it—and he had to ask her three times to pass the salt before she heard him. He looked at her with new eyes—he had not really looked at her for years—and realised, almost with surprise, that Mary was still an exceedingly good-looking woman. When she laughed like that she looked quite young.
The men lunched outside. Donald kept an eye on his namesake and diverted the whisky when it came his way. Mr. Stacey’s loader—who was also his valet—drank a good deal of whisky, but he seemed none the worse. He spoke to Donald and complimented him on the arrangements. “We go about a lot,” he said. “’E’s very partikler about ’ow things is done, an’ ’e was sayin’ jus’ now ’e ’adn’t never seen a better run show.”
Donald accepted the eulogy without enthusiasm. He didn’t like the man any better than his master, and he had taken an unmitigated dislike to Mr. Stacey at first sight. He liked Colonel White’s man better. The other gentlemen had not brought loaders and were provided with local men—most of whom were Donald’s cousins or relations of some sort.
After lunch they had half an hour’s rest, and then set forth once more. It was hotter than ever, for the breeze had vanished entirely, and the sun blazed down from an unclouded sky.
“What d’you think of Greta Bastable?” enquired Desmond Cray of Sir Julius Hastie as they toiled up to their butts.
“Greta is the great enigma,” replied Sir Julius immediately. He had no objection to discussing the foibles and failings of his fellow creatures—rather the reverse—and it made no difference to him whether his audience agreed with him or not. When he thought a thing he said it, and people could take it or leave it. Strangely enough they usually took it. Sir Julius was “quite a character,” his patients said—and, once a man has achieved a reputation for being quite a character, he can say what he likes.
“Who is she, and what is she?” enquired Desmond Cray.
“Nobody knows anything about her except that she’s smart and amusing—d’you mean to say you haven’t run up against her in town?”
“I’ve seen her about,” said Cray vaguely.
“You must have. She goes everywhere.”
“Is she a widow?”
“Presumably,” replied Sir Julius. “Nobody has ever seen Bastable—or heard of him.” (Sir Julius meant that he had never seen nor heard of Bastable, of course.)
“She seems fairly—oncoming,” said Cray thoughtfully.
“Oh!” returned Sir Julius mysteriously. “Is it a man she wants, or just men?”
“I see.”
“Does she attract you, Cray?”
“She does rather—in a way,” Cray admitted. “I like the type—easy to get on with, you know—or off with,” he laughed a trifle self-consciously.
“Ah!” said Sir Julius again. “Sometimes these easy people are a delusion. I had a mare once—she used to gallop up to her fences like mad and then refuse at the last moment.”
Cray laughed. “You think she’s that type?”
“Aggravating,” said Sir Julius. “Very aggravating.”
* * * * *
The day was very successful from Mr. Hetherington Smith’s point of view—very successful indeed, but extraordinarily long and tiring. From the moment when he had emerged from Ardfalloch House, to look at the weather and discuss the prospects with Donald, until he sought his bed at midnight he had not a moment’s peace nor leisure. Everything had gone off well, thanks to Donald. The drives had been well timed, the birds had been plentiful, and he had been saved on several occasions from making a complete fool of himself. But the most important thing that Donald had done, and the thing for which Mr. Hetherington Smith was most grateful, was the manner in which Donald had carried out his instructions with regard to Mr. Stacey. He had wanted Mr. Stacey to be well placed, and Donald had seen to it that he was well placed. Somehow or other—Mr. Hetherington Smith had no intention of enquiring how it had been arranged—somehow or other Grant Stacey had managed to draw the best butt—or nearly the best butt—in every drive. So it had been all right, just as Donald had assured him that it would be. Mr. Stacey had been so delighted with his day’s sport, and with the number of birds that had fallen to his share, that he had asked to be allowed to remain longer than he had intended in this delectable spot; and it had been quite easy—in the library after the ladies had gone upstairs to bed—to hint, in the most vague and gentlemanly manner, that his host would not refuse a directorship in the new company which Mr. Stacey was forming. Indeed it had scarcely required a hint. Mr. Hetherington Smith had merely opened his mouth, and the directorship, ripe and juicy as a sun-warmed peach, had fallen in.
Mr. Hetherington Smith washed his teeth noisily and vigorously and thought about it all. He decided that life was easy to manage when you knew how to manage it. He was so pleased with himself at the way he had Managed Life, that he felt he would like to talk to somebody about it. Mary was the obvious person to talk to—indeed, the only possible person—he wondered if Mary were asleep. The thought of Colonel White strayed through his mind and made him vaguely uneasy. It was a long time since he had seen Mary so full of animation as to-day at lunch when she was talking to that man. Well, he thought, that man can talk to Mary if he likes, but she’s mine—she belongs to me. Just to show the truth of this assertion he opened the door of her room and peeped in.—She was not asleep; the lamp was burning on the table near the bed—she was reading.
“Hullo!” she said, smiling at him over her book. “Did everything go off well, Arthur?”
“Splendidly. Grant Stacey is staying on another week.”
> “That’s good.”
“He’s offered me a directorship in the new company.”
“That’s very good,” said Mary. She thought—so that’s what he wanted, how funny men are! I wonder why he wanted it so badly.
“Yes,” said Arthur. “Yes, I think I shall accept it. There are big responsibilities attached to the post, but a man in my position must shoulder—are you laughing, Mary?”
She was laughing. She said, “Oh, Arthur, you don’t have to act to me. You know quite well that was why you took Ardfalloch.”
He looked rather taken aback for a moment, and then he chuckled. “Well,” he said. “Well—what if it was?”
“Nothing—except that I think it was rather clever of you,” Mary told him.
He chuckled again. It was pleasant to have his cleverness appreciated.
“Now tell me about your day,” said Mary. “Tell me all about it.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed and told her about his day. She was wide awake and interested in everything. She wanted to know if the lunch was all right and whether he had shot many birds himself. He told her that the lunch was exactly right, and that his own performance, though capable of improvement, had been good enough to pass muster.
“The whole thing was a success,” he said complacently, “and the whole success was entirely due to that man, Donald MacNeil. I’ll have to give him a good tip when we leave here, Mary.”
“He’s a nice man,” she agreed. “But don’t spoil him, Arthur.”
“I don’t think you could spoil him,” said Arthur thoughtfully.
It was very pleasant talking together like this; the house was very quiet—everybody else was asleep. The big room was full of shadows, Mary Hetherington Smith lay in bed with the soft lamplight shining on her; she was very good to look upon—fair and plump and comely—her complexion was milk and roses, her blue eyes were bright and kind. Arthur looked at his wife and he thought: No wonder that old stick of a Colonel admired her—but she’s mine. He said aloud, “You’re very pretty, Mary.”
Mary laughed delightedly. “Go along with you!” she said. “I’m too old for compliments.”
“And you’re very clever, too,” he added. “Fancy you guessing it was the directorship I wanted out of Stacey! We’ve come a long way, haven’t we? And we’ve come all the way together. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Her eyes were suddenly wet. They had come a long way and it had been a weary road, but if Arthur was pleased, if Arthur appreciated her efforts to keep up with him it had been worth while.
“Yes,” he continued, nodding gravely, “you’re clever, Mary. Cleverer than I am in some ways. We’re really rather an extraordinary pair.”
They looked at each other and smiled.
Arthur thought—she’s a beautiful woman, and she’s mine.
Mary thought—Arthur has come back to me.
CHAPTER XVI
MARGARET
Several days passed. Iain did not see Linda, but he heard from Donald that she was none the worse for her adventure. He was not unhappy, for he knew that she was here in the glen, and he felt that things would come right for him if he waited patiently. He practised his pipes and roamed about with his field-glasses, and sometimes he went out in the old boat and caught some mackerel for his breakfast.
One day when he was finishing his solitary dinner he heard the sound of a motor-launch approaching.
“It is Miss Finlay,” Morag said, putting her head in at the kitchen door. “It is Miss Finlay and Calum in the Cluan motor-boat.”
Iain left his coffee and went out. He met Margaret coming up the path.
“Just in time for some coffee,” he said, smiling at her. “Morag makes it very well now that I’ve persuaded her not to boil it.”
“So you’re still alive!” Margaret exclaimed.
He wondered if she had heard of his adventure on the island with Linda and, if so, what garbled version she had heard.
“It’s nice to see you, Meg,” he told her.
“You knew where to find me if you wanted to see me.”
“But I haven’t got wings.”
“Oh!” she cried remorsefully. “Oh, what a fool I am! Here have I been cursing you for not coming over, and you haven’t a boat. You know, Iain, you really are a difficult person to get hold of. Why haven’t you a telephone? I haven’t been able to do a thing I wanted since the grouse-party arrived; it’s been one thing after another. Father nearly demented because of people falling off at the last moment; Fergus in bed with lumbago—and you know how father relies on Fergus for everything, he simply hates anybody else to load for him, poor dear—and my cook’s uncle falling downstairs and insisting that nobody else can nurse him properly. Of course I had to let her go—I couldn’t have her weeping into the souffles—”
Iain put her into a chair, gave her some coffee, found a cigarette and lighted it for her.
“Basingstoke, Margaret, Basingstoke,” he said, smiling.
“I know,” she said, laughing a little, despite herself, “I’m sort of worked up about everything. Oh, Iain, d’you remember that time in Edinburgh when we saw Ruddigore?—How I laughed!”
“Yes, it was fun,” he said. He thought: Poor lamb, she’s worried and bothered—I feel exactly as if she were my sister in spite of what old Finlay said. The worst of it is I mustn’t be too nice—how horrible!—Ruddigore was fun. I almost asked Meg to marry me that night—I wish I had shared memories with Linda.
Margaret was looking at him through the smoke of her cigarette—as usual she had managed to shroud herself in a smoke-screen in a few moments.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He picked amongst his thoughts for a suitable offering. “Ruddigore,” he said. “It was fun. Tell me about your worries, Meg, but tell me slowly.”
“Oh, Iain, you are nice! But I don’t want to bother you. I really came over to cheer you up, you know. Would it cheer you up to hear about my worries?”
He laughed. “I’m not such a hard-hearted brute as all that. But I don’t really need much cheering. I’m all right.”
“Yes, you look quite cheerful,” she said, looking at him intently. “I expected to find you a bit under the weather with the guns popping off all round you—”
“I’m all right,” he said again.
“Well, I wish I were. I told you about my cook. I’ve got a temporary with a foul temper who’s upsetting the whole house and making everybody’s life a burden. Father’s annoyed because Sir Julius has deserted him at the last moment and gone to Ardfalloch. I can’t say I’m sorry because I’ve no use at all for Sir Julius, but it’s rather cool, and of course it has put the numbers out.”
“You can’t get anybody at the last moment. What’s the attraction at Ardfalloch?—Who are those people, Iain?”
“The Hetherington Smiths?—Oh, they’re just London people—as Donald says—I don’t know anything about them except that they have plenty of money.”
“They seem quite nice. I wondered if you knew anything about them. I called, you know—father made me—and she was in. I rather liked the woman. She’s plump and comfortable, and unshockable—I don’t mean that I tried to shock the poor lady, but I felt she was unshockable—I felt she would have been perfectly calm if I had turned a somersault in the drawing-room or put my feet on the tea-table. It was horrid going to Ardfalloch and finding strangers there—simply horrid— Oh, Iain, why did you do it?”
“I had to,” he said firmly.
She sighed. Then she continued: “They’re coming over to lunch at Cluan on Sunday—and they want to give a dance.”
“A dance!” he exclaimed.
“Yes. It’s rather sporting of them, I think. Mrs. Hetherington Smith said the drawing-room would be perfect for a dance—of course it would be. I’m to ask anyone I like and as many as I like. She wants it to be a success.”
“A dance,” Iain said again—they were going to give a dance in his
house! At first he was almost angry, and then he thought—how foolish I am! Of course they’ve a perfect right to give a dance at Ardfalloch, why shouldn’t they? And then he thought—Linda will be there—Linda.
“I wondered about pipers,” Margaret was saying. “Pipers for the reels. They’re getting a band from Glasgow—money seems to be no object—but we must have pipers for the reels. What about Alec MacNeil?”
“Alec, of course,” agreed Iain; “and Gregor Macpherson from Balnafin—”
“I thought of Black Donald,” Margaret said.
“No, not Black Donald,” said Iain, smiling. “He’s a very good piper, but somebody might give him whisky by mistake—on no account must you have Black Donald.”
“Well, what about Duncan?”
“He’s very good,” Iain admitted; “but Gregor is better for reels. Alec and Gregor are the two to get, Meg. Are you going to ask me to the dance?”
“You!” she exclaimed in amazement.
“Yes, I’d like to go,” he replied. He thought—I shall dance with Linda—with Linda. Already he seemed to feel her slight body in his arms.
“Is it a joke, Iain?”
“No,” he said quietly.
“But, Iain, you don’t want to go—you don’t want to go to a dance—at Ardfalloch.”
“Yes, I think I do.”
“But, Iain—you can’t mean it,” she said incredulously. “My dear—you would hate it. You would be miserable—wouldn’t you?”
“I’d like it,” he said stubbornly. He thought—it will be heaven to dance with Linda—of course, Meg thinks I’m mad. I can’t help that, I must go. I wish I could tell her about Linda—it would be the best thing—but I can’t do it. No, I can’t. . . .
“Well,” she said in a strained voice, “well, that’s settled then. You had better dine with us first. I’ll send a boat for you. The date isn’t settled yet, but I’ll let you know when it is—”
“Don’t be cross with me, Meg.”
“Cross!” said Margaret almost tearfully. “How can I help being cross. I don’t understand—it’s not like you, Iain. It’s not you. It’s all horrible, the whole thing. You living here in this pig-sty—simply because you’re too proud—too proud—”
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