Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  Linda said nothing. She did not really understand, and she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. She watched while the two dirty little hands unfolded to display their treasures.

  Iain was grave. He took the pebbles and examined them carefully; then he looked at the piece of china—

  “Do you know,” he said, “that piece of china is a piece of a cup which belonged to my great-grandmother? She used to live here when these ruins were a castle. There are still two cups and saucers belonging to the set.”

  “I’ve seen them,” Richard said breathlessly. “They’re in the cabinet in the drawing-room.”

  Linda took the fragment; it was interesting, it brought the past very close. For her, the value of the fragment was in its history, its associations. She held it in her hand and thought—I wonder how it was broken—was she sorry? China was very valuable in those days—and tea was a luxury. Perhaps somebody brought her these pretty cups and she valued them—life must have been rough and bare here—and the cups were pretty and fragile. How sad she must have been when one got broken!

  “I’ll show you something funny about your pebbles,” Iain was saying. He had unscrewed one of the lenses of his field-glasses and was holding it near his eye. Richard leaned against his knee. “This is a magnifying glass—it makes things look bigger. Look at your pebble—can you see it, Richard?”

  “No,” said Richard, screwing up his eyes. “Oh, yes—no—oh yes, I can.—Oh Boatmender, how queer! It’s all made up of little bits.”

  Linda watched them and her heart enveloped them both. There was no shadow of jealousy left. She thought—he is perfect with Richard. He is teaching Richard—opening his mind. I could never give Richard that. She listened to the careful, simple description of how rocks were made, and pebbles, and gravel, and sand. Richard’s eyes were bright, he was listening eagerly, asking the meaning of words that were unfamiliar to him. She thought—I am not enough for Richard—not enough. There was pain in the thought, but only a little pain, and there was happiness too. A strange new beautiful happiness was flooding her life. It had started that night on the island and she had fought against it, tried to rear defences against the flood. She had told herself over and over again that she would have nothing to do with love, she had finished with men—and marriage—all that was over and done with. Good heavens, hadn’t she suffered enough! She was free now, and she would remain free, she would devote the rest of her life to Richard, it was her duty.

  She had told herself all this again and again with quite unnecessary vehemence, unnecessary since there was nobody to argue with her. She could have disposed of Iain MacAslan in a few words, but she didn’t. She argued with herself instead. And the queerest thing was, that, despite all her arguments and brave decisions, the tide of happiness rose. . . .

  Linda had said that she would devote the rest of her life to Richard, but now she began to wonder whether that decision was as wise and unselfish as it had seemed. Was she enough for Richard? Could she give him all that he needed, or did he need more than all she could give? She thought suddenly—Why—I shouldn’t be taking anything away from Richard, I should be giving him something. And suddenly this new reason for loving Iain made everything more real, more sane. She ceased to struggle and protest, she opened her heart and saw that she loved him—loved him dearly—every hair of his dark head. She had loved him ever since that night on the island. She had loved him unreasonably then, against her will, but now she began to see that there was no sane reason why she should not love him, and plenty of sane reasons why she should. She saw suddenly that she could marry Iain. Apart from her own feelings—which she was afraid to trust, because she had trusted them before and they had let her down—apart from her own feelings there were practical reasons for the thing. Marriage with Iain—from a wild dream the thing became a possibility, a real future.

  The gates opened, Linda saw a glimpse of that possible future—future with Iain. It was very beautiful, and warm and safe. She and Iain and Richard together—Iain protecting them with his strength and his gentleness, loving them. She saw a future in which days like this would be frequent; days of sunshine and leisure in the glorious surroundings of Ardfalloch. She saw long evenings before the fire—she and Iain reading and talking, with Richard safely in bed upstairs. She saw—with surprise—that there was nothing to prevent these dreams from becoming realities. They loved each other, what could part them? Once she was really free, free to acknowledge her love for Iain, free to give him what he wanted and make him happy, there would be nothing between them—there could be nothing—ever again. . . .

  And then, quite suddenly, the gates closed; the shadow of her fears returned; the future was dark again, she could see no happiness there, no safety.

  Linda struggled against the impending sense of doom—how foolish it was to be afraid of shadows! They loved each other; what could happen? She did not know the answer now, she only knew that she was frightened. The golden sunshine was a mockery. She rose and went over to the place where Iain had left the hamper and began to unpack it and set out the tea. She was too restless to sit still, and the peace and quietness of the afternoon had become oppressive. As she unpacked the cups and spread the white cloth upon the grass she looked up and saw that Iain and Richard were still examining the pebbles, still discussing them. The two heads were very close together, bent over the magnifying glass. Two heads, both dark and smooth—they might have been father and son if fate had been kinder.

  Was there anything of Jack in Richard, Linda wondered. She had found nothing yet, no trace of Jack. But these things sometimes developed later—and if there should be anything—Richard would need a man all the more—a man to guide him. She sighed; the wheel of her thoughts had come full circle.

  They sat on the short resilient turf and had tea. Richard was in the highest spirits; he chattered continuously about all he saw, or had seen. It was just as well, for his innocent chatter eased the tension. Iain felt the shadow that had fallen upon Linda’s soul; it showed in her eyes. He wondered what it was; perhaps she did not know herself. If they had been alone he would have tried to find out what the shadow was, but they were not alone. He thought—she has suffered a great deal. I shall have to be patient and very gentle—it will all come right—it must come right.

  Presently Richard, too, fell silent; he was replete and contented. The sun was warm, but there was a small cool breeze off the water, it came to them in little whiffs scented with seaweed from the rocks which had been bared by the receding tide. A rabbit came out of its hole and looked at them, it came quite near and sat erect with pricked ears, gazing at them in surprise. They all kept very still. “Why is it so tame, Boatmender?” Richard whispered. “Because the island is so quiet—so deserted,” Iain told him. “Nobody comes here for months at a time, so the rabbits forget that they ought to be frightened.” Richard threw a small piece of scone at the rabbit—it was gone in a flash, bounding away with a whisk of its white scut.

  “Oh!” said Richard in a disappointed tone. “I thought it would like something to eat—”

  “You frightened it, Richard,” Linda said. “Rabbits don’t like scones—they eat grass and lettuce.”

  “Silly old rabbit!” said Richard crossly.

  “It is you who are silly,” Linda told him, with rare and inexplicable irritation.

  “I’m not,” he said. “Rabbits are silly not to eat scones—aren’t they, Boatmender?”

  Iain looked at him gravely, there was a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth, but he kept it carefully in check. “Mummy’s right,” he said. “Rabbits know what’s good for them. It was because you didn’t know what was good for it that you offered it a scone.”

  Richard considered the matter, frowning thoughtfully. “You see,” Iain continued, “I might offer you something that wouldn’t be good for you—a glass of whisky, perhaps—well, if you refused it you would be wise. I should be silly for offering it to you.”

  Richard laughed. “The
rabbit was me and I was you,” he said. “I was silly to offer it a scone—I was silly, not the rabbit. If I had offered it whisky would it have drunk it, Boatmender?”

  “I’m sure it wouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because rabbits don’t drink anything. They couldn’t live here on this island if they needed water to drink. The only water here is in the well, far too deep for any rabbit to get near. There are casual pools amongst the rocks when it rains, but they are always a little brackish—”

  “What’s brackish?”

  “Salty,” said Iain, smiling.

  “D’you mean rabbits never drink anything?” Richard asked incredulously.

  “They drink the dew, I suppose, and they get moisture from the grass and the sap that is in all growing plants.”

  “I didn’t know that either,” Linda said, “about rabbits not needing water. It’s interesting. I’m afraid I don’t know much about the real country.”

  “You’ll soon learn,” Iain said with a significant look.

  Linda blushed, and her eyes fell, but she did not contradict his assertion.

  It’s all right, Iain thought, it really is all right. His heart sang within him, and, all at once, the sunshine seemed more golden and the loch more blue.

  After tea Richard collected sticks and they made a fire—a little picnic fire amongst the rocks near the shore to keep the midges at bay. There was driftwood amongst the rocks (some of it from Iain’s boat which had been dashed to pieces the night of the storm) and pine branches full of resin which caught the flame and roared themselves into fine grey ash. Richard’s face as he watched and tended the fire was solemn—almost awed with happiness.

  “It’s lovely,” he kept saying. “It’s lovely—it’s a real fire, Boatmender.”

  “I think he ought to call you—something else,” Linda whispered. “It seems—”

  “No,” said Iain quickly. “Leave it just now—I like the name. It’s Richard’s own name for me. Later perhaps—”

  Richard sighed. “I wish we could stay here always and always,” he said gravely.

  They lingered over the fire, talking intermittently until it was time to go, then they embarked in the little boat and rowed back to the old cottage.

  “When am I going to see you again?” Iain asked anxiously.

  “Soon,” Linda replied. “I can’t promise anything definite—it’s so difficult with the house full of people, and Mrs. Hetherington Smith really needs me.”

  “I’m coming to the dance. Are you glad, Linda?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said simply. “But—but you won’t like it, Iain—”

  “I’m coming to dance with you,” he told her.

  “You must come and see me in bed, Boatmender,” Richard said. “I won’t be asleep—I’ll stay awake specially. You will come, won’t you?”

  “If Mummy lets me,” Iain promised, smiling.

  It never occurred to Richard to be surprised at the news that his friend the boatmender was coming to the dance at Ardfalloch House. Social distinctions mattered nothing to Richard, his world was divided sharply into two classes: those who liked him and whom he liked, and those who took no notice of him and of whom he took no notice. There were one or two exceptions to the rule, but that was all.

  Richard jumped out of the boat as it touched the shore and pulled at the rope with energy and determination. Iain and Linda got out more slowly—it had been a happy time and they were disinclined to end it and say “goodbye.” They got out slowly and the boat was made fast; they walked up slowly to the little house.

  “We must hurry,” Linda said. “It is past Richard’s bed-time—no, don’t walk back with us, Iain, it will be better—not to.”

  They stood still for a few moments, looking at the loch, at the sun that had begun to descend towards the western hills, at the reflections of the tall trees in the water.

  “I shall be late for dinner,” Linda said. She found it difficult to go, difficult to leave him. She wanted to stay; she was safe with Iain; she loved him.

  Richard ran on up the path.

  “I must go,” Linda said, almost desperately. She let her hand rest in Iain’s hand for a few moments, and then she withdrew it. “Good-bye,” she said.

  “Au revoir, Linda.”

  “Yes, au revoir.”

  She turned quickly and followed Richard up the path that led through the woods to Ardfalloch House—the steep path with the tree roots that held it together—at the top of the slope she stopped and looked back—he was still there, standing just where she had left him; they waved to each other.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  LINDA

  It was very quiet in the little cottage, a fire burned slowly on the hearth, for the evenings are often chilly in Ardfalloch, and, besides, Iain liked a fire—it was company. Iain was busy at the table working out the accounts for the estate. He had not seen Linda for two days, but he was not really impatient—he was sure of her now.

  The table was covered with books and papers and bills. Iain was trying to decide how much money he would have in hand for improvements and renovations, and to decide what was necessary and what was not. The repairs to the boat-house were absolutely necessary, he must get an estimate from Fraser for that, and Donald’s cottage must have a new roof unless the old roof could be satisfactorily repaired. He owed it to Donald and Morag to do what he could for them—they were doing so much for him and they would not accept payment in the ordinary sense. And he had promised Alec MacNeil that he would build him some pigsties—that was a promise. He would have to see what all this was going to cost before he could think of deepening the harbour, or putting wire along the road to Balnafin, or doing a hundred and one things that he wanted in the house itself. Simpson wanted some of the money put aside for the land taxes, and the overdraft at the bank must be paid off.

  Iain sighed. The money had seemed so large at first, but now he began to think it would not go very far. He wondered how other landowners managed; how did people make money—Mr. Finlay, for instance. Supposing he asked Mr. Finlay for a stock exchange tip and put the thousand into that—it might double itself, and then he would not have to let Ardfalloch next year. Iain lay back and thought about it—had he the right to risk it? There was very little risk really. Mr. Finlay knew what he was doing. It wasn’t like gambling on horses—that was a mug’s game if you like! Iain thought—other men make money, but I can’t do that, partly because I haven’t been trained to make money, and partly because I haven’t time. If I had a factor—but what factor could run Ardfalloch as I can? I suppose I shall just have to make up my mind to let the place every year—but it seems hard. It seems hard that I can’t live quietly in my own home. Mr. Finlay said the estate should be self-supporting, but, instead of that, it actually costs money to run. Could a business man make it self-supporting? And if so, how?

  He was still thinking about it, trying to find some way out of the difficulties of his position, when he heard light steps on the path and somebody knocked at the door.

  Iain went to open the door. It was quite dark outside, dark and cloudy, a slight figure was standing on the step.

  “Linda!” he exclaimed in amazement.

  “Let me come in, Iain,” she said breathlessly.

  He took her hand and led her into the little sitting-room. The hand was cold, it trembled in his.

  “I had to come,” she said, still in that breathless voice. “I ran—nearly all the way—”

  “My dear—what is the matter?”

  She sat down and loosened the silk scarf which was tied round her head; he saw that she was in evening dress beneath her fur coat—a little string of brilliants was clasped round her bare throat, they rose and fell in time with her hurried breathing.

  “I was mad to come—like this,” she said, raising her eyes and looking at him. “But I had to see you, Iain—I had to see you—”

  “Of course,” he said incoherently. “Why shouldn’t you—it’
s all right, Linda, why shouldn’t you come.” He thought—how lovely’ she is! How lovely—and dear—something has frightened her and she came to me. He was very gentle with her.

  “Tell me what is the matter,” he said, taking her hand again.

  Linda let her hand lie in his—how kind and comforting he was! She was glad now she had come, glad that she had given way to that wild impulse to see him.

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” she said in a calmer voice. “Perhaps you’ll think I’m mad to make such a fuss. It was Richard—he was out in the woods—he often plays alone in the woods near the house—he’s quite sensible really, he doesn’t go far. He was playing in the woods after tea, and all of a sudden he came running back, terrified, simply terrified—I couldn’t find out at first what had frightened him, he just clung to me and shook all over. Mrs. Hetherington Smith told me to give him a hot bath and put him to bed—she is such a sensible, practical woman, so kind, and—and calm. I got him into bed and he lay there holding my hand, and at last I got it out of him—he had seen Jack—”

  “You mean—Medworth?” Iain said.

  She nodded with her eyes on his face.

  “But that is—that is awful,” Iain said. “Awful that the boy would be so frightened of—of him.”

  “It wasn’t just seeing him,” said Linda slowly. “There was more in it than that. It was something he said that frightened Richard so. I couldn’t find out exactly what he did say—Richard wouldn’t tell me—couldn’t tell me. He just clung to my hand and said, ‘I don’t want to go away’—he said it over and over again. He was frantic.”

  “Are you sure it really was Medworth?”

  “That’s what Mrs. Hetherington Smith said. She thinks it was a tramp or something—tinkers, there were some tinkers camping in the quarry—of course Richard hasn’t seen Jack for months, so he might have been mistaken, I suppose. I couldn’t question Richard much, he was so frantic. Then Mrs. Hetherington Smith gave him some bromide and he went to sleep—”

  “It can’t have been Medworth.”