Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  Linda waited (talking and listening with friendly interest) just long enough to make it clear that her departure was not due to the arrival of the unexpected visitors, and then she went away, saying that the hour of Richards’ bed-time was approaching. Iain followed her out of the cottage.

  “Don’t come,” Linda said. “Your mother will want you.”

  “I can’t think what has brought them back,” Iain said, frowning.

  Linda smiled. “Go back and hear all about it,” she said. “If you stay out here any longer, you’ll undo all the good—”

  So she knew what she had done—thought Iain—and of course it was true, he must go back.

  “I shall see you at the dance,” Linda added.

  He nodded and waved, and ran back to the cottage.

  * * * * *

  It was not until they had eaten their simple supper, and his mother had gone to bed that Iain learned the reason for their unexpected return. He was sitting before the fire in the sitting-room, Janet was washing up the supper dishes. He called to her, and she came in, drying her hands.

  “I’m through now,” she said. “Were you wanting something, MacAslan?”

  “I’m wanting to know all about it,” Iain said, smiling.

  “Mphm,” she said. “Well, there’s no much tae tell. It was just impossible, the hale thing—just impossible.”

  “She wasn’t happy?”

  “Happy! She was that meeserable and restless there was no daeing anything with her. It was ‘Ardfalloch, Ardfalloch’ all day long! I was almost deived with it. Twice I missed her frae the flat an’ found her wandering aboot the Waverley speirin’ aboot trains tae Ardfalloch. It was just as weel that naebody in the hale place kenned the way tae Ardfalloch. Hoo should they ken, seein’ that nae trains gang tae Ardfalloch? They were tryin’ tae persuade the creature it was Ardnamurchan she was wantin’—”

  “Goodness!” Iain exclaimed. “She might have got lost.”

  “That’s so,” agreed Janet. “I was near demented when I missed her.”

  Iain looked at Janet and saw that she was tired, and there were lines in her face that had not been there before. His heart smote him—Janet was not young, and he had bound too heavy a burden upon her willing back.

  “Was that all, Janet?” he said anxiously. “I mean there was nothing else—worrying—that happened.”

  “Mphm—she was just restless,” Janet said—and that’s all you’ll get out of me, she thought, you’ve enough troubles on your shoulders already without me burdening you with all the palaver I went through with the puir creature in Edinburgh. . . .

  CHAPTER XX

  THE DINNER PARTY AT CLUAN

  Iain came out of the cottage and stood for a few minutes in the doorway, smoking a cigarette; he was dressed for the ball at Ardfalloch. Never before in his life had he dressed so carefully, nor taken so much trouble over the hang of his kilt, and the immaculacy of his lace falls, never in his life had he spent so much time over the set of his hair. He was to see Linda to-night, and Linda was to see him for the first time dressed as a Highland gentleman should be dressed. Janet had helped over his toilet. She had heated the water for his bath, had laid out his kilt and brushed his black doublet and polished the silver buttons till they shone. She had cleaned his shoes, and had mended the tiny rent in the frail lace of his falls; but, all the time, he had sensed her disapproval of the whole affair. She was surprised, disappointed, puzzled. Iain knew it. He knew the depths of her disapproval by the very fact that she did not put it into words. The downright Janet usually said what she thought in no uncertain terms. To-night she had said nothing, she had merely pursed her lips and withdrawn from him.

  It worried Iain that Janet should disapprove so strongly of his intention to attend the ball. It showed him the alteration in himself. Janet and Margaret, who both—in their different ways—knew him to the core, had failed him in this. Or was it he who had failed them by departing so immeasurably from the code of behaviour that they expected from him—from the code of the man they knew?

  He had put his pride aside, and his dignity, and the deep love that he bore for the stones that made Ardfalloch House—all these he had put aside—for Linda. She was worth it, of course, the joy of seeing her and dancing with her was worth the loss of pride and dignity, and the pain which he would suffer in beholding his home in strangers’ hands. Linda was worth it. Janet and Margaret didn’t know Linda, they didn’t know the magnet that drew him. Only Donald had understood and approved of his intention to attend the ball—or at least he had seemed to understand. Did he really understand, Iain wondered, or was it just, that, in Donald’s eyes, MacAslan could do no wrong?

  Janet came out on to the step beside him. “You’ll need your big coat for the boat,” she told him. “See and keep warm now.”

  “It’s not cold,” Iain said. “It’s a lovely night, Janet.”

  “It’ll be cauld later,” she warned. “You’ll be late back, I doubt. I’ll not snib the door, and I’ll leave a tray in the sitting-room. See and take something warm before you gang tae your bed.”

  “Go off to bed early,” Iain advised her.

  “I will that.”

  “Take care of yourselves.”

  “We’ll need tae, I doubt—there’s nae other body tae dae it.”

  They heard the sound of the motor-launch approaching—the Cluan boat which was to take Iain across the loch to the Finlays’ dinner: Iain still lingered. He wanted to “be friends” with Janet before he left. He was half amused at himself for the childish feeling—Janet had made him feel like a small boy.

  “Weel,” she said, “there’s the boat. You’ll best be away. It’s to be hoped you’ll enjoy yoursel’, anyway.”

  “I’d enjoy it more if you were nice to me,” he said coaxingly.

  “Och, you and your havers!” she cried, not ill pleased at the implied compliment. “What dae you care for an auld wumman’s tantrums! Away wi’ you and see and enjoy yoursel’—you’re a sicht for sore e’en the nicht, an’ ye ken it weel. The lassies will be efter you like bees efter honey.”

  He knew he was forgiven—Janet could never be angry with him for long (perhaps no woman could, his charm was so appealing, so boyish and natural). He went down to the boat with a stride that set his kilt a-swing.

  It was a beautiful night; the sun was westering beyond the hills; the sky was clear and pale; a few white clouds lingered near the sun, their edges faintly tinged with rose.

  It was still almost full daylight, but to westward the hills were dark, outlined delicately against the sky, while those to eastward were lighted by the sun’s rays. Here and’ there, upon the hills, lights peeped out showing the situation of the scattered crofts. Ahead lay the jutting promontory which sheltered Cluan Lodge.

  Iain sat in the bows of the launch, the faint breeze of their passage ruffled his hair. He thought with the superstitious imagery of his race—I am going towards the light. The light was bright in his face and on the water. When he turned his eyes to the hills again they were perceptibly darker than they had been.

  His thoughts were shadowy and inconsequent, but Linda ran through them all like a thread through beads. He thought of Linda’s visit to him—of her fear of Medworth. (It could not have been Medworth that Richard had seen, for a week had passed and no more had been heard of the man.) Her fear of Medworth was unreasonably great—what could the man do? He thought of the ball, and wondered who would be there, and how often he would be able to dance with Linda. He thought of Janet and Margaret—the dour disapproval of the one, and the grief of the other—they couldn’t understand him because they didn’t know about Linda. He was ringed about with women—he thought—women who wanted to shape his life, to mould him into their own moulds, but they couldn’t do it because he had poured himself out at Linda’s feet. I wish she were here—he thought—I wish we were going towards the light together. Where is she now? She is in my house—that is something—but I don’t even know which
room they have given her. The blue room, perhaps, with the view across the loch—I hope they have given her the blue room. Perhaps she is dressing now, for the ball, sitting before the mirror winding her soft dusky hair into the knot that lies on the nape of her white neck . . .

  A vast tenderness for Linda flooded his whole being, and an almost unbearable longing for her bodily presence. How was he going to bear the hours that must pass before he saw her? It was as if his very soul were straining out towards her.

  The launch ran into the shadow of the promontory. She circled slowly and drifted with a barely perceptible bump against Cluan pier. Iain threw a lavish tip to the boatman and sprang out of the launch. He hurried through the gardens towards the brilliantly lighted house.

  Cluan Lodge was lighted by electric light, made from a convenient burn. To Iain’s unaccustomed eyes it was almost blinding. The drawing-room was full of people—he knew most of them well, they were people who had neighboured him all his life. The MacKenzies from Ardnafoil, the MacArbins from Dalnahuilish, the Buchanans from Balnafin. The people that he did not know were strangers to the district, people who had taken shootings for the season, and their guests. Mr. Finlay had a strange craving to know everybody. He entertained a great deal at Cluan and enjoyed it. The rôle of host suited Mr. Finlay down to the ground; he was never happier than when the house was full, when he could look down his table, elongated to its fullest extent, and see it filled with people, eating his food.

  Iain pushed through the crowded drawing-room, laughing, and acknowledging greetings and parrying questions as to where he had been all this time. He wanted to speak to his hostess, and his hostess was over by the window. Margaret saw him coming and her breathing almost ceased, she felt as if she were suffocating—he was so beautiful, there was a sort of radiance about him to-night. Everybody else in the room faded out. He alone was vital, glorious as a young god. She thought: it is true, then, it must be true. He is in love.

  She took his hand and said, “No, you’re not really late, and, even if you are, it’s my fault for not sending the boat earlier.”

  “I kept it waiting a minute or two whilst I argued with Janet,” he replied. “So you see it really is my fault—and I’m very sorry, Meg.”

  The room was beginning to empty, as couples moved slowly towards the dining-room. Margaret wished she had arranged for Iain to be her partner, but she had not done so, and it was impossible to alter it now. And it’s just as well you can’t alter it, she told herself, because it would look most peculiar. You’ve got to have Lord Beldale and make the best of him.

  “I’ve given you Sheila,” Margaret said aloud. “Sheila MacArbin. She’s frightfully shy, and it’s her first ball. I knew you would be nice to her.”

  “Sheila!” Iain said. “I thought Sheila was about twelve—”

  “She’s grown up,” said Margaret hurriedly, for she saw her dinner-partner approaching. “There she is—in pink—over near the piano.”

  Iain found Sheila without any difficulty, she had not changed much since he had last seen her, riding a very small pony in the juvenile section of the Inverness Show. She still had fair fluffy hair and long thin arms. Iain thought she looked rather like a little girl who was dressed up in her mother’s clothes for fun. The pink frock was the only “grown up” thing about her—Iain thought—he was amused to notice that her nose was pink too.

  The went in together and found their places at the long table—there were pink roses in crystal vases, and tall candles with pink shades. The silver and glass gleamed softly on the dark polished wood.

  “So you’re grown-up,” Iain said gravely.

  “Yes.”

  “What does it feel like?”

  Sheila looked at him to see if he were teasing, but he was perfectly serious; he might have been a doctor enquiring about some symptom of an obscure complaint.

  “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “it doesn’t feel any different. I mean I’m still me, and exactly the same as before; but I’ve got to—well, to behave differently.”

  “I don’t believe you really are grown up,” he said.

  “Oh, yes, I am—I’m eighteen.”

  “Fancy that!”

  “M’m,” she said, biting the crust of her roll with sharp teeth. “I’m eighteen and two months.”

  “Are you enjoying this?” Iain enquired.

  “Not awfully,” admitted Sheila frankly. “You have to get used to things before you enjoy them, haven’t you?”

  “I believe that’s true,” Iain said thoughtfully.

  “I hated school for ages, and then, of course, I adored it,”

  “I hope you aren’t hating this!”

  “Well, I am really,” she replied with a little sigh. “Only don’t tell Margaret, will you, because it was awfully decent of her to have me.”

  “I won’t tell Margaret,” he promised.

  “I’m glad I’ve got you as a partner,” she continued seriously. “It would have been far worse with anybody else.”

  Iain laughed. “Do you always say exactly what you think?”

  “Practically always,” Sheila admitted. “I know you shouldn’t, of course, but if I didn’t say what I thought I wouldn’t have anything to say. And you must say something, mustn’t you? I mean it would be so dull not to say anything at all.”

  Iain agreed that it would—he was finding her rather amusing.

  “I can’t do Conversation at all,” she confided. “Mummy says she learnt the Art of Conversation at school, and Deportment—but they don’t teach you those things nowadays.”

  “I’m glad they don’t,” Iain told her.

  “Why?”

  “Because your own ideas are much more interesting than Conversation taught at school.”

  Sheila looked down at her plate, and her nose grew a little pinker.

  She’s rather a dear, Iain thought. What a good thing she doesn’t powder her nose! It’s so intriguing to see it react to her emotions.

  The dinner was excellent, as Margaret’s dinners always were. The temporary cook must have put her best foot foremost—Iain thought—or else her own cook’s uncle has recovered sufficiently to liberate his niece. He glanced at Meg down the long table and saw her doing her duty by Lord Beldale. His glance drew hers, and for a moment their eyes met and she smiled at him. Then his right-hand neighbour claimed his attention—a dark girl with odd eyes which he found strangely embarrassing. She had just returned from a fortnight in Germany, and seemed anxious to tell him all about it. Iain let her tell him, although he found her inordinate admiration for everything Teutonic slightly boring—with every moment Linda came nearer.

  The ladies withdrew, and the men moved up the table to be nearer their host. The men consisted of the usual house-party which arrived yearly to shoot Mr. Finlay’s grouse, and neighbours with their house-parties. A tall man, whom Iain had never seen before, sat down beside him, and discoursed bitterly on the subject of dances in general and the dance at Ardfalloch House in particular. “Puts your eye out,” he complained. “What people want to go and dance for, I can’t imagine. We shall dance all night, I suppose, and I shan’t see a bird to-morrow—not a bird. That’s the effect it has on me—perfectly sickening! If you want to dance, go and dance in town—go to a nightclub and stay there if that’s your line. But here, in Scotland, shooting’s the game. The Scotch aren’t dancers, they’re shooters. Scotland isn’t the place to dance—”

  Iain hardly heard the man, he let him twaddle on, his eyes were fixed on the clock—it wouldn’t be long now, if he knew anything about Meg.

  It wasn’t long. The dining-room door opened, and the ladies appeared, wrapped up to the eyes, swathed in fur, swaddled in rainbow-coloured scarves.

  “It’s half-past nine,” one of them cried.

  “We ought to be going, father!” said Margaret.

  “All right, my dear,” agreed Mr. Finlay. “We’re just coming—”

  They finished their port—or brandy—hastily, f
lung their cigarettes in the fire and swarmed out into the hall to find their coats.

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE BALL AT ARDFALLOCH HOUSE

  The night was still and beautifully clear, the sky was brilliant with stars. A wisp of mist was flung about the top of Ben Falloch like a scarf of filmy tulle. Iain followed the chattering throng through the gardens and down to the pier. There were half a dozen motor-launches in the little harbour belonging to the Finlays’ guests. Most people in the neighbourhood found them more useful than cars, for the roads were bad and less direct than the loch.

  Iain stepped into a boat at random and found himself next to Sheila; he wondered if it were fortuitous, or whether Meg had arranged it—or the child herself. Probably it was Meg’s doing (the child had not acquired the necessary technique to arrange these things, in fact she had no technique of any description); but if Meg thought he was going to spend the evening acting as nurse . . .

  The boats swept across the loch, the waves from those in front tossed them hither and thither, spray flew in their faces. Some of the boats were racing each other—there was laughter and gaiety in the air. Iain was silent, he was going towards Linda now, and his heart went ahead of his body so that he scarcely knew where he was, and, when Sheila spoke to him, he was forced to collect his wits before he could answer sensibly.