Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  “You couldn’t help it,” he said again. “You can’t be with her night and day—”

  “An’ that’s jist it,” cried Janet. “That’s jist the verra thing folks will be saying if they hear aboot it. They ought to have her watched, folks will say, or, if they canna watch her properly, they ought tae pit her away—” The last words were almost a whisper, she did not dare to look at Iain as she said them. “And you ken yoursel’ it’s not true,” she continued defiantly. “You ken yoursel’ there’s naething wrang wi’ the puir soul but just a kind of vagueness, whiles. But if she was tae be watched an’ thwarted there’s no saying where it would lead. You ken yoursel’ she hates the verra idea of folks interfering wi’ her. It would drive her clean demented—or intae her grave—”

  “I know,” said Iain wretchedly.

  “There’s nae need tae be unco fashed aboot it,” Janet continued. “She’ll be fine when we get hame tae oor ain hoose. It’s jist she’s restless here and she doesna’ understand why she’s no getting hame tae Ardfalloch. She’s for ever wandering—she’s wanting back tae her ain hame that’s a’.”

  Iain nodded. He knew what people said about his mother—he knew it all. He could read their thoughts in their faces—or thought he could. But she was all right in her own home, just as Janet said. She could wander about the place at will, and there was nothing to hurt her. The people on the estate watched over her unobtrusively, they were fond of her, and they respected her strangeness; it was a distinction in their eyes to be different from other people. She wandered about Ardfalloch like a little ghost, and she was—in her own way—happy.

  He thought of all this, and then he said, “It’s my fault, really, Janet—not yours. I had a feeling that it would upset her—the change. I should never have let Ardfalloch.”

  “Och—away wi’ you!” she said. “What else were you tae dae? You didna’ let Ardfalloch for the pleesure of the thing. Dinna fash yoursel’, MacAslan, there’s some way oot o’ this coil—an’ I’ll tak’ guid care it doesna’ happen again.”

  “Some way out of it,” echoed Iain thoughtfully.

  Janet nodded. “We’ll get the thing pit back,” she said. “If naebody saw her, naebody’s tae ken who took it.”

  “And who’s going to put it back?”

  “Donald will,” said Janet firmly. “He’s waiting on you the noo—doon the stair—”

  * * * * *

  It was afternoon. Iain was walking up to Ardfalloch House with the emerald bracelet in his pocket. He had thought of every other way out of the mess, and none of them satisfied him—there was only one thing to do and Iain was on his way to do it, he was going to see Mrs. Hetherington Smith and tell her exactly what had happened. It would not be pleasant to lay bare the secret of his mother’s weakness (he hated the thought of it. He never spoke of the subject if he could avoid it, he shied from speaking of it even with Janet, and now he was on his way to expose his secret to a stranger). Iain had thought of every other way first. He had considered Janet’s suggestion that the bracelet should be restored to the drawer as surreptitiously as it had been taken, and Donald’s suggestion that it should be dropped somewhere in the house where it would be found and restored to its owner. Donald and Janet had combined—for once—in trying to dissuade him from the course he was taking; Donald, because he felt the honour of the house was at stake, and Janet because she feared that if Mrs. MacAslan’s condition should become known she would be removed from her care; and both of them because they loved MacAslan and were anxious to spare him the ordeal of returning the bracelet, and explaining the circumstances of its removal to Mrs. Hetherington Smith.

  Iain had listened to them both and considered their suggestions, but he knew that neither way would do. Somebody might get into trouble over the thing, somebody might be accused of theft. It would not do to shirk the issue, he must bear his mother’s weakness on his own shoulders, it was his burden.

  He rang the bell and waited quietly on his own doorstep for the butler to come. He found himself hoping that Mrs. Hetherington Smith would be out—but that was foolishness. If she were out he would merely have to sit and wait until she returned—what good would that be?

  Mrs. Hetherington Smith was at home. Iain was ushered into the big airy drawing-room and left there. He looked round with interest and some pain. Last night the room had been a ball-room—any ball-room—this afternoon it was once more a drawing-room—his own drawing-room. Queerly enough, the room seemed almost more strange to him than a totally strange room would have been—the furniture was disposed differently, and there were strange objects amongst the familiar ones. He thought there was a strange atmosphere in the room—it was probably imagination—the room did not seem to welcome him, it smelt different, somehow.

  He was still trying to chase his elusive impressions when Mrs. Hetherington Smith came in. She was dressed in grey tweeds, very correctly and suitably for a Highland afternoon.

  “How nice of you to come!” she said, giving him her hand and smiling at him. “You’re our landlord, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Iain.

  She thought: Goodness, the man’s in trouble! He’s nervous and miserable—what on earth’s the matter with him, I wonder. “You came to the dance with the Finlays,” she said aloud. “I didn’t know who you were when you spoke to me—our butler’s stupid at names—but the funny thing was that I was sure I knew your face.”

  “I don’t think we had met before.”

  “You hadn’t met me, but I had met you,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith, smiling. She made a little movement with her hand. “The pictures,” she explained. “You are awfully like the pictures of your ancestors, you know, especially the one in the library. I’ve been longing to see you and ask you about everything—who was he?”

  “He was my great-great-grandfather,” replied Iain. “A bit of a brigand in his day, I’m afraid.”

  Mrs. Hetherington Smith nodded. “He looks like that,” she said. “Now don’t go and think I mean you look like a brigand.”

  “It certainly sounds like it,” Iain said, half smiling.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that he looked like a prince—she had thought so last night—but perhaps he wouldn’t like it, and, now that she came to look at him again, he didn’t look so like a prince as she had imagined. He was dressed differently, of course, but it wasn’t only the clothes—there was something different about the man himself. The glory of him had vanished, the brilliance of him was dimmed,; to-day he was just an ordinary young man—very handsome, of course, with those dark eyes of his, and the tanned skin, and the clear-cut line of nose and chin, but definitely not a prince.

  Mrs. Hetherington Smith laughed. “Well, you don’t look fierce enough for a brigand,” she said.

  Iain thought: This is awful. How am I going to tell her? It’s far more difficult than I thought it would be. She is nice, of course. He looked at her with a sort of desperation.

  “You’ve come about something, perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “Something about the house—is it? We love it, you know. It’s so—so different from other houses. I’ll tell you rather a queer thing about this place—it makes me feel real.”

  “Real?” he echoed.

  She thought: What a fool I was to think he would understand! Nobody could, unless they knew what my life had been, and I’m not going to start telling the Story of my Life to a perfectly strange young man on an afternoon call. She said aloud, “Yes, real. London life is so artificial.” That’ll put him off, she thought.

  Iain said thoughtfully: “People are usually real when they’re in their own niche. I’m real when I’m here. If I go away from here I’m not myself—I haven’t explained it well—what I mean is this: if I go to London and meet people there, I’m a Highland gentleman in London—an actor on a stage—but when I am here in my own place I am MacAslan.”

  He is like a prince, she thought, and he does understand. If I don’t want him to un
derstand too much I shall have to be careful. “It can’t be that with me, can it?” she said lightly.

  “It might be,” he replied thoughtfully. “If you haven’t found your own niche in London.”

  This was all very well, but he was no nearer telling her about the bracelet than he had been at the beginning. How on earth shall I tell her? he thought, battling desperately with himself—I can’t tell her. The thing’s impossible.

  Mrs. Hetherington Smith had been watching him. She said at last, “You’ve come to see me about something, haven’t you?” She thought: The poor soul had better get it off his chest, whatever it is. Perhaps he wants the money in advance, or something. Arthur will have to give it to him! I’ll make Arthur do it.

  “Yes, I’ve come to see you about this,” said Iain. He took the bracelet out of his pocket and laid it down on the table.

  Mrs. Hetherington Smith took it up and looked at it. “Fancy that, now!” she said calmly. “Aren’t I lucky to get it back?”

  “You recognise it, of course,” Iain said.

  “Oh, yes, it’s mine all right. Arthur gave it to me for Christmas. I didn’t say anything to Arthur about losing it. He gets so upset, and I hoped it might turn up. I’m rather apt to be careless about things.”

  Iain said: “You didn’t lose it, Mrs. Hetherington Smith. It was—it was taken out of your drawer.”

  She nodded. “I know,” she said. “I remembered I had left it lying loose in the drawer—I ought to have locked the drawer, but I was in a hurry, so I just popped it in. It was last night when I was dressing for the dance, I took it out, thinking I’d wear it, and then I thought I’d stick to diamonds. You can’t ever go wrong with diamonds—”

  Iain scarcely heard what she was saying. He was waiting for her to stop talking so that he could explain what had happened, but she went on and on—he had to interrupt her at last.

  “I want to apologise,” he said. “I want to explain. It was my mother who took it out of your drawer. My mother is not—not normal. She had a great shock, and, since then, her brain has been—her brain has been affected. She came up here last night when her maid was asleep. She—she came into the house and found her way to her own room. She found the bracelet in the drawer where she keeps her own little treasures—and she took it. She didn’t know—she didn’t mean any harm—she doesn’t understand—she doesn’t mean any harm—”

  “Oh, poor soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Hetherington Smith.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this should have happened,” continued Iain wretchedly. “It’s—I can’t tell you—her maid was asleep, you see—”

  “How dreadfully sad!” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “Of course it’s quite easy to understand. She found it in her own drawer—and she thought it was pretty—”

  “Yes,” agreed Iain. It seemed queer that Mrs. Hetherington Smith was not more horrified. She was a kind woman, of course—he had known that before—but even a kind woman might well be annoyed and upset at having a valuable bracelet stolen out of her drawer by her landlord’s mother. He had expected her to be angry—she had a right to be angry—he had expected her to suggest that a woman with kleptomania ought to be locked up, or at least kept under proper control; but Mrs. Hetherington Smith said none of these obvious things.

  Iain waited patiently for the storm to break. He was quite prepared to abase himself, to accept all the blame. It was even possible that she might call in the police—possible but not probable.

  “Poor soul!” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith again. She turned the bracelet over in her hand and looked at it thoughtfully. “I wonder, now,” she said. “D’you think the poor soul would like to keep it? It seems such a shame to take it away from her, doesn’t it?”

  Iain gazed at her in amazement. He said at last: “You can’t be serious, Mrs. Hetherington Smith—this is no joke to me.”

  “No, of course it’s not a joke to you—nor to me either—it must be dreadfully sad for you—dreadfully sad. I feel so sorry,” she said, raising her eyes from the bracelet and looking at him kindly. “It was because I felt so sorry that I felt I would like to give it to her.”

  “Thank you,” he said in a strained voice. “But I couldn’t take it, you know.”

  “Well, perhaps not,” she replied doubtfully. “But it seems a pity, because I would like to give it to her—and I expect she would like to have it.”

  “I think you are a most extraordinary woman!” Iain exclaimed, and then quite suddenly he began to laugh. It was partly the reaction from strain—the relief of getting the dreadful thing told—and partly because he suddenly saw the humour of it. He tried to stifle his laughter, but it was no use. It rose like a tide, and overwhelmed him, he laughed and laughed. Mrs. Hetherington Smith laughed too.

  At last Iain managed to control himself. “I’m sorry,” he said shakily; “but it is funny, you know. I’ve been worrying so awfully about what you would say—”

  “What could I have said?” asked his hostess, wiping her eyes.

  Iain did not answer that; he merely said, “You are a most extraordinary woman.”

  “Perhaps I am,” she agreed. “I’ve had a funny kind of life, you know. But, of course, you don’t know, and I’m not going to tell you,” she added hastily.

  “Why should you?” Iain said, slightly at a loss.

  She smiled at him in her kind way. “Now we’re friends,” she said, “don’t you think you might let me give your mother the bracelet?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “It’s your pride,” she told him rather sadly. “Sir Julius says that you Highlanders are as proud as the devil—and I’m afraid he’s right.”

  “It’s not only my own pride,” Iain said. “It’s a sort of hereditary obligation—rather a burden in these difficult times.”

  “I see what you mean—in a way,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “I see you’ve got something to live up to. That great-great-grandfather who was a brigand—though why he should stand in the way of me giving your mother a little present—but I do see what you mean—”

  “I’m glad you see.”

  “It must be rather nice,” continued Mrs. Hetherington Smith, pursuing her own line of thought. “It must be rather nice to have lots of ancestors. Perhaps, if I had a picture of a great-great-grandfather who was a brigand, it would make me feel more real. I might feel I had a place of my own in the world instead of being outside things—neither one thing nor the other.”

  Iain said nothing. He realised that she was not really speaking to him, she was merely uttering her own thoughts. She was scarcely aware that she was uttering them aloud. She thought of Mrs. Hogg as she spoke—I’m not of her world either, she thought (silently this time). I’m a kind of ghost—homeless. Even here, although I feel more real, I don’t really belong. I don’t suppose I shall ever feel at home anywhere, now. It’s too late. But anyhow I’ve got Arthur back again, and I can’t be entirely homeless as long as I’ve got Arthur. . . .

  She said at last. “Well, now we know where we are. You’ll stay and have tea with me, won’t you?—Just to show there’s no ill feeling.”

  “I’ll feeling!” exclaimed Iain. “I don’t know how to thank you—I can’t ever thank you properly for your kindness. It’s beyond words, beyond anything I could have imagined.”

  “Then you’ll stay to tea,” she said prosaically, getting up and ringing the bell. “The men won’t be back—they’re shooting with Lord Beldale to-day—and Greta has gone out with a Mr. Middleton. I don’t know who he is, but she seems to know him. To tell you the truth I’m thankful she has found a friend; there isn’t much for Greta to do here. Sometimes I’ve felt rather sorry I asked her to come. Linda and I would have been much happier by ourselves. Greta has to be doing things all the time or she gets into mischief—you know what I mean—so if she takes up with this Middleton man it will be all to the good and she won’t want to go out with the guns. Sometimes it’s a little awkward, you know.”


  “Yes,” said Iain. He knew these women who were always wanting to go out with the guns.

  “Do you know this man Middleton?” enquired his hostess.

  “I’ve met him,” Iain told her. “He’s staying at the local inn.”

  “What is he like?”

  “Tall and fair and broad-shouldered—”

  “But what is he like inside?”

  Iain laughed. “That’s more difficult,” he said. “He’s rather amusing in a way—full of his own importance—rather bold—”

  Mrs. Hetherington Smith nodded. “That’s the kind of man Greta likes,” she said. “I asked you about him because there was a kind of mystery—the man won’t come to lunch; he wouldn’t come to the dance; he won’t shoot—queer, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” said Iain. “I thought he wanted shooting.”

  “Well, he doesn’t. Greta says she has known him for years, but she said it funnily—if you know what I mean—either it wasn’t true, or else there’s something fishy about him. What should you think?”

  “I couldn’t possibly tell you—I don’t know anything about him,” said Iain helplessly. He didn’t really care whether or not there was a secret understanding between one of Mrs. Hetherington Smith’s guests and James Middleton.

  “Here’s tea!” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “Put the table over near the window please, Frame.”

  They sat down and had tea together. Mrs. Hetherington Smith wanted to know all sorts of things about Ardfalloch. Iain found himself talking eagerly, telling her about the history of the place and about the old castle on the island. She was an excellent listener. The afternoon sunshine streamed in through the open window and showed up the shabbiness of the carpet and the faded cretonnes. Iain noticed it and sighed, the walls needed re-papering too.

  “I love this room,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith, following his eyes.

  “I was thinking how shabby it was,” Iain told her ruefully.

  “I like this kind of shabbiness—everything has faded together—like people growing old together. You would spoil it if you tried to alter it. I think a room like this is very restful. Our house is all too new (I don’t mean it’s modern, I hate that modern furniture made of steel tubes and things, it reminds me of a dentist’s chair. I don’t know why it does, because dentists’ chairs are not a bit like that really). Our furniture is very nice, but I think I shall feel happier when it has got a little shabby, if you know what I mean!”