Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  “You realise, of course,” Medworth said. “You realise that if I win my case you will still be my wife. It’s nothing to me—I don’t care a rap whether you are or not—I’m merely pointing it out to you in case you hadn’t realised it. I can go my own way and I haven’t the slightest desire to marry again—marriage is a mug’s game—so it doesn’t affect me. All I want is the custody of my own son—and I’ll have him either way. You shan’t interfere with my plans for Richard, you shan’t stand between us like you did before.”

  “I can’t give him up,” said Linda again.

  “Well, that’s that,” Medworth said. “I’m off to London to-morrow morning. You’ll hear of this in due course.” He rose and walked to the door. “If you change your mind before to-morrow morning you’ll find me at MacTaggart’s. I advise you to think it over—you’ll gain nothing by sticking out against me, and lose everything.”

  “Jack!” cried Linda. “Oh, Jack, won’t you change your mind—won’t anything I can say—or do—”

  “No, nothing,” Medworth said. “You needn’t try to get round me, it’s no use. I’m determined to have Richard. Give him up and we’ll say no more. It will come to the same thing in the end, and save a lot of bother and unpleasantness.”

  The next moment he was gone.

  “Iain,” cried Linda. “Oh, Iain—what have I done? It’s all my fault. I ought to have known better. . . . I was sure he would try . . . try to get Richard.”

  Iain came over to the table and stood looking down at her. Now that the strain was over she had broken down completely, the tears were rolling unheeded down her cheeks.

  She said, “Richard . . . I’ve failed Richard . . . I’ve failed him. . . .”

  “Don’t cry,” Iain said. “There is still a way to save Richard.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Leave it to me, Linda.”

  Something in his tone frightened her. She seized his arm. “You must tell me what you’re going to do,” she said urgently. “I must know.”

  “I shall have to kill Medworth,” said Iain quietly.

  “Iain, you are mad!”

  “It’s the only thing to do.”

  “You can’t do that . . . Iain . . . promise me that you won’t do anything so mad . . . so crazy . . .”

  “It’s not crazy,” he said. “Let me go, Linda; let go of my arm.”

  Linda clung to him more tightly than ever, clung to him so that he could not disengage himself without actual violence. “Iain, listen to me for God’s sake—you don’t know what you are doing—”

  “I’m quite calm,” he replied. “I see clearly—it’s the only thing to do.”

  He was quite calm—that was the extraordinary part of it to Linda—the terrifying part. He was perfectly calm and reasonable about the whole thing.

  “It’s murder,” she said. “Don’t you understand? They would hang you—”

  “Yes, if they found out about it,” he replied. “But they might not find out—and, anyway, it’s the only thing to do. I’m not thinking of us, at all. We can bear it if we have to. I’m thinking of Richard, who can’t. I’m thinking of Richard in that man’s power—Richard would go mad—”

  She said, “I know—but you mustn’t do it.”

  “It’s our fault,” he continued in the same quiet, reasonable tone. “You said you had failed Richard—we both failed him. We, haven’t done anything wrong but we have been—careless—stupid. We’ve got to do the best we can for Richard—and this is the only thing that is going to be any good. In this world people are punished for stupidity just as surely as for wrong-doing—more so, perhaps—and the same applies to Nature. It is the law of the jungle—if you know what I mean—a rabbit is doing no harm when it runs into a noose, but it is caught all the same.”

  “We have been rabbits,” she said with an attempt at a smile.

  “We have been rabbits,” he agreed, “and we are caught in a snare; but the worst of it is that Richard is caught too. We’ve got to do the best we can for Richard—and this is the only thing that is going to be any good.”

  “Don’t talk like that, I can’t bear it,” she said. “I simply can’t bear it. Murder is wrong—it’s unthinkable—it’s the most dreadful wickedness. Promise me, promise me faithfully that you won’t think of it any more.”

  “It’s the only way, Linda. I don’t think of it as wickedness—the man is bad all through, you know it as well as I do—”

  “I know, but you mustn’t,” she cried. “You can’t take the law into your own hands like that. You can’t kill a man, even if he is bad—it’s murder.”

  “It would be worse than murder to let him have Richard—think of it—”

  “I have thought,” she cried. “Do you think I don’t see how frightful it would be? I see it more clearly than you—”

  “He’s a bad man,” Iain urged. “A dangerous man—a man without any decent instincts.”

  “There must be some other way,” she said. “There must be. The Judge must be made to see the truth. Truth is strong, Iain, stronger than lies—”

  “The evidence against us is very strong,” Iain said gravely. “You must face that, Linda.”

  “I know—we’ve been incredibly foolish. . . . I have been incredibly foolish . . . that night when I came here. . . . Oh, Iain, what a fool I was! . . . But I can’t believe that God would let evil triumph—I can’t believe it—we must trust God. Promise me that you won’t do it . . . promise me.”

  She wouldn’t let him go until he had promised, she held him with all her strength, and, at last, she wrung the promise from him, the promise that he would take no action against Medworth’s life. She let him go then, and sank back into the chair, exhausted with the strain.

  He said, “What then? What can I do for you, my dear?—What else is there?”

  “There is nothing you can do,” she replied faintly.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  OATCAKES

  Richard was in the MacNeils’ cottage, sitting on the creepy-stool by the fire talking to Morag. He liked talking to Morag, and he liked watching her at work—sometimes she let him help her. On this particular afternoon she was busy making oatcakes. Donald was fond of oatcakes and there had to be a good supply always ready.

  Richard thought the little cottage was a fascinating place. He liked the whitewashed walls, and he liked the way the beams bulged behind the flaking plaster. There were beams in the roof too, high up amongst the shadows—dark cobwebby-looking beams that supported the sagging roof. Darkness up above and brightness down below, thought Richard. The little stove gleamed brightly, the fire glowed red, it winked and twinkled in the brass lids that hung on the wall, and the pewter jugs on the dresser, and the handle of the door that led into the tiny bedroom. Over the stove there hung a text in a carved wooden frame: “Is e Dia mo Bhuachaill.” Morag had told him how to say it, and what it meant in English. “The Lord is my Shepherd.” Richard said it over to himself softly, it gave him a nice safe feeling. . . .

  It was beginning to get a little dark inside the cottage, for the day was clouding over; the window was small, and two big trees near the door helped to obscure the light.

  “It’s cosy, isn’t it?” Richard said. “I like when it just begins to get dark, don’t you, Morag? Bright things look brighter, and dark things look darker—why do they?”

  “I could not be telling you that, Richard,” Morag replied thoughtfully. She was busy with her oatcake mixture, oatcakes are tricky things to make. Unless the proportions are just right they are apt to be too brittle, or too soft. Morag made them constantly, but they always worried her a little. Richard’s eyes dwelt upon her, he liked being with Morag. There were no children at Ardfalloch for him to play with, and Morag was the nearest approach to a child that he had found. She was personally interested in all he said, and personal interest turns an adult into a companion. He did not realise this consciously, of course, he only knew that he liked talking to Morag; they talked
together frankly and seriously as contemporaries talk; they had fun together, and Morag enjoyed the fun as much as Richard. She did not try to amuse him or entertain him, she became a child with him—they were equals, and perfectly comfortable in each other’s society. Another good thing about Morag was her stories—other people could sometimes be induced to tell stories, or read them out of books, but Morag’s stories were true. Morag believed in fairies—she said she didn’t, but she did really—Richard believed in fairies too. How could you not believe in fairies when they were all around you? Richard knew that there were fairies at Ardfalloch; he had not actually seen them, yet, but he had felt their presence, had felt, when he went through the woods by himself, that the fairies were there, all round him, peeping at him. He was quite sure when he came to a little clearing in the woods and found it empty of life but very still, very full of sunlight, he was quite sure that a moment ago there had been fairies here—or Little People, as Morag called them—they had heard him coming and they had vanished.

  Richard was not frightened of them—not a bit frightened—in fact, he felt their presence was a sort of protection. He was sure they would not harm him. It was loud things that frightened Richard—loud noises and angry voices and big rough men with strong hands. Above all, one big, cruel, loud-voiced man. Richard trembled a little as he thought of that man—the thought of that man had come upon him unawares. He shut his eyes and squeezed the thought of that man out of his mind—he would not think about that man—he would not. If you didn’t think of things they didn’t exist—that man didn’t exist. Already Richard had discovered the way to lock things out of his mind—or rather he thought he had. He thought he was locking that man out of his mind, but really and truly he was locking up the little cupboard in his mind where that man lived. Richard turned the key in the lock with an effort that left him quite weak and faint, and opened his eyes. The kitchen was full of soft cosy firelight, Morag was busy kneading her dough, everything was warm, and safe, and comfortable, and very quiet—nobody could come here except nice people. . . .

  “Are your oatcakes coming out well?” Richard enquired politely—he was aware of the thrawn nature of oatcakes, it was one of the many things he had learnt from Morag.

  “The mixture is a wee thing wet,” said Morag. Richard rose at once and went to the cupboard where the big barrel of oatmeal was kept. He put in his hand and took out a handful of meal and brought it to her. Morag smiled down at him, he was so sweet, so serious, so anxious to be helpful.

  “Tapadh leat! a laochain,” she said, in her soft clear voice.

  “What does that mean, Morag?”

  “It means, thank you, my wee laddie.”

  “I think it sounds nicer in your language,” said Richard thoughtfully.

  “Och, and so it does,” agreed Morag. “It is a fine language, the Gaelic, when the heart is speaking.”

  This was a little beyond Richard’s comprehension, so he did not reply. He sprinkled the meal over the mixture and watched with interest while Morag mixed it in and kneaded it—what a fascinating thing it was, so doughy and cloggy. It assumed queer shapes under Morag’s pummelling, it clung stickily to her fingers.

  “Look now. Richard,” Morag said, “I will give you a little piece and you can be making an oatcake yourself.”

  “Oh, Morag!” he said eagerly. “May I really?”

  She fetched another board, and floured it and divided off a piece of the dough for him. Meanwhile Richard rolled up the sleeves of his jersey and got himself an oblong wooden stool to stand on. He had helped Morag before, helped to stir puddings, and, once, to decorate a pie, but he had never helped to make oatcakes before—oatcakes were difficult. His small face was quite pink with excitement as he started to knead, watching Morag and copying her every movement like an assiduous little ape. The dough was plastic under his fingers, he rolled it out and smoothed it, and then squeezed it up again.

  “Look, Morag!” he said. “I’ve made a rabbit—see its long ears.”

  “It is very good,” said Morag gravely. “It is very like a rabbit. We will bake it now.”

  “Oh, Morag, can you have oatcake rabbits?”

  She laughed. “I have never seen one before,” she admitted. “But there is no reason at all why we should not have one. We must squash it flat or it will not cook nicely, but it will still be a rabbit.” She ran the rolling pin lightly over the rabbit, it came out rather long and thin, but it was still indubitably a rabbit. Richard lifted it carefully and put it on to the girdle with Morag’s more conventional three-cornered pieces. Then he went back to his stool near the stove.

  Morag took up her knitting and sat down in the big chair. She kept one eye on the girdle as she worked—it was very quiet. Richard listened to the clicking of her needles in the quietness, it was a soothing sound.

  He said at last, “The fire is twinkling among your neegles, Morag. I like it. I like your kitchen. I like everything in your house.”

  “So do I,” Morag agreed, looking round the little room lovingly. “It is a very nice wee house.”

  “When I’m grown up I’ll have a little house just like this,” continued Richard dreamily. “It’s much more fun than a big house, much cosier and sort of—sort of safer—”

  “Och, but you will not!” Morag said. “You will be a gentleman when you are grown up, and a gentleman does not live in a wee house like this.”

  “Then I won’t be a gentleman,” said Richard firmly.

  “Och, but you will be a gentleman,” Morag told him gravely. “You cannot help yourself. You will be a gentleman, and you will have a fine wife, and a big house and servants to wait on you, and you will be shooting and fishing like gentlemen do. You will be too grand for Morag then—”

  “But I won’t be like that a bit,” he told her earnestly. “Mummy and I are very poor, you know. We are going to live in a tiny little house together, and I’m going to make money for her when I’m grown up.”

  Morag smiled her ghostly flitting smile, she did not think that Richard’s life would be like that. Everybody in Ardfalloch was sure that MacAslan would marry Mrs. Medworth—the thing had been discussed in every cottage in the glen. MacAslan had saved her life; they had been wrecked on the island together; and they had danced together at the ball for all the world to see. Alec and Gregor had seen them and had reported it to all and sundry. Everybody was interested—vitally interested in MacAslan’s doings, and everybody was glad that he had found a lady that pleased him at last—it was high time there was an heir at Ardfalloch House.—She was a nice lady, too—so they all agreed—there was a dignity about her, and yet she was not proud and stuck-up, she had a kind smile for everybody—so she had.

  Morag thought of all this as she smiled her enigmatic smile, but she said nothing—it was not for her to put ideas into Richard’s head. She thought how nice it would be to have Richard at the Big House, he would grow big and strong in the fine air. He would come and see her sometimes, and she was glad to think of that, for she loved Richard very dearly. You could not help loving Richard, he was so sweet and serious, and so pretty. It would be nice to have a little son like that, thought Morag. She had thought so the very first time she saw Richard; and now she thought it again, even more fervently, for she knew Richard now. She sighed a little—she and Donald had been married for two years and there was no sign of a little son.

  “Why are you sighing, Morag?” Richard enquired.

  She replied quite simply, “I was thinking I would like to be having a little son, chust like you.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, nodding gravely. “It would be nice for you, Morag. It would be company for you when Donald was out. Of course it would be a long time before he was big enough to help you like me. Babies aren’t much good, just at first.”

  “He would grow.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Richard. “Why don’t you ask God to send you a baby?”

  “I have asked Him, Richard.”

  “I’ll ask too,
” said Richard. “I’ll ask Him to-night when I say my prayers.”

  “That will be very kind of you,” Morag said.

  There was a little silence after that; the fire glowed redly, and they heard the rain begin to patter gently on the roof.

  “Morag,” said Richard suddenly, “tell me more about the Little People.”

  “I have told you too much already,” Morag said. “It is not true, Richard, there are no Little People in your world.”

  “Not in London, of course,” agreed Richard. “But there are here. I nearly saw them this morning in the woods—”

  He broke off suddenly, for there were footsteps outside on the little path, and, a moment later, a knock on the door. Morag rose and went to open the door. She found MacAslan waiting on the step.

  “Is Richard still here?” he asked.

  “Yes, he is still here, MacAslan,” replied Morag, smiling. “He has been helping me—”

  Iain took off his cap and went in. He saw Richard sitting on the little stool by the fire, there was a peaceful happy expression on his small face.

  “I’ve come to take you home, Richard,” Iain said. “Mummy has gone on—”

  Richard looked up and smiled. “Now?” he asked, rather reluctantly.

  “Would MacAslan not wait till the rain is past?” Morag suggested.

  “It’s only a shower,” Iain said. “I think we had better go.” He knew that Linda would worry if they did not go at once, and she was worried and anxious enough already, but he had a feeling that he was an intruder in Morag’s kitchen, he was interrupting something. . . .

  It was a queer feeling, and it passed as quickly as it had come. In a few moments Richard had found his cap and his jacket, and they were walking back to Ardfalloch House together through the sweetly perfumed dampness of the woods.

  * * * * *

  When Iain got back to the cottage he found Donald waiting for him in the sitting-room. He was standing by the window, and Iain had a sudden impression of Donald’s enormous stature. He seemed to dwarf the room. He turned as Iain came in and Iain saw that he was disturbed in some way, but he was too deeply sunk in his own grave troubles to spare more than a passing thought for Donald’s unusual mien. He flung himself into a chair without speaking and gazed at the fire. There was no need to pretend to Donald—they understood each other too well. It was one of the good things about Donald that there was no need to explain one’s mood. If Donald did not understand one’s mood, he at least respected it.