Land of Heart's Desire

by Catherine Airlie

  “But a very human reaction, all the same,” he allowed. “Miss MacNeill will make all the difference to life on Croma.” He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowed a little as he followed the dancing couples at the far end of the room. “She is, I understand, your sole heir?”

  “Yes,” Dame Sarah said, her blue eyes following his. “It’s a vulnerable position, I fear.”

  He smiled, although the look in his eyes did not change. “She’ll cope with it, I guess,” was all he said.

  Christine did not see him again until their meal was served. He had danced with Jane mostly and with the people to whom Jane introduced him, and always when Christine looked in his direction he seemed to be the centre of an admiring group. Of course, to the girls from the mainland and Edinburgh he would appear as the romantic figure of the new laird of Ardtornish and a wealthy bachelor into the bargain. Even Jane, she noticed, laughed a Jot at what he had to say, and Alison Hope-Drummond positively hung on every word!

  “Our new laird is making himself extremely pleasant to the ladies,” Hamish observed dryly as he brought her a glass of champagne. “He is quite possibly looking for a wife, although I believe there was someone in Canada who disappointed him.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Christine answered quickly. “He’ll certainly need someone to help him to run Ardtornish.”

  “Who better than Jane?” he suggested.

  “No one.” Her heart fluttered like an imprisoned bird. “But she would have to be in love with him first.”

  He laughed, putting his hand under her elbow to lead her towards the table.

  “Jane might fill the bill in that direction,, also,” he suggested. “She would be most eagerly accepted, and so would our friend Finlay, if she could return to Ardtornish as Mrs. Sutherland!”

  “I—don’t think he would marry Jane—just to be accepted on the island,” she objected uncertainly.

  “Wouldn’t he?” Hamish smiled lazily. “If you ask me, he’s exactly the type who would pursue an end with the utmost ruthlessness. What he wants he’ll go for in a big way, and no holds barred! I’ve just heard, by the way, that he’s bought the shearings for the whole island at a fantastic price because he didn’t, want the wool sold on the mainland. I’ve no idea how he means to use it, but he’ll have some scheme up his sleeve—one to double his profit, I’ve no doubt. He has used the Erradale wool as a lever, I understand, to buy in the glens on this side of the ford.”

  Christine turned to stare at him.

  “You mean that my grandmother sold him our shearings—our entire output?” she asked.

  Hamish nodded.

  “So it is said. He talked Rory into it, I suppose, and Rory would influence the old lady.”

  “I don’t think so!” Christine’s lips were firmly set, and in that moment she looked more like Dame Sarah than ever before. “Nobody could talk my grandmother into anything she didn’t want to do. Finlay Sutherland must have had some good reason for wanting our wool.”

  “Or your grandmother an equally good reason for wanting the extra money!”

  “Money wouldn’t come into it!” Her eyes flashed angrily, so that he was quick to see the need for apology.

  “Let’s forget about it,” he said. “It’s hardly a suitable subject for a twenty-first birthday party, and the others’ are waiting to offer you the appropriate toast for the future!”

  Christine allowed him to lead her to the head of the table, where her grandmother was waiting, and she was acutely aware of him standing behind her chair during the happy formality of wishing her well.

  She was not nearly so nervous now as she had been during her presentation to the tenants in the afternoon, because that had seemed to involve so much more than just being “of age”. Down there on the school playing field, she had committed herself to Croma, accepting her future responsibility for these people. It was something big and—and emotional, she thought, looking about her at the sea of happy faces which thronged the festive board, something Dame Sarah had accepted, in her turn, all those years ago.

  “To Christine!” her friends cried as they raised their glasses above their heads, but “To Croma” she said in her own heart.

  As if he had heard that small, intimate avowal, she found herself looking into Finlay Sutherland’s green eyes across the table. He did not appear to be smiling quite so lightheartedly as the others, although he had lifted his glass as high. “To Croma,” he seemed to repeat in dry acknowledgment of her unspoken toast.

  “Come along!” Hamish urged when she had put down her glass. “We’ve something else to show you.”

  He led the way towards the door, her guests following in a noisy stream. Excitement and curiosity ran high, for some surprise element was waiting out there in the silent night for their further enjoyment. Yet in some strange way Christine was conscious of her own withdrawal. It was something in which her grandmother could not take part because she was forced to remain behind in her chair; it was something, perhaps, which dame Sarah knew nothing about.

  “Hamish,” she said, “what is it?”

  “Wait and see!” He took her hand, drawing her along. “I don’t mind telling you that it was my idea and practically all my own work!”

  It was then that she saw it, and the sight made her stop dead in her tracks, her heart hammering madly against her ribs as she waited for the others to come up.

  Far on the slopes of Askaval a flicker of light had broken, crouched back and then flared triumphantly against the dark backcloth of grey rock.

  “It’s a bonfire!” someone cried. “A birthday beacon!”

  Christine felt as if a hand had tightened suddenly over her heart.

  “It’s unlucky,” she whispered. “It was never meant to be lit—except for a male heir. The people will see it and be afraid.”

  “Nonsense!” Hamish brushed her superstitious qualms aside as the rest of the house party clustered behind them. “It’s the most suitable conclusion to a wonderful day!”

  Dame Sarah’s guests from the mainland were all in favour of such a conclusion. The villagers had set off their fireworks along the quay, and the bonfire seemed their own special effort on Christine’s behalf, but suddenly the sound of laughter that had drifted up to them from the direction of the Port was hushed and Christine could imagine the faces of the village people turned in consternation towards Askaval.

  The bonfire flared and belched its defiance, searching the darkness with bright yellow tongues of flame until hill and crag and sparse, hunch-backed trees were silhouetted starkly against it and the stars seemed to pale in comparison. Christine felt the silence about her like a living thing, intangible but dangerous, and then she saw Rory coming across the garden towards her.

  His face was completely distorted with rage and his strong hands shook as he clenched and unclenched them. He was staring at his brother, and Hamish stepped back involuntarily, as if he had expected Rory to strike him.

  “You did this!” Rory accused. “You did it after I had advised you against it! You know what these village people are—how they cling on to their old superstitions and beliefs. They’re prejudiced enough, some of them, without you having to add to it like this. We don’t need to make them expect disaster.”

  His voice seemed to vibrate against the silence and it was perhaps a full second before Hamish could bring himself to laugh the warning aside. In that taut silence Christine had looked up and across the circle of her grandmother’s guests to where Finlay Sutherland stood beside Jane.

  He was looking towards Askaval, to the bright orange glow above it which the bonfire had made in the sky, and the strange, flaring light seemed suddenly reflected in his eyes. They glittered for a moment as he watched, and then he looked straight across the circle at her, smiling at her obvious concern.

  Because he didn’t believe in superstitions, or because, her personal misfortunes could so easily be his own ultimate gain?

  She turned away. Why did she think these
things? It was a wretched thing to do, but Hamish had hinted only a moment ago that the new laird of Ardtornish had very few scruples, and Finlay had said himself that he generally went after a thing until he got it!

  Upset and confused, she began to walk back towards the house long before the bonfire had burned itself out.

  “Let’s go back indoors!” she called to her laughing guests. “Let’s dance again!”

  She tried to forget about the bonfire, hoping that Dame Sarah had not seen the flaring beacon light on. Askaval, but when their last guest had gone and she helped the old lady up to her room the glow was still flickering against the northern sky.

  “What’s that?” Dame Sarah asked, crossing to the window. “The light up there on Askaval?”

  “It was Hamish’s idea.” Christine’s throat felt constricted but she did her best to make light of the whole unfortunate incident. “He thought it would be a nice gesture if I had a bonfire on my birthday, too.”

  There was a small, tense silence before her grandmother spoke. Dame Sarah’s expression had remained unchanged, but her eyes were pinpoints of angry light.

  “He should have known better,” she said. “Even if he doesn’t believe in these old hoodoos himself, he could learn to respect other people’s beliefs. He was born on Croma and he lived at Ardtornish long enough to know what the islanders think. It has never done us any harm to respect their superstitions and no good to defy them.” She drew a deep, impatient breath. “There are two kinds of people in this world, it would seem,” she added briefly. “Those that destroy and those that build. Be careful of the destroyers, Chris. They can wreck one’s life as easily and as unthinkingly as they smile.”

  Christine put her arms about the stiff old shoulders.

  “I’m sorry about all this, Granny,” she said. “I don’t suppose Hamish meant any harm. It was all just—terribly unfortunate.”

  She had not mentioned Rory’s warning nor the fact that Hamish had defied it. It did not occur to her until some time afterwards, and then she thought it unwise to bring up the subject of the bonfire again.

  Yet, when she went to her own room, happily tired, and stood for a moment or two with her back against the closed door, as if she might re-live all the exciting events of her special day in one exquisite, culminating moment of delight, she could only see the yellow flare above Askaval where a last defiant flame had sprung to life among the embers of Hamish Nicholson’s fire.

  It seemed to leap out at the darkness, revealing the harsh face of the rock in sullen relief, and then it sank again and flared once more before it died.

  Impulsively she crossed to the window, reaching up to draw the heavy curtains against the night. Down in the bay, within the arc of the harbour wall, she could see the riding-lights of a score of small craft, the little yachts and cabin cruisers that had brought their guests to Croma, and suddenly she had forgotten Hamish and the strange yellow glow above Askaval in the memory of their friendship and the goodwill with which they had surrounded her.

  She knew most of the boats by name, and somewhere down there the Ardtornish yawl waited the morning tide, with the new laird of Ardtornish safely on board.

  What had he thought about the bonfire, she wondered. What had he really thought?

  CHAPTER VI

  Two days after her birthday party, Christine saw Jane off on the bi-weekly steamer for the south end of the island. The September gales had descended upon them earlier than usual and the ford was unsafe in consequence. Besides, Jane had a good deal of luggage to take with her and the tender from Scoraig would put out to meet the steamer in the bay.

  “Something will have to be done about the causeway,” Rory reflected as they waved their good-byes on the quay at Port-na-Keal. “If we had the money we could build a sea wall, with a road over it, maybe.”

  “We’ve never had a road, Rory,” Christine pointed out. “The ford has always been easy enough to cross.”

  “Not in winter,” he disagreed. “And we’re always at the mercy of the tide.”

  “Do we need a road so very much?” she asked.

  “If we are to be one island we do,” he said.

  “Who mentioned anything about being one island?” Her voice was suddenly sharp. “Has Finlay Sutherland been trying to convince you, too?”

  “I have always been convinced about that,” Rory answered thoughtfully. “And my belief is that it could be done quite easily, without friction.”

  “Not if the new laird of Ardtornish wants Erradale as well!”

  They walked along the quay in silence.

  “Are you coming back in the brake?” Rory asked when they reached the road.

  “No, I’ll walk.”

  She wanted to walk to get her thinking straight. Always, even as a child, her restless energy had prompted her to action when there was something to be thought out, some decision to be made, but this time the problem itself eluded her. It was a nebulous thing that was no more than an impression at the moment, a vague frustration in the mind to which she could not put a name. It was like setting out on a journey and not being sure of its end, not being quite certain of where one was going.

  She turned away, raising her hand to Rory in brief salute. Hamish had not come to see his sister off on her journey to Scoraig, and Christine supposed that they should excuse him because it must be painful for him to think of Jane returning to the old family home as a paid employee of the new laird. He had gone off on a fishing trip which would probably last the remainder of the week, although whether it was after sharks this time or not she did not know. Rory had said, rather sourly, that it was time Hamish was looking for a permanent job instead of sharks, but that had been all. Hamish would no doubt think about a job when the shark fishing was over for another year, which would be at the end of the present month.

  She tried to think constructively about Hamish and could not. What would he do when he left the island?

  And if he left—

  Footsteps hurrying on the path ahead of her arrested her flying thoughts. She had turned in at the stout oaken door in the high stone wall which surrounded Erradale House and was halfway along the shrubbery path when someone approached from the house itself, and wings of a sudden, unnamed fear fluttered in her heart. She hurried forward, aware of a sense of time suspended, of her small world hanging on a word, a gesture, a command.

  Agnes Crammond came round the bend ahead without hat or coat and still in her house shoes. She moved like an automaton, catching Christine’s hand in hers.

  “What has happened?” Christine asked, her heart beating suffocatingly close against her throat. “Is it—my grandmother?”

  Mrs. Crammond could only answer by nodding her head. She was breathless because she had been running, but there was no colour in her face. “It is that,” she gasped at last. “Another of these nasty strokes and me not knowing what to do for her in case it might be the wrong thing! I’m away for Mirren Lang and hoping to heaven the woman’s in her own house for once!”

  “I’d be able to get there quicker, Crammy,” Christine said, torn between the urgency of finding the District Nurse and going back look after her grandmother. “I might be able to pick up Rory with the brake if I went across the fields.” Her heartbeats suddenly seemed to choke her. “Go back to her, Mrs. Crammond,” she pleaded. “Don’t leave her alone, and I’ll be with you as quickly as ever I can. I’ll find Mirren somehow.”

  Agnes Crammond looked relieved. Her breathing had become a pain in her chest, sharp and stabbing. She had not run like that for years, and she turned back towards the house with a sigh of relief.

  Christine hurried to the boundary wall, thrusting the reluctant, moss-covered door back on its hinges to scan the empty expanse of the road to the Port. Mirren Lang might be somewhere in the village or she might be miles away, in one of the distant crofts on the far side of the glen.

  If it was Mirren’s day for the glen her one hope would be to try to contact Doctor McIlroy on the nei
ghbouring island of Heimra, where he went twice a week to open a surgery and clinic for the islanders.

  She ran down the road, her breath coming swiftly between her teeth, almost sobbing her relief as she heard the sound of a car’s engine coming up from the direction of the harbour.

  “Rory!” She ran alongside the brake as he pulled up on the narrow road. “Try to find Mirren Lang,” she begged. “They’ll tell you in the village where she is likely to be. It’s—my grandmother. She’s had another seizure, only Mrs. Crammond thinks it’s worse than the last one. I’m going back to the house now. Do what you can, Rory—and be quick!”

  He had let out his clutch before she had finished the last sentence, and she stood for a moment staring blindly at the little swirls of dust raised by the wheels on the road. Then she turned and began to run back by the way she had come, through the door in the wall into the cool green depths of the shrubbery where the moss-grown path was still moist and wet in places after the summer rains.

  The rambling old house looked shadowy and brooding when she reached it. Silhouetted against the blue wash of the sea and the distant line of the horizon, it seemed to hold all the centuries of MacNeill living imprisoned within its grim walls, yet she could only see it now as her grandmother’s home, the place where Dame Sarah had lived and ruled for so many years.

  She found the door standing open and a waiting silence in the hall. Not lingering even to go in search of Mrs. Crammond, she mounted the stairs, two at a time, pausing only when she reached the heavy door of the turret room.

  Inside there was the sound of voices—her grandmother’s and someone else, talking slowly in the Gaelic tongue. She knew that it would be Callum come up from the shore at the first news of disaster, and the old man rose from the chair at the bed as she went in.

  “Don’t go, Callum,” she said as she passed him. “She may want you to stay.”