Second Sight

by Neil M. Gunn

  “Not always. Often another stag or two will stay with him and keep guard.”

  “Do they?” asked Helen, heartened.

  “Yes,” said Donald.

  They were silent for a long time. Running deer, lovely running deer. Her sympathies were with the deer and not with the hunters. This was like a betrayal, a betrayal of Harry, of all her men, the hunting men, the hunters that came over horizon after primeval horizon, through dark ages and medieval ages, into the September sun of this day she was alive in.

  As she shifted her stance, she glanced at Donald. His eyes never left a certain point in the hills. He had the keen concentrated expression of the hunter, the eyebrows gathered a little over far-sighted eyes. Ruthless, she thought.

  And all at once she was struck by something terrifying in the aspect of man, something she had never experienced before, that separated man from her, some dark force of the spirit, that could grip male flesh. Donald never moved. He looked as if he could stand like that for ever.

  The moment’s sensation carried within it its own visual image—an aspect of man, a man’s questing head, potent and mythological. Deep in her it would remain for ever.

  For here was Helen, Helen Marway, in the bright sun, running with the invisible deer, running beyond men, in the light.

  Not pain, not death, not potent mythological faces—but light and the hooves of the running deer.

  Until she felt in herself the dreadful cleavage, the awful balancing, pull and counter-pull, passion and ecstasy, between dark and light.

  “There they are,” said Donald.

  “Where?”

  He did not answer, looking into the hills. He gave a signal with his right arm. “They’re not wanting me.”

  “Where are they?”

  He tried to point them out to her, and when she said that she could not see them, he replied that it was impossible to see them now because they were against a dark hill-side. He obviously kept looking at them for a few more seconds, before suggesting, “Perhaps we should go to meet them. We have the lunch.”

  “What’s happened, do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” But as they moved forward, he volunteered the suggestion that there wouldn’t likely be any more stalking. And when Helen questioned him, he explained that what with the good day that was in it, the deer would now be on the tops.

  “Do you think they have got the stag?”

  “Oh no.”

  “Perhaps it was wounded and got too far away.”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think it was wounded.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if it was wounded Alick would get it.”

  “You have great faith in Alick?” She watched the smile dawn in his face.

  “Yes, ma’m.”

  And Donald proved to be right. Harry gave Helen a wave.

  “What luck?” she cried.

  “Rotten!” And, as he came up, “I’m ashamed of myself. A really fine head. Ten pointer. And what a weight! I don’t know what went wrong. An absolutely clean miss.”

  “But didn’t you fire again?”

  “Yes. Tried him on the run. Don’t mention it, for heaven’s sake. What a shot!” He sat down with a thump. “Let us eat and forget it. Where’s the flask? Alick!”

  “It was a long difficult shot.” Alick explained to Helen.

  “It wasn’t. It wasn’t nearly two hundred yards—and straight across—target practice!” Harry declared.

  “It was the colouring behind. The outline was vague at the distance. A very difficult shot.”

  “Bosh! Drink this.”

  “Good health!” murmured Alick and drank. Then he turned towards Donald and the pony and they went away some little distance before Alick sat down, and Donald opened out the gillies’ lunch. Their backs politely to the toffs, they ate and talked away together.

  Harry talked, too, describing the stalk with animation. “I was so keen to bag a good head to-day. I did really want to get you a fine trophy. I was so keen. That’s the whole thing. I’m mad at myself, really mad.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Very decent of you. You can be really decent. All the same, that doesn’t let me off. I wish I had that shot over again. Here, eat some of these.”

  “Give me time. I’m ravenous.”

  “We could have gone much much farther. But we’d never have got back in time for that bally dinner at Screesval. Hang it! Oh never mind!” He shoved most of a sandwich into his mouth, said, “George is certain…” and choked.

  Helen laughed. “I have a confession to make.”

  He looked at her.

  “I put a hoodoo on you.”

  He swallowed.

  “I do not want you to kill the stag to-day.”

  His eyebrows gathered and he gazed at her with a male penetrating expression.

  Helen’s eyes wavered, and she looked across the moor with an enigmatic defensive smile.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Oh”—Helen lifted her shoulders—“just a joke.” Then she flashed him a smile. “Was the stag keeping company?”

  “Regular old sultan.”

  “Poor old chap. Bit tough on him, I thought, on such a fine morning.”

  Harry kept looking at her. Then he shrugged also and smiled. “Oh, that.”

  “Pretty poor joke, Harry. I’m sorry.”

  He kept on eating. “Here, have some of these.”

  “Thanks. Been a gorgeous day, hasn’t it?”

  “Rather. It was a damned hind that spotted me and barked.”

  “How mean of her!”

  “You for a pukka sahib!”

  “I do feel awful.”

  “Sentimental. You!”

  “Go on, rub it in.”

  “Don’t you see you’re letting down your race?”

  “Absolutely. I can assure you, however, that it was merely a temporary aberration.” A danger flash came into her eyes. “I can assure you it shan’t happen again. In these circumstances, perhaps you could strain your sahib’s conscience to overlook it.”

  “No. Nothing will make me forget that hoodoo. The thing is too fundamental.”

  “Proceed. I’ll observe the well-known process of self-flattery.”

  “It’s not often you give yourself away, Helen.”

  “Will you be good enough to explain exactly in what way I gave myself away?”

  “Well, you just gave yourself away.” He shrugged. “I mean you just gave yourself away.”

  “I’m not ashamed of a thought directed towards the sparing of any life.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “With what?”

  “With—with—the why and the wherefore?”

  She regarded him carefully. “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Good lord, no. I was never more serious.”

  “Harry Kingsley?”

  “Helen Marway?”

  “I think you’re a mean hound.”

  “My cup is full.”

  “It isn’t. Hold it out.” Coldly she filled it with hot coffee.

  “Thanks.” As he kept on trying to get the cup to sit on the heather, he said uncertainly, almost shyly, “Helen, do you mean you did not want me to kill anything to-day?”

  She gave him a glance, then announced: “The discussion is closed.”

  “I am reconciled,” he said. “The glory has returned unto the day. Allah is Allah.”

  A warmth suffused her face as she gathered the sandwich papers, crushed them into a ball, and poked them into the peat, but she gave nothing away.

  He glanced at her. “How does it go?” he asked gently.

  She apparently did not hear, but after a moment she looked up towards Benbeg and slowly intoned: “Lâ ilâha illa’llâh.…”

  He gazed at her.

  She withdrew her eyes to her hands, which lay in her lap. “There is no god but God.…”

>   He bowed his own head, still hushed by the vowelled liquid run of her voice. She was body and spirit—and all that time meant and could ever mean. He bowed down until his forehead touched the heath before her, like a Moslem at prayer.

  She looked at him with a calm smile, and kept looking as he raised his head and met her eyes. The warmth was still in her face but she was not confused.

  “You are the woman who sat among the rocks and dived in deep seas,” he said, with uncertain humour.

  She smiled upon him, poised and enigmatic.

  He glanced towards the two gillies. Their presence made action impossible, and action was what he needed. He could not bear her any more. He must.…

  She met the swift return of his eyes, and began to laugh very softly, through her nostrils, until her lips parted and the deep cooing chuckle came through. In an instant her voice whipped: “Harry!”

  The sound stopped his advance.

  “You’ll pay for this,” he vowed. “You’ll pay for it beyond anything you have ever dreamed.” He tried to dissemble his heavy breathing, and so merely emphasised it.

  “I wonder,” she said, and began to collect the luncheon apparatus.

  As Alick and Donald and the pony followed them on the way home, Alick said, looking at her ankles and the easy grace of her body, “How did you get on with her?”

  “Oh fine. She’s all right.”

  “A bit of a beauty, what?”

  “Boy, isn’t she!” said Donald.

  “How would you like to have a girl like that?”

  “Och, be quiet!”

  Alick smiled. “What was she talking about?”

  “I could see she didn’t like the idea of the stag being wounded. She asked me if I knew about plants.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t know any plants. She wandered off by herself.”

  “Did she get any?”

  “I kept watching her out of the corner of my eye. I don’t think she got any. Then she lay down. She’s queer in some ways, I think?”

  “What ways?”

  “Oh I don’t know. Are there any plants?”

  “A few. She didn’t look for them very long?”

  “I don’t think so. I got a bit of white heather.”

  “Did you? And did you give it to her?”

  “No.”

  “You should have given it to her. She would have been delighted. Why didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t like,” said Donald.

  Alick laughed. “Have you got it yet?”

  Donald did not answer.

  “Give it to her.”

  Donald shook his head, embarrassed.

  “Lord, man, you’ll never get a girl if you behave like that. I do believe if she began to make love to you, you’d be frightened.”

  “Would I?” said Donald. “I’ll soon let her see!”

  “What?”

  “Get up!” said Donald, and he hit the pony on the flank with his palm.

  “I can see you have fallen for her a bit.”

  “Who? Me?” asked Donald. “Not on your life!”

  “She’s a beauty, though, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, she’ll do.”

  “How would you like to be in a position, with the money, where you could walk in and carry off a girl like that?’’

  “I should like the money all right.”

  “Look here,” said Alick. “If you had given her the white heather, I bet you she would have given you an extra good tip and perhaps squeezed your hand.”

  “You be quiet,” said Donald. Then he added, “To tell the truth, I thought she might think that I—that I might expect a tip or something.”

  Alick looked at him, and, looking away, remarked, “The day will soon come when that won’t bother you.”

  Donald glanced at him. Then they walked for a long way in a silence which Donald felt so much that his dark eyes caught a strange animal glimmer of pain.

  When next Alick spoke, he referred to the projected meeting at Corr Inn that evening. “Would you like to come?”

  “Yes,” said Donald.

  “So long as you won’t get drunk.”

  “I can get drunk if I like.”

  Alick looked at him, a smile on his face, but Donald moodily refused his eyes.

  As they approached the Lodge, they could see evidences of excitement.

  “Angus has done it on us,” said Alick.

  He was right. George had shot a really good beast.

  Joyce stalked about in great feather. Harry and Helen were getting details of the hunt. Geoffrey, leaning on his stick, waggled his head in ironic mirth over the mystery of beginner’s luck.

  “Let us go round this way,” said Donald.

  “No fear,” said Alick.

  They were hailed. Helen took her folded rainproof off the pony, though Donald clearly wanted to take it into the house himself. “Not at all,” she said, giving him a bright smile. “Thank you, Donald, for a very pleasant day.”

  His face darkened, and he went on with the pony.

  Alick found Angus in the gun-room, and as they cleaned their rifles Angus said, “Talk about luck!” and in a few words described how, while they were resting, he saw the stag coming towards them. “I think he had just come into the forest, on the rut. He began ploughing up a peat pool at fifty yards. I could have hit him with a stone.”

  “Mr. Smith will be delighted.”

  Angus glanced around and whispered, “Wasn’t I a fool? I really meant to take Mr. Marway for a walk. I knew if we got anything good it would be against me.”

  “And why didn’t you?”

  “Because of the way it happened. And I got all strung up. I couldn’t—I couldn’t frighten the beast. Damn, it wouldn’t have been fair. Ach, what the hell do I care?”

  Alick smiled. “He’ll take it out of you.”

  “Let him! A good head, isn’t it?”

  “Yes; fine span.”

  Geoffrey came in and walked past them into the sittingroom. He did not speak. When the door closed, Angus winked to Alick. “The b——r has the pin in for me!”

  “You’re not the only one,” said Alick.

  Angus looked at him. “He hasn’t thanked you for what you did for him?”

  “Only that deep, silent thanks.”

  “God, it wouldn’t have cost him much to have said thank you, however he felt.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Alick.

  “Perhaps not,” said Angus. “All the same…”

  “We can leave him to it.”

  “To what?”

  “To his fate.”

  There was no emphasis in Alick’s voice, but Angus suddenly felt uncomfortable. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” Alick unhurriedly finished his job. Angus glanced at the tall big figure, so full-chested, upright, and at ease. There was something in Alick, some strange reserved element of personality, that could never be touched. A snatch of a pipe theme came hissing softly through his lips. He played reels and strathspeys on the violin, not with the fire, the “lift”, that gives them life and rouses enthusiasm, but with an extraordinary purity of tone, a limpid small tone, that haunted the memory. A big man, playing quietly to himself. To dance to this music was, for some inexplicable reason, a memorable experience, an extra delight. The dancers would glance at Alick. He never danced himself.

  They left the gun-room. “Coming in for a moment?” and Angus nodded sideways towards the kitchen door.

  “No,” said Alick.

  They went on.

  Joyce parted from Helen in the hall, her loud voice hurrying for the sitting-room. Before hanging up her rainproof in the cloak-room, Helen shook it out. From an internal fold something fell to the floor. She gazed at it. It was a piece of white heather.

  Chapter Nine

  Some two hours later, Helen sat beside Harry in the back seat of George’s car. Darkness was falling and George kept in sight the tail light of the front car in which S
ir John and Lady Marway, Geoffrey and Marjory, were leading the way to Screesval and dinner with Matthew Blair.

  Screesval had a small salmon river of repute, which was its main attraction for the lessee. His grouse moor he let younger friends shoot over. Like Sir John, who had been at college with him, he could not consider himself one of the true sporting tribe. But he had always loved the Highlands in the autumn, and fishing was his mild passion, inducing the pleasant natural moods that assorted so well with his taste for classical literature and the attributes thereof, like simple, good food and good wine. The invitation to dinner always accorded with the arrival at Screesval of his friend, Dean Cameron, for a fortnight’s fishing. The Dean and Mr. Blair contrived as far as possible to have this short spell to themselves, though it sometimes happened, as on the present occasion, that Mr. Blair had another guest.

  But it was the thought of the Dean that tickled George, who was in remarkably good form after his successful day’s hunt. “We’ll turn him on to Geoffrey!”

  “I say, wasn’t old Geoff amusing over our stag?” cried Joyce.

  “Can you blame him?” Helen asked.