Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  Iain had listened to all this with growing alarm; he broke in desperately:

  “Meg is like a sister to me,” he said.

  “Eh? Like a sister, is she? I don’t think there’s much sister about it if you ask me,” said Mr. Finlay with an attempt at jocularity. “Meg doesn’t feel like a sister to you—if either of you had a sister you would realise the difference much more readily. We preferred other fellows’ sisters when we were young. But to return to what I was saying before you interrupted me with this talk of sisters—nobody knows what young people want, it’s this shilly-shallying that I don’t understand—”

  Iain’s anger rose—how dare the old fool talk like that about him and Meg? What did he think he was doing? Iain sprang to his feet. “Sir,” he said, in a queer stilted voice, “are you—are you accusing me of tampering with Meg’s affections?”

  It was exactly what Mr. Finlay was trying to do, but he knew that he must deny it to his last breath—what have I done? he thought—Meg would skin me—this is frightful . . .

  “Good God, no—of course not!” he cried; and again, “Good God, no. Nothing of the sort. Meg can look after herself. Keep Meg out of it—it’s my own idea—mine. Here’s the truth, Iain. I’m an old-fashioned sort of buffer and I’m fond of you, Iain, very fond of you. Sometimes I’ve hoped that you and Meg—well, I’d like to see the child settled with a man I could trust. I shan’t live for ever, and Meg will have a lot of money—I don’t want somebody to marry her for that. You’re the man I’d like to have as a son-in-law. There, you’ve had it now. I’ve come clean, as they say. But you young people—it’s in your hands entirely—yours and Meg’s. Sit down for God’s sake—”

  Iain sat down. He had gone as white as a sheet, and his hand trembled as he moved his glass on the polished table. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “You have paid me a great compliment—I am proud of your—of your regard—but I feel sure that Meg—that Meg feels as I do. I admire her more than I can say—she is a splendid friend—loyal—and—and straight—” His voice died away.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Mr. Finlay with a forced laugh. He thought—poor Meg, I’ve done what I could. I’ve been clumsy perhaps, but I don’t think I’ve done any harm. It’s not pride that’s kept him away—not pride and poverty—that’s certain at any rate. It may be that he has seen too much of her, knows her too well. He may really feel that she is like a sister to him—God knows. This modern idea of letting young people see as much as they like of each other seems to cut both ways—they have more opportunities of getting to know each other, but they lose the glamour—in my day every woman had glamour, even the ugly ones. Poor Meg isn’t ugly by a long way, but she hasn’t much glamour. Good God, what a fool the man is! Meg’s white all through. There may be hope yet, of course, unless there’s another woman—I’ve put it into his head, anyway . . .

  “We had better go in,” he said at last. “Meg will be wondering—”

  They went into the drawing-room. Margaret was sitting by the fire with her toes on the fender, smoking a cigarette. She was surrounded by a cloud of blue smoke—it was one of Margaret’s peculiarities that she managed to make more smoke with one cigarette than most people make with half a dozen. Iain had often teased her about this, and called her the smoke stack.

  “What ages you’ve been!” she said, smiling up at them. “Has father been telling you the latest naughty stories from America?”

  “We were discussing business matters,” Mr. Finlay replied.

  “How dull!” exclaimed Margaret.

  Neither of the men replied to this. Their conversation could hardly be described as dull. Iain felt utterly exhausted after the strain, his collar was clinging to his neck, his knees felt weak . . .

  “Poor Iain,” Margaret continued. “Was it frightfully dull—all about stocks and shares and floating capital?”

  “No, it wasn’t dull,” replied Iain in a strained voice.

  Margaret looked at him swiftly, and then at her father. She thought: What have they been talking about? They both look odd. They both look uncomfortable . . .

  “What about a game of piquet?” she said aloud.

  Iain agreed with alacrity. It would be much easier to play piquet than to keep up a three-cornered conversation with Margaret and her father. He fetched the card table and set it up near Margaret’s chair.

  “How nice it is to have somebody to do things for one!” she said, lying back with an elaborate pretence of laziness. “Yes, the cards are in the usual drawer—got the markers?”

  “We all know how lazy you are!” Iain told her, trying to speak lightly.

  “I suppose that means I am lazy.”

  “It means you’re not lazy,” replied Iain, shutting the drawer with a snap. “It means that your activity—or whatever the opposite of laziness may be—is practically a vice. You will never allow anybody to do anything for you if you can do it yourself—”

  “Because I can always do it better myself,” retorted Meg.

  This was unanswerable, because it was true. Meg was an extraordinarily capable person; she always knew what to do in an emergency and did it without fuss.

  Iain sat down on a pouffe, and soon they were deep in their game. Mr. Finlay watched them over the top of his newspaper. He thought: The man really is a fool; Meg is exactly right for him and he for her. Friendship is a good foundation for marriage, better really than love—though you’ll never get young people to believe that. How I should hate it if Meg were to marry! What the devil should I do without her? It’s rather mad to work and hope for something to happen when you know all the time you’ll hate it like poison if it does happen. But after I’m gone—and I can’t live for ever—seventy-five now, though I don’t feel it—I can’t have many more years to look forward to, and what about Meg? I’d like to see Meg happy—I’d like her to have children. She’s cut out for that . . .

  “Point of six,” Iain said.

  “Oh, you wretch!”

  “That means ‘good,’ I suppose?”

  “Yes, it does. I was a fool—”

  “Quarte major.”

  “No good.” Meg was bubbling with laughter.

  “Oh, Meg! And I have a tierce as well!”

  “Go on,” she giggled. “There’s worse to come.”

  “Trio of aces.”

  “No good.”

  “No good!” he echoed incredulously.

  “I’ve got a quatorze of tens.”

  “Of tens? You are a cad—really, Meg, I wouldn’t have thought it of you!”

  She was lying back amongst the cushions, laughing, her face was a little flushed, her light-brown hair a little rumpled; the excitement of seeing Iain again had made her almost beautiful. Mr. Finlay watched them both and thought: They are children. When I was that age I was a staid respectable business man with a wife and family; but they’re just children. Perhaps they’ll grow up—perhaps they’ll never grow up. Iain was thinking: Meg’s sweet, Meg’s a darling! Why can’t I marry her and be happy?

  CHAPTER IV

  CALUM MOR

  Margaret and her father walked down to the landing-stage with Iain. It was a beautiful night, the moon was very bright and the wind had fallen. Scarcely a leaf moved in the sheltered stillness of Cluan garden. They strolled along, talking in a desultory fashion. Margaret had put on a dark cloak with a hood. It fell away from her face as she raised her head, and Iain saw the soft contour of her cheek and neck in the silvery light. He thought again: She is sweet. He was filled with tenderness for her. Does she really love me, he wondered. If they had been alone he might have put it to the test, might have asked her then to marry him—it was as near as that. But they were not alone. Mr. Finlay was there, strolling along on the other side of Meg with a fat cigar in the corner of his mouth. Meg’s hand was tucked into his arm.

  Suddenly the sound of pipes broke the stillness. It came from the direction of the loch. It was a cheerful tune—Iain knew it well, but he could not name it for
the moment—a cheerful tune and well played. The notes skipped after each other clearly, trippingly, there was a crispness about it that was very pleasing. Iain was passionately fond of the pipes; he knew every piper in the glen, and sometimes boasted that he could tell who it was that was playing from a mile off. But to-night he was puzzled . . .

  They stood still and listened.

  “Who is it?” Iain asked in a low voice.

  “It’s Calum,” replied Mr. Finlay. “Calum MacNeil.”

  “I never knew Calum could play like that.”

  “He hides his light under a bushel,” Margaret said lightly. “He’s a queer shy creature. He won’t play before people. Father has often tried to persuade him to play for us.”

  “And he won’t?”

  “Nothing will induce him to play to an audience,” Mr. Finlay said. “There’s always some excuse. Meg’s tried, too, haven’t you, Meg?”

  “Often,” she said.

  “It sounds as if he were down at the pier,” Mr. Finlay continued. “Perhaps he’s playing for Donald—what relation is he to Donald?”

  Iain laughed softly. “A cousin of sorts,” he said. “Donald’s cousins are numbered as the sands of the sea.”

  The music ceased for a few moments and then came the heart-tearing notes of “Lochaber No More.” The three listeners stood in silence upon the little path in the white moonlight—they could not move. The wild sad notes were an enchantment upon them, binding them to the spot. The notes rose and fell, separate and graceful as a flight of swallows, piercing the still air, breathing of resignation, of hopeless exile, of eternal parting from beloved faces and a beloved land—Lochaber no more.

  It was almost too exquisite to be borne. Margaret clung to her father’s arm. She was moved, almost to tears, by the poignant anguish of the lament. It seemed to search out the secret sorrow of her own heart and lay it bare; she felt as if her very bones were melting.

  They waited until the last notes had died away.

  “The man is a born piper,” Iain said quietly. “I must speak to him—”

  “Perhaps you think he will play for you,” Mr. Finlay suggested.

  Iain did not answer. It was difficult to answer without seeming conceited. He wanted Calum to play for him and he was sure that he could make him do so, but he did not feel inclined to say so when the Finlays had just told him that the man had refused to play for them. It was all the more awkward because Calum was in Mr. Finlay’s service—he managed the Cluan motor-launches. Iain sensed a kind of antagonism in Mr. Finlay to-night—an antagonism no less real because it was carefully veiled. It was not to be wondered at, in view of what had occurred, but it was greatly to be deplored. Iain was never comfortable when he felt that people disliked him.

  Mr. Finlay laughed. “Try him, Iain,” he said. “I bet you half a crown you can’t make Calum play for you.”

  “I’ll take you, sir,” said Iain lightly. “But you and Meg must remain hidden—and you must promise not to tell Calum about the bet—afterwards.”

  Mr. Finlay agreed to the conditions. He was certain in his own mind that Calum would refuse to play. He smiled a little in the darkness, and thought: It will do Iain a lot of good to be taken down a peg. He gets everything he wants. He gets his own way too easily—and yet you can’t help liking him—that’s the queer part of it, the damnable part—you can’t help liking the man. I suppose that’s really the reason he gets his own way in everything—cause and effect. Even his conceit is rather endearing, and conceit isn’t usually an endearing trait . . .

  Mr. Finlay and Margaret lingered amongst the dark shadows of the trees and watched Iain stride down to the pier. The Ardfalloch launch was moored to a buoy and there were two figures in her—two dark stalwart forms outlined against the brightness of the moonlit loch. Everything was black and silver to-night—black boat, black forest and silver loch.

  Iain stood on the pier and called softly, “An tu a tha ann Dhomhnuill?”

  “Is mise a tha ann, MacAslan,” came the ready answer.

  There was swift activity in the launch, the engine started to throb and the launch came in and touched the pier.

  A dark figure leaped out.

  “Co tha sin?” cried Iain.

  “Calum Mor,” was the swift reply.

  “Oh, it is you, Calum,” Iain said, still speaking in the Gaelic. “I see you have your pipes with you, but it was not you who was playing just now as I came down through the gardens.”

  Calum did not answer, he looked away. He was like a big shy child, Iain thought amusedly.

  “Ah no, it was not you playing,” Iain said again. “It was a great piper who was playing just now. Never have I heard a lament better played.”

  “It was I, MacAslan,” said Calum quickly. How could he refuse to claim such a compliment as this?

  “Was it indeed Calum Mor who was playing!” cried Iain in surprise.

  “Och, it was nothing,” Calum said. “It was just for Donald I was playing—to pass the time until MacAslan would be coming down to the boat.”

  “Never have I heard a lament better played,” said Iain again. “It is only a great piper who could play in that fashion—”

  “MacAslan is too kind.”

  “Gregor is a good piper, too,” continued Iain with disarming innocence. “There is scarcely a tune I can name to Gregor that he cannot be playing for me.”

  “That is fine, indeed it is,” said Calum without much enthusiasm.

  “Yes, he is a fine piper, is Gregor,” repeated Iain. He took out his cigarette-case and chose and lighted a cigarette with deliberate care.

  “That is true,” Calum agreed, rather sadly.

  “There was a tune came to me the other morning,” Iain continued in a dreamy voice. “It was dancing in my brain when I was walking on the moor. I wonder, now, if you could be playing it for me—but no, you could not be doing that, Calum—”

  “And why could I not be playing it, MacAslan?” demanded Calum in a hurt tone.

  “It is in my head, Calum—I have no notes for it. You could never be playing a tune without you had the notes,” and Iain sighed a trifle sadly to think that this should be so.

  “If MacAslan could be whistling it!” Calum cried eagerly.

  “Och, it is no matter—”

  “If MacAslan could be whistling it,” wheedled Calum, “just a few staves so that I could be hearing the way it went—”

  After a little persuasion Iain consented to whistle his tune—it was an airy nothing, a mere suggestion; the sort of tune that would pass through a man’s mind as he walked upon the moors on a May morning, when the spring breeze rustles the brown heather and the larks are singing in the blue vault of the sky. Iain whistled the little air thrice, and then he looked at Calum, questioningly.

  “Och, and that is a bonny tune!” Calum cried. “I have it now, MacAslan. Listen and see if Calum cannot be playing your tune.”

  He tucked the bag under his arm and drew the chanter into position. There was a preliminary skirl and then Calum tried the time. At first it came a little hesitatingly, but, after a moment or two, the notes poured forth with more and more confidence. Iain stood and listened. It was enchanting. It was exciting. Here was the thing his brain had imagined, his own tune. He had given Calum the bones of it, and Calum had taken the bones and clothed them in flesh and fine raiment. After he had played it through a few times, Calum began to walk up and down tapping out the rhythm with his feet—he broke into variations of the theme and decked them with grace notes—it was a miracle.

  By this time all thoughts of the Finlays had vanished from Iain’s mind. He was a piper himself of no mean order, and could appreciate the beauty and virtuosity of the exhibition he was witnessing. He was excited as a child and completely oblivious of time and place.

  At last Calum ceased playing and asked—a trifle shyly—if that was the way MacAslan liked his tune.

  “Oh, Calum!” cried Iain, with shining eyes, “it is a thous
and times better than I imagined it—you have given it life. It is your tune, Calum.”

  “It is MacAslan’s tune—”

  “It is yours—mine was a ghost—a nothing—”

  They argued politely and amiably for a few moments—and quite seriously—as to which of them really deserved the credit for the new tune, and at last Iain said:

  “It shall be our tune, Calum—yours and mine—”

  “That is a good idea,” Calum said. “It is a good tune, there is a swing about it and a lightness—has MacAslan thought of a name for the tune?”

  “We will call it ‘A May Morning’—that will be a good name for it. You will come up to Ardfalloch and play it to me, Calum, and other things also.”

  “I will come, MacAslan,” Calum promised.

  Donald had been waiting patiently in the boat. He had enjoyed the interlude in his own quiet way. Knowing MacAslan as he knew him, Donald was fully aware that there was more in all this than met the eye. For some reason best known to himself MacAslan had wanted Calum Mor to play to him—and had made him play.

  Donald chuckled quietly to himself—there was nobody like MacAslan, nobody to compare with him. Calum had been wiled from his thicket and was now MacAslan’s slave. Where had all Calum’s ideas of Socialism gone? Those crazy ideas that he got out of a weekly paper and insisted on expounding to all who would listen to him, ideas that had no sense in them, to Donald’s way of thinking—that a man was just as good as his master, if not better—Sheer foolishness, Donald thought, Calum Mor would learn sense as he grew older. He was a fine piper, anyway, there was no piper in the glen to touch him.

  It had been a splendid entertainment, but Donald was not sorry when he saw that it was over, for it was getting late. It would not have surprised him if MacAslan had spent the whole night on Cluan pier listening to the pipes and urging Calum to play one tune after another. That was the sort of thing MacAslan might quite well have done. And Calum also—Calum was a piper before he was a Socialist as to-night’s little episode had proved. Fortunately for Donald the night was cold and Iain had no overcoat; so, after more compliments (which would have sounded fulsome in English, but which were beautifully right and dignified when expressed in the Gaelic tongue) and a reiterated invitation to come over to Ardfalloch House as soon as possible for a long evening with the pipes, Iain took leave of his latest acquisition and stepped lightly into the launch.