Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  “What’s your name?” Iain enquired.

  “Richard Medworth.”

  “Well, Richard, you’ve got some tar on your face.”

  The child held up his face for Ian to clean it off. Iain dipped a cloth in the butter and cleaned it carefully. It was a trustful little face, delicate and childish. Something caught at Iain’s heart. “There, that’s better,” he said gruffly.

  They left everything in a mess and went into the living-room.

  “I must be going now, I s’pose,” Richard said.

  “Stay and have tea with me,” suggested Iain. “You’ve earned it, you know.”

  “I’d like to stay.”

  “That’s right—I hope you like ginger-nuts.”

  Richard said he did. He helped his host to lay the table and followed him into the kitchen to boil the kettle.

  “I like being here,” Richard said. “I suppose you live here always. I live in London, you know. Is there lots of snow here in the winter?—Ellen says there is. Ellen is Mrs. Hevverington Smith’s maid, and puts me to bed. Ellen doesn’t like it here, she says it’s too quiet—she says it gives her the jim-jams. Is there lots of snow, Boatmender?”

  Iain was amused at the name, but he answered seriously about the snow, and told Richard how the glen was sometimes snowbound for days at a time, and described the deep drifts and the icicles in the burn.

  “You can hardly believe it now,” Richard said. “I mean it’s so hot now, isn’t it? But of course I do believe it,” he added quickly, in case the Boatmender should think he doubted his word. “I’d like to be here in the winter. I think it would be lovely—” He prattled on.

  Iain found himself listening to the clear childish voice with a strange pleasure. Richard spoke well, but, now and then, a word was deliciously mispronounced. Iain found himself watching for these words. “I found the matches on the mantle-piece,” Richard announced proudly; and when the tray was ready to carry into the other room he said, “I’ll open the door for you. You can’t turn a door-handle when you’re carrying a tray.”

  Soon they were seated at the table drinking their tea and eating ginger-nuts out of the tin.

  “This is fun,” Richard said with a sigh of pleasure. “A kind of picnic—isn’t it? Mrs. Hevverington Smith’s teas are very proper. Thin bread and butter—you know.”

  “Do you like picnics—real picnics?” Iain asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “I like them, too. Sometimes I go for picnics by myself—would you like to come?”

  “Yes,” he said again. His eyes shone.

  “The best place of all for a picnic is an island,” Iain continued. It was a fascinating thing to play on this sensitive instrument—to watch the glow on the little face, the sparkle in the eyes.

  “An island!” Richard exclaimed.

  “The island in the middle of the loch.”

  “Would we—would we be allowed?”

  “The island belongs to me,” Iain told him, “so we can go when we like. There’s an old castle on the island; it belonged to my great-great-grandfather and his father before him—”

  “Is the castle a ruin?” Richard asked. He was more interested in the castle than its owners.

  “Yes, it’s a ruin,” Iain replied; “but one of the rooms in the tower is still standing—still fairly watertight. I’ve got a cupboard there to keep things in—picnic things—just a candle and a kettle and a tin of biscuits—”

  “Oh, I would like to go!” Richard cried eagerly. “Would you really take me some day—when the boat is mended?”

  Iain smiled at him. “When the boat is mended,” he agreed.

  “What else is there?” Richard wanted to know.

  “Not much else, I’m afraid,” said Iain. “I made the cupboard myself when I was a boy—older than you, of course—and I made a table and a settle (a sort of wooden sofa with a high back). Donald helped me—you know Donald MacNeil, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Did you play there—when you were a boy—did you play at shipwrecks and things?”

  “Yes, we used to play all sorts of games. Brigands and pirates and things like that. The castle made a splendid brigands’ lair.”

  “What’s lair?” Richard asked.

  Iain explained carefully.

  They had finished tea by this time and Iain lighted his pipe. Richard watched him with interest.

  “D’you like pipes best?” he enquired. “Mr. Hevverington Smith smokes cigars.”

  “I like a pipe best,” Iain told him. “And it’s just as well. I couldn’t afford cigars if I did like them.”

  “We’re poor, too,” Richard said thoughtfully, “Mummy and me. When I’m grown up I’m going to make lots and lots of money for Mummy.” He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “I s’pose I’d better be going now, Boatmender. They might be wondering. P’r’aps I’d better go, if you don’t mind.”

  “Perhaps you should,” Iain agreed. He did not want a search-party from Ardfalloch House invading his privacy.

  “Can I come back to-morrow and help you with the boat?” Richard enquired a trifle anxiously.

  “Yes, if you like.”

  Richard slipped down off his chair and held out his hand gravely. “Good-bye,” he said.

  The house felt very empty when he had gone.

  The next morning Iain had started work upon his boat when he heard a shrill “Coo-ee,” and, looking up, he saw Richard coming down the path out of the woods. There was a lady with him, a slim figure in well-fitting tweeds. . . .

  Iain put down his tools and swore softly. I ought to have foreseen this, he thought.

  “Mummy’s come to see you, Boatmender!” cried Richard, pulling the lady along with one hand.

  She said, “I wanted to thank you for being kind to Richard.”

  Iain did not raise his eyes. He stood there in silence, a frown creasing his brows. He was angry, angry and ashamed. He felt it a kind of insult that he should thus be taken at a disadvantage. He would not look at the woman. How dared she invade his solitude, discover him in such an invidious position—dirty and untidy, a pariah on his own land? His Highland blood boiled in his veins.

  She said a trifle diffidently, “I hope—I hope Richard wasn’t a nuisance—”

  Iain looked at the boy. The eagerness had faded from his face, he felt that something was wrong. The boatmender was different to-day—he wasn’t pleased.

  “Richard was very useful,” said Iain quickly. He was not going to hurt the child. Even if he were angry, and justly so, the child should not suffer.

  Linda Medworth looked at the boatmender in surprise. He was not in the least like her preconceived idea of the man. Richard had prattled of the boatmender without ceasing, but this man was no boatmender—except, of course, that he was obviously engaged in mending a boat—this man was a gentleman; he spoke like a gentleman, as far as she could judge by the one curt sentence he had uttered, and he was amazingly good-looking. He was rather dirty and untidy, but there was something about him—The extraordinary idea visited her that he was a prince in disguise, that she had seen him before—somewhere—in different circumstances. It was an absurd notion, it flashed through her mind and was gone.

  Iain’s anger subsided a little. He realised that he was being foolish. It was his fault that he was in an invidious position—not theirs. He raised his eyes and looked at Richard’s mother . . .

  It was the lady of his dreams . . . it was the girl . . . the fairy woman who had stolen his heart. He stood there staring at her as if he had been turned to stone.

  She was older, of course, and the dark blue eyes were a little shadowed as if troubles had visited her and left their mark. She was beautiful—more beautiful, even, than he had remembered. There was a sort of radiance in her face, and her skin had the same transparent whiteness as Richard’s skin. He gazed at her—he could not speak. Did she remember him, he wondered.

  Richard had run across the soft turf to the boat. He was lookin
g at it carefully, examining the work that had been done that morning.

  “Come on, Boatmender,” he cried impatiently. “Come and hammer in the nails. Mummy can’t wait—can you?” he added, anxious for her to be gone so that the work could start.

  Linda smiled at his impatience. “Can you really put up with him?” she said to Iain. “I am going for a little walk and I could call for him on my way home.”

  “He can stay,” said Iain ungraciously.

  She looked at him doubtfully, wondering what to do. The man didn’t seem very keen for Richard to stay, and she was too anxious for her child’s welfare to leave him if the man were not going to be nice.

  Why am I so stupid? he thought; but he could not speak naturally. He was too upset, too overwhelmed by the sudden meeting; and the dregs of his anger were still there, embittering him. He had remembered her so long, and she had forgotten him. He would have chosen to appear before her in his proper guise as the proud Highland gentleman that he really was, and, instead of this, she had come upon him when he was engaged upon a menial task, clad in his oldest and most disreputable garments, dirty and untidy.

  Iain could not trust himself to speak. He turned away from her to the boat and seized the hammer. The work began vigorously. . . .

  Linda watched them for a few moments, and then she went away—somewhat reluctantly.

  The work went on. Iain was hammering away his anger; he had been ungracious, he had been boorish, stupid. The nails were being driven into himself. There, he thought as he drove them in—there, take that, you fool, and that, and that—she won’t ever want to speak to you again—that’s certain. I suppose you’re pleased with what you’ve done. She thinks you’re a peasant, of course—only no peasant would have behaved as rudely. Donald would have asked her into his house and offered her a glass of milk—any of them would. It was left to MacAslan to behave like a lout—like a boor—like a savage from the wilds.

  The heat was intense, not a breath of wind stirred the leaves of the surrounding trees. Iain brushed the sweat from his brow, and worked on more fiercely than before.

  Suddenly the small hands, which had been tugging at the canvas and handing the nails, faltered in their task. Richard gave a little sigh and collapsed in a limp heap at his feet.

  Iain dropped the hammer with a clatter. “My God!” he said aloud, “the child has fainted.” He was appalled when he saw the white still face bedewed with perspiration—appalled by what he had done. For a horrible moment he thought the child was dead. . . .

  He lifted the small light body in his arms and carried it into the house.

  “Morag!” he called. “Look what I’ve done—Morag!”

  She came running in from the kitchen. “Och!” she cried in dismay. “It is the little lad—what is it that is on him? See, MacAslan, lay him here on the sofa—”

  “Bring brandy, Morag,” Iain told her.

  “Cold water is best,” she cried.

  They put him down on the sofa and Morag fetched cold water and bathed his head. Iain watched her, almost beside himself with anxiety and remorse.

  “It was my fault,” he kept saying. “I kept the child out there in the boiling sun—it was my fault.”

  “Do not be troubling too much,” Morag whispered. “See, the little lad is better.”

  He opened his eyes and smiled at Iain rather wanly.

  “Hullo, old chap!” Iain said.

  “Hullo, Boatmender—I’ve—I’ve been—asleep,” Richard said faintly.

  “I know. It was very hot—much too hot to work.”

  “I feel—funny—”

  “You’re all right, old chap,” Iain told him, trying to believe it was true.

  Morag poured some brandy into a small glass and held it to his lips.

  “Is it medsun?” he asked anxiously.

  “Yes,” nodded Iain. “Drink it up quickly like a good boy.”

  “The wee lamb,” soothed Morag. “It will make you better, little son.”

  He drank it obediently, coughing and spluttering as the fiery liquid caught his throat, but a tinge of colour came back to the pinched face and the lips lost their blue pallor.

  “He is better,” Morag whispered. “MacAslan need not be worrying himself too much—”

  “Worrying!” whispered Iain fiercely. “I’m a fool and a villain combined to keep him out there in the sun—working him to death, and all because I was angry with myself—”

  “Cha n’eil e ro thinn,” comforted Morag. “He is fine now. Lie quiet on the couch, little lamb, and you will be fine. See, his colour has come back. Chaidh e ann an laigse—he is fine now.”

  She brought a blanket and tucked it round him and arranged the cushion more comfortably behind his head.

  “The medsun made me better,” Richard said.

  “That’s splendid!” Iain told him. “Just lie quiet for a bit—it was too hot, you know.”

  Richard beckoned to him to come closer and whispered, “What’s her name, Boatmender? Is she your cook?”

  “Her name is Morag,” replied Iain softly. “And she is Donald MacNeil’s wife. She comes in and cooks my dinner for me.”

  Richard nodded. It was always satisfactory to have your questions answered sensibly. He said, “I like her. She’s pretty and nice. She can stay with me while you finish the boat.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” Iain said.

  “No, you must finish the boat—d’you think you can manage by yourself? You see we must get it finished soon because of the picnic.”

  Iain did not want to leave him, but he saw that the child was worrying. It was better to do as he wanted.

  CHAPTER XI

  MORAG’S STORY

  Morag busied herself putting the room to rights.

  She was aware of bright eyes following her as she moved about. Presently she came over to the sofa and stood there, looking down at him. Her heart turned over in her breast—how pretty he was, she thought. She would like a little son—a little son with dark hair—not red, like her own fiery mop, but dark and smooth—a little son with a pale face and dark eyes.

  “Talk to me, Morag,” he said. “At least if you’re not too busy.”

  “I am not busy,” Morag said. “MacAslan’s dinner is on. There is little for me to do.”

  He made room for her on the sofa, and she sat down on the edge of it, settling the rug about his slim body.

  “Tell me a story,” said Richard.

  “Och, now—and what would I be telling you about?”

  “Anything,” he said, looking at her eagerly. He knew from her face that she was thinking of something to tell him. and only wanted a little persuasion. “Do tell me a story, Morag. I don’t mind what it’s about. I like all kinds of stories.”

  Like most of her race she was a born story-teller, and she was quite willing to be persuaded. “Well now,” she laid. “Well now, perhaps I might be telling you about my uncle—would that do?”

  Richard nodded, his eyes intent on her face.

  Morag clasped her hands round her knee and leaned back a little; she shook her hair back from her face and began:

  “Well, you must know that my uncle lived in a wee bothy, close by a fairies’ hill. You will have seen the fairies’ hill on the other side of the Big House—it is a green round hill—round like a bee-skep. Well then, the fairies’ hill where my uncle was living was like that one, so you will be knowing what it was like. My uncle was knowing it was a fairies’ hill and he was careful not to offend the Little People. He was putting out milk for them at night, and a handful of meal when he could be sparing it, and he did not gather his kindling in the woods close by, but took care to gather it where he would not be troubling the Little People. Och, he was very careful at first! But, as time went by, my uncle was not so careful. He had lived beside the Little People for so long and they had not harmed him—he was beginning to think there was no harm in them at all. So one day, when he was tired with working and the kindling had run short fo
r his fire, he went into the woods on the hill and gathered some sticks. The Little People might not have been minding so much for the one time, but my uncle went again. The Little People had not harmed him the first time, so he went a second time and a third time—and the Little People were angry.”

  “Is it true, Morag?” asked Richard excitedly. “Are there really fairies living in the round green hill?”

  “Och, no, it is not true,” Morag said. If she had really believed in it herself she would not have told him. She was of the transition generation, the generation which neither believes nor disbelieves. Her parents believed in the legends and superstitions of the countryside with implicit faith—her children, if she had any, would be complete sceptics.

  “But if it was your uncle it must be true,” Richard urged her eagerly. “If it was your very own uncle it happened to—”

  “It is true for me,” she said thoughtfully. “But it is not true for you, Richard. For you it is chust a story that Morag is telling you—chust that and no more.”

  “But if it is true it must be true for everybody.”

  She shook her head. “No, it is not, then,” she told him. “It is true for me, for it was my uncle. For you it is chust a story.”

  “Well, go on,” he said. “What happened when the Little People were angry?”

  “They came out at night from their little houses inside the hill,” Morag said, “and they came down to the bothy where my uncle was sleeping, and they took away the good that was in everything. And then it was a bad way my uncle was in, for the walls of the bothy did not be keeping out the wind and the rain any more—the wind and the rain did be blowing through the little house, and the—”

  “But how?” Richard said, interrupting the tale again. “How could it, Morag?”

  “Well,” she said, “and it is quite simple, then. The wee house was there, and it was looking chust the same as ever, and the walls were there to feel with your hands, but there was no goodness in the walls any more, to keep out the rain and the wind, and the rain and the wind were blowing through the little house the same as if it was blowing across the moor.”