“Perhaps—” said Linda softly.
“There’s not much more to tell you. Since then I have lived here, looking after the place and trying to help my people—fishing and shooting, trying to improve things, trying to make ends meet and never succeeding—I’m a poor man, Linda.”
She said lightly, “You must marry a rich wife.”
“Do you say that?” he asked her whimsically. “But for you I should have done so long ago.”
“But for me—” she began in surprised tones.
“Listen,” he said. “Five years ago a Highlander went to London and a fairy woman stole his heart. Wasn’t that a queer thing to happen to a Highlander in London? They say London is a dangerous place for Highlanders. This one that I’m telling you about took good care of his sporran—but his heart was stolen. He never thought of taking care of his heart. He knew it must have been a fairy woman who stole it from him because she vanished—he couldn’t find her anywhere. He went back to the hotel where he had taken her and left her; he went back early the next morning—and she was gone. The foolish fellow had never asked her name; he knew nothing about her; he didn’t know where she lived—she was gone, vanished into thin air. So then he knew that she must have gone back to her fairy hill and taken his heart with her. The Highlander went back to his glen and there he stayed. He had no—”
“It isn’t true,” she whispered.
“It’s true, Linda. True as truth. The Highlander could not look at other women after that—they did not interest him. He hadn’t any heart, poor devil, because the fairy woman had stolen it. The fairy woman was so beautiful, so good—nobody else was any use—he knew that she was good—he only had to look at her and he knew what she was like all through. He thought of her and he dreamed of her, and, when he saw her again, he knew that she was all he had thought—and more.”
Linda was trembling all over. Men had made love to her before—for she was a beautiful woman—but this was different—different from anything she had ever experienced or imagined. She had thought she knew all about love; she had told herself that she was done with “all that” for ever, that love was rather horrible, a sensual thing—she would have no more to do with it. Once she was free she would settle down somewhere in some quiet place with Richard—she would devote her whole life to Richard—they would be happy together—she had done with love. But now she realised that this was something quite different from love as she had known it, this was something quite new, and it was beautiful. She realised also—but only dimly and vaguely—that this man was making love seem beautiful to her because there was something beautiful about his own soul. He was beautiful himself—inside as well as out. It was strange, Linda thought, that she had been treasured in his heart all these years and had never known it. Anything so strong and lasting should surely have made itself felt—should have bridged the gap between them and communicated itself to her. It was strange that she had felt nothing—nothing at all. She tried to find the difference—the vast difference—that lay between this man’s love, and love as she had known it. Did the difference lie entirely in the man himself? No, not entirely. She realised, quite instinctively, that it was not only her body that he desired—that passion was there, too, of course, for Iain was a man—but he desired her also for herself, for all the hundred things that made up the woman who was Linda. He wanted her friendship, he wanted her companionship, he wanted her brain. He had endowed her in his own mind with all the things he wanted in a woman—with all the things he admired.
Linda felt her whole being rushing out towards him. She felt she wanted to give him everything—everything she had to offer. Had she enough in her to satisfy his needs? Had she all the things he wanted in a woman?
She said in a low voice, “How do you know what I am like?”
“I don’t know how I know,” he answered thoughtfully.
“Things aren’t always what they seem. Sometimes you see a peach—it looks perfect, smooth and rosy, but when you bite into the heart of it you find a maggot—”
He threw back his head and laughed. “You can’t frighten me,” he told her. “Every word you say fits into the picture of you that is in my heart. It’s like a jig-saw puzzle—you have the picture, and the little heap of pieces, and they all fit in. Oh, Linda, why isn’t everybody in love with you?”
She smiled at his boyishness—it was so different from the sophistication of the men she had known, from the sophistication of Jack Medworth. This man was the opposite of Medworth in everything. He was gentle and considerate, he approached her through her mind and heart—Jack had approached her through her senses. Jack’s lovemaking had been passionate; he had swept her off her feet and kissed her into love—or what she had mistaken for love. No man would be able to do that again, he had made it all horrible. It was because Iain was so entirely different that he was able to touch her heart.
They talked all night, drinking cocoa at intervals and smoking cigarettes. They talked of everything that was in their hearts, everything except their feeling for each other (Iain was too wise and too considerate to press the advantage he had gained. He said to himself, “She hasn’t told me to go to hell, and that’s something,”—it was a good deal if he had only known it). They talked about their childhood, and discussed abstract subjects—there was a resonance between their hearts. Almost he knew what she would say before she said it—almost, but not quite, for her flexible mind gave a quaint turn to her words that delighted him. He discovered—or confirmed—that she had humour and originality; she saw reason in views which she did not share—a rare virtue this! Their talk was more vital and friendly than any talk that either of them had had.
Once, he suggested that she should sleep on the settle while he kept watch.
“With the bath towel over me, I suppose?” she said gravely.
“With the bath towel over you,” he agreed.
They looked at each other and laughed, by this time they had reached the stage when the dullest remark seems witty.
“I’m not a bit sleepy,” Linda said.
“Neither am I—it’s funny, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m drunk, of course,” said Iain. “Absolutely drunk—I’ve never been drunk on cocoa before.”
“Are you sure there isn’t a bottle of whisky in the cupboard?” she asked him. “I thought all Highlanders had bottles of whisky in their cupboards.”
“But I’m not all Highland,” he said, and suddenly they were serious again, and he was telling her about his grand-mother and of the warring strains which he found in his own personality.
A pale-grey shadow began to lighten the windows—it was dawn. The wind had fallen considerably by now and it had stopped raining. Iain and Linda went out together, passing through the dark passages and the ruined hall. It was not so far as she had thought, but she marvelled afresh at his knowledge of the place which had led her so confidently in the darkness. They stood in the ruined arch which had been the entrance to the castle and watched the light creeping into the sky and the dark peaks take form against its grey pallor. Torn clouds, riven by the storm, were chasing each other across the fading stars. The light grew; one of the mountains was touched by a rosy finger—and then another. The dark loch became grey; the clouds had rosy edges. . . .
“Look, Linda!” Iain said.
She followed his pointing finger. At first her eyes could see nothing in the faint light, but, after a moment, she saw a boat putting off from Ardfalloch jetty. The distant sound of an engine came to her ears in the stillness of the dawn.
“It’s Donald,” Iain said quietly.
They watched the boat draw near with mingled feelings—the night was over. They were both different, fundamentally different from their selves of yesterday.
Iain took Linda’s hand and they went down to the little pier to await the arrival of the boat. It came nearer and nearer. Iain waved his handkerchief and the figure in the boat waved back. It was Donald, just as Iain had said.
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The waves were still troublesome and it took some manoeuvring to bring the launch in, but at last it was accomplished—a rope was thrown and made fast to a ring. Donald jumped out and seized Iain’s hand.
“Och, MacAslan!” he cried in a shaking voice. “Och, MacAslan, Taing do Dhia! Taing do Dhia! God be praised. . . . When I saw the light,” he continued, still speaking in his own tongue. “When I saw the light showing in the tower . . .” He broke off and turned away.
Iain went after him and put a hand on his shoulder; they talked together for a few moments in low voices.
Linda was moved at the man’s devotion. His face was haggard and drawn in the cold morning light. It must be rather wonderful, Linda thought, to have devotion of that nature poured out at your feet. Iain had told her about it in their long talk. He had said, lightly, “Donald would die for me, of course, and I for Donald.” She saw that there was deep truth in the casual words.
Presently they came back to her, full of apologies for leaving her alone. “Mistress Medworth will understand,” Donald said humbly. “It has been a very bad night for me. When I wass seeing the light in the tower I wass hopeful that all wass well—but I could not be sure—no, I could not be sure. I wass telling Mr. Hetherington Smith that it wass all right—and he wass believing what I wass telling him, but I could not be believing myself so easily. Mistress Medworth will understand I could not be coming before to the island, for the tide wass out, and there wass no water to float the big boat even if it had been safe for the waves and the darkness—”
“The little boat is done for, I’m afraid,” said Iain rather sadly.
“Och, and what of that!” Donald cried. “If MacAslan be safe—and Mistress Medworth.”
“Let’s be off!” said Iain. “I think some breakfast is the next thing—what do you think?”
“Morag is making ready at the cottage,” said Donald eagerly. “The Big House will be asleep still—with those lazy London servants. I will go up to the Big House and leave a message that all is well—”
Iain looked at Linda enquiringly. She nodded. She was not going to spoil Donald’s arrangements by suggesting anything different.
Iain stepped into the launch and Donald stood on the pier. There was still a good deal of swell on, even on the lee shore of the island. They handed Linda from one to the other like a precious parcel. She felt the strength and gentleness of the two men—it was something she had never known before. Iain did not look so very strong, he was slim and lightly poised, but his muscles were like cords, and he was supremely fit. Donald’s strength was more apparent. He was tall and broad-shouldered—largely made.
Linda sat in the stem with Iain beside her, steering, and Donald at their feet attending to the engine. The launch ran swiftly across the loch, bouncing over the waves. Linda was tired now, she leaned back against the shabby-cushioned seat and listened to Iain’s account of their adventures.
He was telling Donald all about it—in English, of course, for it would not have been polite to Linda to have spoken in the Gaelic. Until now she had thought that Donald MacNeil was a dour man—perhaps, even, rather stupid—but now she saw that he was neither. The dourness and the stupidity was a sort of mask, a protection against people that he did not know and did not understand. Iain, he knew and understood well—almost too well, Linda thought. She had the strange feeling that Donald knew all that had happened to them on the island; that he read between the lines of the bald tale and was aware just how far she and Iain had voyaged together. Iain could never hide his heart from Donald, it would be easier for Iain to hide his heart from her than to hide it from Donald—that thought gave her a strange pang.
As they neared the shore the sun looked over the edge of the mountains and bathed them with a red glow.
CHAPTER XV
THE TWELFTH
The Hetherington Smiths had not passed a very restful night. They were very fond of Linda and she was their guest—in a way they were responsible for her safety. She had been swept out to sea and wrecked upon an island—they had ample cause for anxiety. That they had been able to sleep at all was due to three factors: firstly, the vicissitudes of their own lives had taught them to accept the decrees of Providence with philosophy and make the best of a bad job; secondly, their entire and absolute ignorance of the conditions of life at Ardfalloch and the cataclysmic forces of nature had veiled the danger; and thirdly, they were upheld by Donald MacNeil’s assurances that all would be well.
The bombshell had fallen upon the assembled company in the drawing-room during that somewhat boring period between tea and dinner. The house-party was smoking and discussing the sudden storm, and the effect the storm would have upon the behaviour of the birds to-morrow, when Jim Wyllie burst in, wild and dishevelled, and informed them—somewhat incoherently—that Mrs. Medworth had been swept out into the middle of the loch in a small boat. Everybody started talking at once, suggesting different courses of action, arguing, declaiming, asking questions and informing the company at large of occasions when similar—or somewhat similar—accidents had happened to themselves or their friends.
Mr. Hetherington Smith was aware that it was up to him to do something about it—he was fond of Linda, and Linda was his guest—but his knowledge of boats and lochs in general was so extremely vague that he had no idea at all what course of action was open to him. Donald MacNeil will know, he thought; the first thing to do is to get hold of him. Mr. Hetherington Smith rang the bell and gave orders that Donald MacNeil was to be found and brought to Ardfalloch House without delay.
The storm was now at its height. Lightning was flashing, thunder was crashing, and rain had started to fall. The wind was still terrific, but Ardfalloch House was sheltered from the full force of the wind. Mr. Hetherington Smith went to the front door and looked out. By this time the rain was jumping up from the gravel in the drive. It was filling the holes and running down the ruts like miniature rivers. The clouds were very low and black, the hills had all disappeared, it was getting darker every minute. Lightning zigzagged eerily over the loch, thunder rumbled amongst the shrouded hills and the wind whistled mournfully amongst the trees—it was not the sort of night one would choose to be out on the loch in a small boat, even Mr. Hetherington Smith realised that. He was alarmed.
Mrs. Hetherington Smith was upstairs with Richard. She had watched him having his bath, and was now reading Winnie the Pooh to him while he took his supper of bread and milk. It was unfortunate, Mrs. Hetherington Smith thought, that they had just arrived at the part where piglet is marooned by the rising flood. She tried to skip the more alarming pieces of description, but Richard knew the story by heart and insisted on hearing every word. Well, it can’t be helped, she thought, and read on with a chill in her heart. She had managed to reassure Richard as to his mother’s safety by comfortable placid lying. His mother was sheltering from the storm in the MacNeils’ cottage and would be back soon, she told him. Richard must take his supper like a good boy, and go to bed.
Richard trusted Mrs. Hetherington Smith. She was large and calm and soothing. She helped him to feed the dilapidated Polar Bear which was the apple of his eye; watched Ellen brush his teeth; listened to his prayers, and tucked him up securely.
“If Mummy comes back before I’m asleep tell her to come and see me,” Richard said, as he snuggled down comfortably between the sheets.
“Yes, of course,” agreed Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “She’ll be back any minute now, but we don’t want her to get wet.”
“No. D’you think the rain will stop soon?”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
“H’m,” said Richard sleepily. “I think I’ll stay awake till she comes. I like saying good night to her, you see.”
“Yes, that’s right,” agreed Mrs. Hetherington Smith with the guile of the Evil One. “You stay awake till she comes. She won’t be long now.” She knew—as anybody who has had to do with children knows—that there is no better way of inducing sleep in a child than by
telling it to stay awake. She had proved it time and time again, not only with her own child—so long dead—but with the children of her neighbours on the stair in the little street off the Edgware Road. She lighted the night-light, turned down the lamp and went away. Richard was almost asleep already.
Mr. Hetherington Smith was waiting for her in her room.
“Well?” she said anxiously. “Well, Arthur?”
“I’ve seen MacNeil,” Arthur told her. “He’s just left. He says there’s no need to worry.”
“But where is she?” demanded his wife.
“MacNeil says she’s on an island in the middle of the loch.”
“How does he know?”
“Because there’s a light in the window of a house on the island.”
Mrs. Hetherington Smith digested this information. “Why?” she said at last. “Why should the light prove that Linda’s there?”
“I asked him that, and he said that nobody lives there now, so if there is a light it must be them—and there is a light. I suppose the people who lived there found it inconvenient and came over to the mainland.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith thoughtfully; then she added, “Did MacNeil know who the man was—the man who went with her in the boat?”
“He said he knew the man well,” said Mr. Hetherington Smith. “He’s a sort of relation of MacNeil’s as far as I could make out. But you know how vague these people are—they never seem to be able to answer a question directly. Sometimes I wonder how much they really understand. Even MacNeil, who speaks quite good English, seems so dense sometimes. I think he finds difficulty in putting his ideas into words. He’s extraordinarily good in his own line, but, when you get him on to something else, he seems—dull. You can’t make him understand what you want to know.”
Mrs. Hetherington Smith nodded. She had experienced the same difficulty herself. MacNeil had been most helpful and clever about the fires, but when she tried to talk to him—about Mr. MacAslan it was—he did not seem to understand a word she was saying.
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