Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  “It’s not pride, Meg.”

  “Yes, it’s pride. And then you say you want to go to this dance—to go to your own house as a guest—you of all people—to accept the hospitality of this London upstart who wouldn’t know his own grandfather if he met him in the street—to go to your own house as this man’s guest—it’s not you, Iain.”

  “Don’t, Meg,” he said, holding out his hand and trying to stop the wild rush of words.

  Meg took his hand and held it. She looked up at him, smiling shakily through her tears. “Basingstoke again, I suppose,” she said.

  “Basingstoke again,” he agreed, trying to speak lightly.

  He rose and walked across to the window and stood there, looking out. This is horrible, he thought—this is ghastly!

  She was talking more calmly now. “It’s because I don’t understand,” she explained. “I thought I knew you so well. You see, when you know a person well—have known them for years and years—you know how they feel about things. You know how they’ll act in given circumstances—and you—you’re not.—I thought it was the last thing on earth you would want to do. It isn’t even as if you were mad about dancing. There must be something . . . something I don’t know. . . .”

  Her voice died away into silence.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I suppose that’s it.” He thought—she’ll guess now. It was the only thing to do, but how I hate myself for hurting her! What a brute I am! What a darling she is! I wonder if she could ever be friends with Linda, or is that too much to expect?

  He heard her saying in a queer strained voice, “Well, I must be going. Calum will be tired of waiting—I left him in the boat. It’s such an inconvenient landing-place here. Come over and see us soon.—Oh, I forgot, you haven’t a boat. I’ll send one over for you.”

  “Yes, I’d like to come—but there’s no hurry, Meg.”

  “I had better get back,” she said quickly, almost desperately. “It might rain. I only came over for a few minutes. What an awful storm it was on Sunday night! The waves were enormous, breaking over the pier. Father said he had never seen a worse storm in the summer—it came on so suddenly—you’re sheltered here, of course—” She was gathering up her bag and searching for her gloves as she spoke.

  Iain longed to comfort her, but he knew he mustn’t. He dare not offer her sympathy. The only thing he could do for Meg was to help her to get away quickly. He found her other glove, which had fallen under the table, and followed her to the door.

  As they went down to the boat together, through the summer afternoon sunshine, they heard a staccato volley of shots coming from the Ardfalloch moors, and a covey of grouse swooped over their heads, uttering terrified squawks, and fled away over the loch.

  “I’m sorry for them,” said Margaret shakily. “It must be horrible. If they were shot all the year round it wouldn’t be so bad, but to be left in peace for months and months—and then—suddenly—”

  “I know,” said Iain. “I’ve been feeling the same thing all week. It’s not logical, I suppose, because, if I were shooting them myself, I wouldn’t think about it. But when you see them flying away like that—flying away from their homes where they have been so happy and peaceful—it makes you think.”

  They had reached the boat. She pretended not to see Iain’s hand and jumped in by herself. She was so shaken that she was afraid to take his hand—she wouldn’t be able to bear it.

  “It will be all right about the dance,” she said, “I’ll let you know—”

  Calum started the engine and let in the clutch, they sped away in a splurge of white foam. Iain watched the boat to see if she would look back and wave—but she did neither—he watched it out of sight and then went slowly home. He felt utterly exhausted and miserable. Far from cheering him up, Meg’s visit had depressed him beyond words.

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE PICNIC

  It was a glorious afternoon of golden sunshine. The loch was very calm, the breeze was fitful; here and there a patch of ripples caught the rays of the sun and shimmered like burnished brass; here and there on the shore a wave plashed feebly, or ran along the side of a rock in a silver undulation, before it was drawn back into the calm bosom of the loch—for the tide was starting to ebb.

  Linda and Richard and Iain were on their way to the island in the old patched boat. It was the long-promised expedition.—On the very first day that Richard had met the boatmender they had talked about the island, and the boatmender had promised that some day they would go for a picnic there—some day when the boat was mended. The boat had been mended for days and days, and Richard had begun to think that “some day” would never come—and then, suddenly, it came. Richard shivered with happiness—it was quite perfect—there was nothing else that he wanted. He leaned over the side and dabbled one hand in the water. It was so clear, that, in the shallows, you could see the little shells at the bottom, and the seaweed moving gently with the ebbing tide—it was so green that you almost felt it would stain your hand green—but it didn’t.

  Linda was happy. It was a lovely day (the sort of day when it would have been a crime not to feel happy); if there were another reason for her happiness, she did not seek it.

  Iain was happy. Of the three, he, alone, knew and appreciated to the full the happiness that possessed him and the reason for it. There was really only one reason for his happiness—Linda. He rowed with full strokes, bravely, confidently. The old boat clove through the water; the mainland receded; the cottage dwindled into a house for dolls. He beached the boat at the old landing-place on the north side of the island and helped his passengers to disembark. Then he lifted the tea-basket on to his shoulder and led the way up the grassy slope.

  The turf was short and resilient; here and there were grey-green cushions of leaves from which sprung long wiry stems supporting the pink flowers of sea-thrift—round pink balls of stiff petals that looked as though they were made of paper. Richard ran ahead and began to pick them with cries of delight.

  “How different it looks!” Linda exclaimed.

  “It is peaceful to-day,” said Iain.

  It was extraordinarily peaceful, the whole island seemed to dream in the warm sunshine. The castle, hoary with age, was slumbering, too—it was grey amongst its green surroundings, old and grey. Linda saw how completely ruined it was—the tumbled stones were covered with thick ivy, there was yellow lichen on the walls. Here and there, where soil had gathered amongst the rubble of fallen stones, there were cushions of purple thyme which gave off a thick sweet smell like honey in the hot sunshine. Graceful strands of “Ladies Bedstraw,” yellow as gold, lurked in sheltered corners. It was all so green and pretty, but, beneath the greenness and the prettiness, Linda saw the bones of the dead giant.

  For a long time she did not speak, and then she said, “I can’t—I can’t imagine it—as it was—people living here.”

  “Have you been trying to imagine it?” he asked her.

  “Yes, but somehow I can’t—can you?”

  “Sometimes I can,” he replied. “But not to-day. The present is enough for me to-day. I don’t want the past.”

  In the outer courtyard was the well. It was very deep. Linda looked down, and saw, far below, the glimmer of dark water. It looked like oil, Linda thought, there was a faint shine upon it like oil. The sides of the well were uneven and covered with brown fungus, and small pale green ferns.

  Iain took her hand and they went inside the great hall of the castle. The roof gaped forlornly; two large oak trees overhung the roofless part and dimmed the light, the sunshine pierced through the leaves and fell in yellow splashes on the uneven floor. Here, in the great hall, it was almost as if they were standing at the bottom of a still pool, for the light that filtered through the leaves was pale green, and the shadows moved quietly and reluctantly like sea-weed in undulating water. The pale green blades of grass that had sprung up in the crevices between the tilted flags treasured a light of their own—they seemed dimly lumino
us as glow-worms are.

  Iain and Linda walked through a crumbling doorway on to a little terrace bright with sun. Linda gazed round her, gazed at the ruined mullions, the ivied windows, the heaps of rubble spilled from the thickness of the ruined walls. At last she said:

  “It is wonderful—all of it. Other ruins have histories, but these ruins are yours—your history. Your own people lived here—-they lived their lives just like our fives—they were born here, and died. These stones sheltered them—”

  She scarcely knew what she said, her thoughts were too evasive, too inconsequent to put into words. Iain watched the expressions chase each other across her face—he did not interrupt her thoughts. The castle meant a great deal to Iain, it was precious to him for many reasons. He was glad that Linda appreciated the romance of the castle, that she felt the strange appeal of the place, that she was moved by its pathos and its history. He was glad she had not gushed over it, that would have hurt. It had been rather a dangerous experiment to bring Linda here to-day—he had almost feared to do so—but the experiment had been successful beyond his wildest hopes.

  “Do you ever wish you still lived here?” she said at last.

  “Sometimes,” he admitted. He laughed a trifle ruefully, and added: “The past must have been easier to live in.”

  “Do you mean easier financially?”

  “Partly, I suppose, but not altogether. My ancestors did not need much money—they lived on the produce of their land and took what they wanted.”

  “What else did you mean?” Linda wanted to know. She sat down on a sun-warmed stone and looked up at him. The sun fell upon her small intent face; Iain saw that the white skin had warmed to a pale gold, and there were some tiny freckles on her nose, and beneath her eyes—Ardfalloch freckles, he thought, with a warming of his heart.

  “What else did you mean?” she said again.

  He pulled himself together to answer her question. “Life is awfully complicated now,” he said, trying to express his thoughts; “you have got to conform to laws that your instinct tells you are false laws—it makes me angry sometimes.”

  “They must have had laws, too.”

  “They had their own laws, of course,” Iain admitted. “Natural laws, dictated to them by their own consciences, by their honour, by their own feeling of what was right for themselves. If the chief happened to be a bad chief—a few of them were bad—he made life a hell for everybody; but, if he had naturally fine instincts, the thing worked admirably. Everybody was happy and prosperous. Laws are made for bad people, really. They are made for people who have no decent instincts. My ideal state would have no laws.”

  “But you would be king,” Linda said, laughing at him.

  Iain laughed too. “King!” he exclaimed. “At present I am king of a deserted island. But, yes, you are right. I envisaged myself as a benevolent autocrat—rather funny, isn’t it?”

  Linda did not think it funny, she thought it was natural. He was descended from a line of men who had been kings in their own small way, and even now, in the sight of his own people, he was a king. Their devotion and loyalty could not fail to influence him, he had been influenced by it from his cradle. Linda thought he was wonderfully humble and human considering the circumstances of his life. She had found no arrogance in him.

  “Let’s go and see the tower room,” Linda said at last.

  “Yes, if you like,” Iain replied. “It will be damp and gloomy to-day, but we will visit it for the sake of old times.”

  He led her through the passages; they were quite light to-day, for the sunshine streamed in through the gaping holes in the walls and roof. The tower chamber was cold and damp and gloomy—just as Iain had said—There were evidences of their tenancy in the empty cocoa tin which stood on the table, and the grey ash of the dead fire in the hearth.

  Linda shivered. “I almost wish we hadn’t come,” she said. “It was so warm and cosy that night—”

  “I must put it straight and refill my cupboard,” said Iain. “Donald usually cleans it up, but he’s too busy.”

  “Perhaps we had better see what Richard’s doing.”

  They went back to where they had left Richard (the sunshine was warm and comforting after the damp chill of the ruins). He had not moved far from where they had left him. He had picked a big bunch of flowers, yellow and pink, they were lying beside him on the ground.

  “Look at him!” Iain said softly. He put his hand upon Linda’s arm with a restraining movement, and, together, they stood looking at Richard.

  He was sitting in a little hollow of soft turf with his feet doubled back at either side of him, the sun shone on his dark hair giving it the greeny blue sheen of a raven’s wing, his small pale face was serious and preoccupied. Before him on the short turf were some pebbles, and one or two shells that he had found on the tiny strand. Richard took the pebbles in his hand, one by one, and looked at them and put them down again, he was singing a little tune to himself the while, a little crooning song with no beginning and no end. Now he bent forward over his treasures, now he leaned back and looked at them sideways. He was entranced by his occupation, caught up into a world of his own—a little friendly world, a little sheltered place in the big unknown world. These things were fragments of his child’s world—a piece of broken china, a few rounded pebbles, two shells—they were sharp, or smooth, hollow or rounded, they were different in shape, in colour, in texture. They were real. Richard felt them in his hands, and, by so doing, he made himself real. . . .

  Another thought flitted through his mind in a shadowy way—they were his because he had found them himself, and they were precious—his treasures. In a little while Richard’s standard would change, but these treasures were the beginning of his education in values—they had set him a standard of what was worth while. Values are only arbitrary after all. Why should a golden pebble be of more value than a stone one? The world has decreed that it shall be so. Richard’s values were his own, he knew nothing of the world’s standard of values—that would come when the savage became civilized. He treasured this pebble for its strange shape, that one for the vein of quartz that ran through it like sugar; the piece of china was pretty, he had found it when he was picking flowers amongst the debris of the ruins, it was part of an old cup—there were pink roses on it and a band of gold. (Richard ran his finger along the broken edge and his brain said “sharp.”) The jagged fragment of china belonged to the past, but it was not for its associations that Richard valued it; he valued it because it was pretty—the past was nothing to him. For Richard the world started afresh each day when he awoke, and was rounded off by bed-time.

  “He is making a little garden,” Linda whispered.

  Iain shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s something much more—fundamental. Don’t let’s disturb him.”

  They retreated and sat down a little way off, on a heap of fallen masonry.

  “What is he doing? What do you mean?” Linda asked. She felt a strange sense of annoyance, a shadow of anger: Richard was hers, why should Iain think he knew what the child was doing better than she did? “What do you mean?” she said again.

  Iain handed her his field-glasses and, after a moment or two, she got them focussed upon the small intent figure in the hollow. She saw that Richard was not making a garden—he was not making anything.

  “What is he doing?” she said again, but this time the note of irritation was absent from her voice, it was a question pure and simple.

  “He is discovering—Life,” Iain said, trying to explain.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The world is so big—so strange and complicated. Have you ever thought what a queer thing it must be for a child to be pitchforked into Life—into this big strange terrifying world that it knows nothing about? It doesn’t happen quite like that, of course, because the unconsciousness of a child protects it, and only lets a little bit of the world through at a time. The child’s consciousness grows, gradually it can take in more and
more of the world, but the world is not real. And then there comes a time—there must come a moment when things become real—it happens suddenly. I think Richard is realising the reality of things—it is difficult to explain, but I feel sure I am right. If he had lived in the country it would have come before—less dramatically, because he would have been younger, and his consciousness would have been less developed—”

  With a sudden return of her anger Linda said, “Why should you understand Richard better than I?”

  Iain laughed. “Darling, you’re not jealous!”

  Linda considered this carefully and then she smiled. “I believe I am a little,” she admitted. “You see Richard has been all mine—”

  “And now I want a bit of him,” Iain said gravely.

  “Oh, Iain, I am a fool! It is good for Richard to be with a man—with you. I have always wanted it for him—”

  “You have done splendidly,” Iain told her. “Richard is perfect—not spoiled at all—but he is getting older. In a little while he will need a man—and I shall be here to help you with him.”

  “You are very sure!” she exclaimed, withdrawing a little.

  “I am very sure,” he replied. He was sure. He knew quite well that unless Linda had loved him she would not have allowed him to go so far; she would not have allowed him to say what he had said without making it plain that there was no hope for him. She was too fastidious. She was too kind to let him hope unless she intended to reward him. He was quite sure that the only barrier between them was the fact that she was not yet free. She would not let him approach any closer until she was free, and he loved her all the more for her scruples.

  After a little, Richard tired of his treasures; he looked up, like a person waking from sleep, and saw Iain and Linda, and waved. Then he came towards them, running up the slope.

  “Look, what I’ve found,” he said eagerly, anxiously.