“I feel it was,” she said desperately. “I feel it was Jack. He’s followed us here—I’m frightened, Iain.”
“There’s no need to be frightened, darling,” Iain said quietly. “He can’t do anything to harm you, even if it was Medworth; but really and truly it isn’t likely that it was Medworth, is it?”
“No,” she said doubtfully. “And yet—”
“It isn’t likely that Medworth would follow you here, and skulk in the woods just to frighten Richard—there’s no sense in it, is there?”
“Not just for that,” she admitted. “There must be some other reason—he must have some plan—”
“If it really were he,” said Iain again. He saw that his doubts were beginning to affect her.
“Mrs. Hetherington Smith thinks the same as you,” Linda said. “She thinks it couldn’t have been Jack. She thinks it was a tinker—a sort of gypsy—and that he said to Richard, ‘Wouldn’t you like to come with me,’ or something like that, as a kind of joke, and that Richard thought he really meant it and connected it with Jack. Jack used to say things like that and Richard was always frightened; he used to say, ‘I’ll take you away from your mother and make a man of you.’”
What a beast! Iain thought—what an unutterable swine! He stifled his rage and said aloud—“Well, you see how easily the mistake might have occurred—especially as Richard hasn’t seen Medworth for such ages. I don’t suppose he remembers Medworth’s appearance, but merely that he was a man who frightened him in that particular way.”
“Richard is so terrified of anyone taking him away,” said Linda thoughtfully, “it’s a sort of obsession—”
“That’s because he was frightened when he was very small,” explained Iain gently. “Medworth frightened him and made such a tremendous impression upon him that the fear was created in the child’s mind. I think it will pass away in time—Richard is a plucky little boy really.”
“You said that before—the first day.”
“It’s true. He is plucky. But he is highly strung, and that particular fear—the fear of being ‘taken away’ has been planted in his mind.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” Linda said slowly.
They were silent for a little, thinking their own thoughts. Iain was sitting on the arm of the big chair with Linda’s hand in his.
She said at last, “I’m frightened, too.”
“What are you frightened of, Linda?” Iain said quietly. “Even if it were Medworth—I don’t see how it could have been, but even if it were, what possible harm could he do? You’re not—you’re not afraid of physical violence from him, are you?”
“No. Oh no, Jack wouldn’t do anything like that,” she replied confidently. “He’s too—too civilised—too afraid of the law—of putting himself in the wrong. He’s reckless when he’s driving a car, horribly reckless, but—oh, I can’t explain it, but I just know that he wouldn’t.”
Iain thought about this. He wondered whether Medworth had any idea of kidnapping Richard, but he wasn’t going to put that thought into Linda’s head.
“He’s afraid of the law?” Iain said doubtfully. It seemed to him a queer thing for a man to fear the law. A man might be afraid of a storm, or a wild beast, or he might fear death—that great plunge into the unknown. But to fear the law—that was quite incredible to the Highlander descended from generations of men who were, to all intents and purposes, brigands and pirates.
“Yes, he is afraid of the whole big machine of the law,” Linda told him. “From the judge who tried our case down to the traffic policeman at the corner. Jack wouldn’t do anything that would put him on the wrong side of the law.”
“Well, what could he do, then?”
“I don’t know,” Linda said. “I don’t know—that’s just the horrible part.”
There was silence again, and suddenly Iain heard a slight noise—it was so slight that he could not tell what it was, but the night was very still and the room was very quiet.
“Hush,” he said, raising his head.
“What is it, Iain?”
“I thought I heard something—”
They waited in silence, not a sound broke the stillness save the rapid whisper of Linda’s breathing and the beating of his own heart.
“Oh, Iain, what was it?” she said again.
“Wait here,” said Iain. “I’ll go and have a look round—it may not have been anything at all—”
He took his electric torch out of the cupboard and went outside; it was still very cloudy and very dark. The moon was hidden behind the clouds, it made a luminous patch in the sky but gave little light. He stood in the doorway for a few moments until his eyes became used to the darkness, and then he began his tour of the house. He looked in the little wood-shed, flashing his torch into the dark corners; he looked behind the water-butt. He went down to where the boat was drawn up on the shingle, and looked about carefully amongst the bushes—there was nothing to be seen. He stood still for a minute, considering—the noise might have been made by some night creature of the woods—only night creatures don’t make any noise as a rule. He tried to think what kind of a noise it was, but the more he thought about it the less clear it became—it was like trying to recapture a dream. He thought—was it a human noise, a step on the path or the snapping of a dry twig? I can’t pin it down as being anything. Supposing it was somebody prowling about—the tinker who frightened Richard—or was it really Medworth who frightened Richard, and is it Medworth—but no, that’s absurd—absolutely ridiculous. I’m being infected with Linda’s fears. All the same she had better go home.
Linda was waiting for him; she had not moved. She looked up at him when he came in and her eyes met his. He saw that all her fears had returned.
“There was nobody and nothing,” he said lightly.
“Are you sure?” she asked in a low voice.
“Quite sure. I’ve looked everywhere—perhaps it was a mouse.” He laughed and added, “Fancy a mouse frightening us like that! Perhaps you are frightened of mice.”
“No,” she replied, trying to smile. “I’m not frightened of mice—women are supposed to be terrified of mice, but I’m not. It’s funny, isn’t it?” She added in a different tone, “I keep my fears for—for other things.”
He looked at her gravely, he could see by her eyes that she was frightened, but she had her fear under control.
“You had better go home now,” he said gently.
“Yes, I must,” she agreed, standing up and tying the scarf round her hair. “You will walk back with me, won’t you, Iain?”
“Certainly not.”
She looked at him quickly, in surprise.
“My dear,” he said, taking her hand, “did you think I would let you walk back alone—did you think it for a moment?”
“Then—there was someone—” she whispered.
“There was nobody. I wouldn’t deceive you, Linda. If I had seen anybody, or any trace of anybody, I would have told you. But the woods are dark, and—I should like to walk back with you, my dear. D’you think this is easy for me,” he added desperately. “D’you think it’s easy for me to let you go?”
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said. “It wasn’t fair, really—”
“No, don’t say that. I’m glad you came—proud. Always come to me, Linda. I’m not impatient, I can wait. I’ve waited five years—I can go on waiting—”
“Wait,” she said softly. “When I am free—if everything is all right—”
He was satisfied with that. He drew her arm through his and they went out into the night. Iain locked the door behind him and put the key in his pocket. They walked up through the woods together.
It was very dark. Iain’s torch made a spot of yellow light on the ground before them as they went; it showed the roots of the trees, and the stones in the path. They went slowly because Linda was tired—he felt her lean on his arm—she was tired out with fears and anxieties.
CHAPTER XIX
UNEXPECTE
D VISITORS
A few days later Linda and Richard were having tea with Iain in the cottage. The Ardfalloch house-party was shooting the West Moors, so Linda was free. She and Richard had spent a quiet day together, and, in the afternoon, they had walked down to the cottage and had been invited to stay to tea. It was a happy meal. They had scones, made by Morag, and oatcakes and honey, and, of course, ginger nuts.
“I had tea with Morag yesterday,” Richard said. “I like Morag’s cottage. She lets me help her with things.”
“Do you think it bothers Morag?” Linda enquired anxiously. “Richard is always running down to the MacNeils’ cottage—”
“I’m sure Morag likes it,” replied Iain. “She is very fond of children. Richard will take no harm there.”
“Yes, she likes me,” Richard said confidently.
Linda and Iain looked at each other and smiled.
They talked about various things, Linda had some comical little stories to tell about the house-party, about Mr. Stacey’s conceit and the calm way that Mrs. Hetherington Smith smoothed out the tangles that arose, and how amusing it was to see Desmond Cray pursuing Greta Bastable.
“And what about Sir Julius?” Iain wanted to know. He had not forgotten what Linda had told him of Sir Julius Hastie’s admiration for herself.
Linda frowned. “He’s rather a nuisance, sometimes,” she said. “So frightfully pleased with himself that he is difficult to snub. He turns every topic until it reflects himself—”
“Yes, I know,” Iain said. “I’ve met him at Cluan and I always thought he was objectionable and conceited.” He was glad that Linda had seen through the man—lots of people didn’t. There were too many people in the world who were willing to take a man at his own valuation—Sir Julius valued himself highly; he was intensely preoccupied with his own personality; he was like a man in a room full of mirrors who cannot rest until he has seen himself reflected in every one of them.
When tea was over, Richard and Iain retired to the kitchen to wash up. Linda had offered to perform this essentially woman’s job, but she was told, kindly but firmly, that her services were not required.
“There’s no room for three,” Richard explained. “And the Boatmender and I know where things are.”
“Very well,” said Linda meekly. She sat down on the old wicker chair and looked about her. She had been here before, of course, but she had never had the time nor the opportunity to see the little room at her leisure. Everything here was very personal to Iain. There were one or two pictures on the wall which he had brought with him from Ardfalloch House, his pipe was on the mantelpiece, and there were a few books on the table beside the fireplace. Everything in the room was shabby, but it was all clean and tidy and, somehow, homey. It was the room of a man who was fastidious about his surroundings.
From the little kitchen came sounds of clattering dishes and babbling talk. Richard was happy—he had got over his fright. Linda thought it was strange how quickly he had recovered from his fright. Somehow or other the remembrance of it had passed from his mind. She could not understand it. She thought—how strange it is that I cannot see what is in Richard’s mind! He belongs to me so absolutely, he is part of me—flesh of my flesh—and yet I can’t see through him. I can’t see what is in his mind. I can’t believe that he has forgotten meeting Jack, and yet I can’t believe that he remembers it and never mentions the subject—Richard is so crystal clear in some ways. . . .
Linda was still meditating rather sadly upon the hidden secrets of the human heart when the door of the cottage opened, and a figure stood on the threshold, outlined against the brightness of the afternoon sunshine. There was something strange and dreamlike about her sudden appearance; Linda had heard no sound of a step on the path, nor creak of the door opening—one moment the door was shut and there was nobody there, and the next moment the door was open and the figure was outlined in its frame.
The figure was that of a lady, small and slight, and dressed in a dark grey coat with a fur collar and a small black hat. Her hair was pure silvery white, her eyes were very dark, and her face was pale, but, as she stood there, gazing at Linda, a sudden wild-rose colour flooded her cheeks.
It was difficult to struggle back to the everyday world. Linda had been deep in thought, and the suddenness and unexpectedness of the stranger’s appearance was almost uncanny. Uncanny, too, the way she hesitated in the doorway looking back over her shoulder with a kind of timidity. She had the timidity of a wild creature of the woods—a deer; she was poised for flight.
They gazed at each other in silence. Linda was recovering from her surprise, but she felt that if she moved or spoke the woman would be gone, would take fright and vanish like the small red fawn that she and Richard had seen one day when they were walking in the woods above Ardfalloch House.
After a moment or two the stranger came farther into the room and looked round, vaguely and timidly. Linda’s impression that there was something strange about this woman was confirmed—she could not have said what it was that was strange about her, only that she was not like other people. Linda thought—this is absurd, I must speak to her and ask her what she wants—but she was inhibited by the feeling that, if she spoke, the woman would disappear. She was still wondering what to do—held in a kind of dream—when another figure appeared in the doorway—a tall angular woman dressed in black, carrying a suitcase in either hand. This woman was a different person altogether, she was flesh and blood, capable and practical. She marched straight in and set the suitcases down on the floor with a dunt as if she were glad to be rid of them. Then she raised her eyes and saw Linda.
There was a moment’s silence. Linda thought—she is annoyed at finding me here. I wonder why. She said with sudden shyness, “Are you looking for—for MacAslan?”
“He’s here, is he not?” enquired the second woman in a downright manner. “He’s not left—not gone away?”
“He’s in the kitchen,” Linda said. “I’ll tell him.”
She rose quickly and went to tell Iain that two visitors had arrived to see him.
“Visitors!” Iain said, frowning with annoyance as he dried his hands on the cloth behind the kitchen door. “It must be Meg—nobody else knows I’m here. What a bore!”
“You had better go quickly,” Linda told him. “I’ll finish up here.”
“What a bore!” he said again. “I’ll get rid of them.”
He went into the sitting-room and found his visitors standing near the door, silent and troubled—they were his mother and Janet.
“Mother!” he cried. “Janet! What’s happened? Where have you dropped from?”
“Edinburgh,” said Janet grimly. “But we can gang back there by the next train if we’re no wantit.”
Iain kissed his mother tenderly and drew up a chair for her to sit in. “You never told me you were coming—sit here and tell me all about it. You must be tired after the journey—”
“You’ve got a veesitor, MacAslan,” Janet said, not moving from her position by the door. “You’ll not be wanting us, I doubt.” She was obsessed by the picture of Linda which had revealed itself to her astonished eyes—of Linda sitting in the old basket chair, looking—thought Janet—as if the whole place belonged to her. Who was she? What was she? Why was she here in MacAslan’s house?
Iain met her troubled eyes and smiled inwardly. He knew exactly what was worrying Janet, it would have been fun to tease Janet a little, but he must not do that. The situation was delicate and must be cleared up at once. It was so important that Janet and Linda should like each other.
“Yes,” he said lightly. “I was having a tea-party. Mrs. Medworth and her little boy have been having tea with me. I wasn’t expecting you or I would have met you at the station. Why didn’t you send me a line?”
“It never crossed my mind,” said Janet simply.
“Well, it doesn’t matter—you’re here anyway, safe and sound. I suppose—I suppose you’re staying,” he added, glancing at the suitcases
.
“Aye, we were meaning to,” Janet said. “The heavy luggage is coming on.”
“Wasn’t Edinburgh a success?”
“It was not,” said Janet, glancing at Mrs. MacAslan significantly.
“I see,” nodded Iain. “Well, we must get the rooms prepared—”
“I’ll sort them,” Janet told him. “I’ll sort them if we’re tae bide. If you’re not wanting us here, MacAslan, we can—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course you must stay,” said Iain.
He went to the kitchen door and called Linda and Richard. There was no time to explain anything, he must just trust to Linda’s innate good sense to deal with the situation.
“Mother, this is Mrs. Medworth,” he said, “and Richard. Linda, this is Janet. You said you wanted to see Janet.”
He was pleased at the natural way in which Linda received these unexpected and somewhat startling introductions. There was dignity and kindness in her smile as she took his mother’s hand, and unaffected friendliness in the hand she tendered to Janet. He saw that she was making a good impression, and he was glad, for it was an important moment. Richard, also, was adequate, he shook hands gravely and held his tongue.
There was an awkward pause when the greetings had been said. Linda plunged into it with questions about their journey and small anecdotes about her own journey over the same route. She spoke to Janet, including Mrs. MacAslan in her remarks with an occasional smile. Iain looked on and thought—it is wonderful, how does she know? (His mother was frightened of strangers, she hated contact with people she did not know well. If a stranger spoke to her she was dumb like a shy child, her whole being seemed to shrivel at a touch like a sea anemone.) Linda did not know all this, of course, but her perceptions were delicate and she felt that Mrs. MacAslan was better left alone. Iain had told her that his mother was not like other people, and she had realised that it was true. She must go slowly and win her confidence before there could be any rapprochement between them.
So Linda spoke to Janet—it was uphill work at first, for Janet was inclined to be “stand offish,” keeping very carefully in her place and putting Mistress Medworth in hers. Janet was on the defensive—who was Mistress Medworth, anyway? A London lady, somebody who had “got round” MacAslan. What was she doing in the cottage? What was she up to—No good, thought Janet grimly. But, after a few minutes’ conversation, Janet began to thaw, she could not help it. Mistress Medworth’s manner was so simple and natural, she was not gushing, she was not proud. Janet thawed in spite of herself. She found herself discussing the journey from Edinburgh with its changes and the long waits at wayside stations, she found herself fulminating on the delays and discomforts of Highland travel. From thence to the discomforts of the Highlands in general, and the stupidities of the natives was an easy step. Iain smiled to himself as he beheld Janet mounting her favourite hobby-horse; he caught a glimpse of a twinkle in Linda’s eye and blessed her for her grave face.
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