There was some delay in disembarking, for the Ardfalloch harbour was too small to allow more than two boats in at a time. They lay off, waiting their turn. Presently they were walking up to the house through the trees. Iain found Margaret at his side; she looked at him sideways, and he knew she was wondering what he was feeling.
She said, “Am I to introduce you as MacAslan?”
“Yes, please,” he replied. “I don’t suppose they’ll hear, or if they do hear they won’t realise who I am—it doesn’t matter if they do—”
“What does matter, Iain?” she asked, a trifle bitterly.
He took her hand and said, “Friendship matters,” and then, in a lighter tone, he added, “May I have the first reel, Meg?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. She thought: Friendship, he means to make it clear that he has nothing but friendship to offer me. Why haven’t I more pride? It’s dreadful to love a man who only wants friendship. And then she thought: I wonder if she will be here to-night—but of course she will be here. That’s why he has come tonight—so as to meet her. Who can she be? I shall know when I see him dancing with her. I shall know at once.
Meg had left her hand in his, she did not withdraw it, his kindness was something to be grateful for. It was not what she wanted, but it was better than nothing—she could not bear to lose him. If she lost Iain there would be nothing to live for—nothing. She thought suddenly: Oh God, what shall I do if she takes him away from me—altogether.
Iain almost turned and fled when he found himself in the hall. He heard himself talking to people he knew and ex-changing the usual badinage. It was difficult to remember that these people were not his guests, and that the disposition of the coats and hats was no concern of his. There was a certain rueful satisfaction in the thought that he would not have to pay for the candles—there seemed to be hundreds of candles. . . .
Margaret collected her flock in the hall, they were ushered into the drawing-room. The butler with the side whiskers was finding a good deal of difficulty with the names of his master’s guests. He mumbled them feebly. Iain found himself shaking hands with his host and hostess—they had no idea who he was.
“So nice of you to come,” murmured Mrs. Hetherington Smith. She was in black as usual, a black lace gown with diamond ornaments which showed off the dazzling whiteness of her neck and arms. Iain looked at her with interest. He liked her at once. Perhaps he was not unprejudiced, for he knew that she had been a good friend to Linda. He thought: Her eyes are kind. He lingered at the door to chat with her.
Iain’s interest was reciprocated. Mrs. Hetherington Smith looked at him and thought: Who is he? Frame is such a fool with names. He looks like a prince—beautiful and romantic.
“I’m afraid I don’t dance,” she said. “May I introduce you to Mrs. Bastable.”
Iain bowed gravely to Mrs. Bastable, he could think of nothing to say. His eyes roved the room in search of Linda—where was she? If he could escape and look for her—that was what he wanted—but Greta Bastable was determined to keep him beside her. He was the best-looking man she had seen to-night—extraordinarily decorative. He should stay beside her and talk to her, and, afterwards, she would dance with him. Greta had plenty of social experience; she produced all her charm for Iain’s benefit. Suddenly, with a murmured apology, he left her—left her in the middle of a sentence and strode across the room . . . he had seen Linda.
Linda was in pale-grey with a spray of salmon-pink roses at her waist. Iain thought she was like a young birch-tree, like a fairy, straight from the woods. The music started as he reached her side; she looked up and saw him.
“Iain!” she said.
For a moment their eyes met, and a swift colour rose into her cheeks. He swung his sporran over his hip, put his arm round her and drew her into the waltz.
“Iain!” she exclaimed. “I was engaged for this dance.”
He laughed softly—what did it matter? Nothing mattered except that at last he had found Linda and was dancing with her—it was like dancing with a moonbeam, he thought.
Their steps matched perfectly, they had the floor to themselves (for the others were still chattering by the door and finding partners), but they did not realise that they were the only couple dancing, they were unconscious of everything save each other and the music. They were oblivious of the interest they were arousing. . . .
Margaret saw them and thought: That is the woman. For a moment she thought she was going to faint—but that was ridiculous, of course; she had never fainted in her life; and she was not going to start now—she made a tremendous effort and steadied herself. When the mist cleared she saw them dancing together—slowly, gravely, decorously. She thought: Why am I so sure it is she? But she was sure. They went round the room, turning this way and that with dignified precision. They were unconscious of everything except each other, there was something almost pathetic about their absorption. They were not speaking to each other, they were simply moving in perfect accord. Margaret felt that it was almost a sacrilege to watch them—and yet what was there to see?—Two people dancing together gravely, smoothly, perfectly; two people alone with each other in a crowded room; two people who loved each other.
Linda’s feet in their pink shoes moved in and out between Iain’s, her long silver-grey chiffon gown moulded her graceful figure, or swept out as they turned; she held herself straight, and her dark-brown head was a little above his shoulder. She is beautiful, Margaret thought, beautiful and dignified—if she is as lovely as that all through—no wonder he loves her. She is younger than I am, but not just a girl. She has known sorrow—there is a strength about her—and a softness. Who is she?
Greta Bastable saw them and thought—so that’s it—Linda Medworth. Where did she meet him? Greta was angry at the cavalier way Iain had left her, and Greta angry was unpleasant and sometimes dangerous. She seized Mrs. Hetherington Smith by the arm and said, “Who’s that man dancing with Linda?”
“I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “Frame is hopeless with names, and I must say the names to-night have been rather difficult—don’t they make a lovely couple?”
“H’m,” said Greta ambiguously.
“I seem to know the man’s face,” continued Mrs. Hetherington Smith vaguely. “And yet, if I had met him before, I wouldn’t be likely to forget him. He’s not the sort of man you could forget. Perhaps I’ve just seen him somewhere—in church, or in the village or something—and yet I don’t know—I don’t feel it’s that, either—”
Sir Julius Hastie saw them—he could hardly fail to see them, since he had been about to dance with Linda himself. He thought: My God, these fellows have the cheek of the devil—who on earth is he? Why, bless me, it’s MacAslan himself! Strange his appearing here to-night, very strange. I suppose he’s staying with the Finlays. How on earth does he know Linda? He knows her well, too—smitten, if you ask me. The cheek of the fellow whisking her off from under my very nose—and Linda—the little baggage—she didn’t make any objection. Linda had better watch her step or she’ll find herself in Queer Street. He watched them for a few moments longer, and then crossed the room and asked Greta Bastable to dance with him.
By this time the floor was filling up with revolving couples, the candles flared and flickered in the draught. Mrs. Hetherington Smith and Margaret were busy introducing those who had been slow off the mark and had found themselves left without partners.
The music stopped, and went on again after a volley of clapping—finally it stopped altogether. There was a buzz of talk and laughter, and the crowd moved slowly out of the room to find seats in the hall or outside on the terrace.
Iain and Linda sat on the stairs. They had not spoken a word all the time they were dancing, and, even now, there was silence between them. How could they speak to each other amongst this rabble—this noise of chatter and laughter? The feeling between them was too deep. Linda felt a little shy of Iain. He was so different to-night from Richard’s boatmender. She had k
nown before that Iain was a personage in his own land, but she had not realised it fully until now. To-night she saw that he was not only the best-looking man in the room, but the most distinguished—he would have shone in any gathering.
Linda had seen Iain in various guises; she had seen him in his oldest clothes; she had seen him covered with tar, and dripping wet from immersion in the loch—to-night he was dressed like a prince.
“Will Richard be asleep?” Iain asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Would you like to go up and see him? Richard would scarcely know his boatmender to-night—”
Iain looked down at himself and smiled. “It is rather a metamorphosis,” he said; “but Richard doesn’t attach much importance to clothes—he will know his boatmender.”
They went quietly up the stairs together; it was dark on the upper landing.
“Which room?” Iain whispered.
Linda gave a little laugh. “We always seem to be wandering about in the dark together,” she said.
“We should have brought a candle—”
“It’s all right, I know the way—there is a night-light in Richard’s room.”
They groped their way down the passage that led to the bedrooms—far away in the distance (or so it seemed) they heard the music starting, and the laughter and buzz of conversation, here it was dark and quiet. They spoke in whispers.
“This is Richard’s room,” Linda told him. “Mine is next door. Mr. and Mrs. Hetherington Smith have the suite at the end of the passage.”
It was just as Iain had thought; the Hetherington Smiths had his mother’s suite and Linda was in the blue room—he was glad of that. Linda had opened the door of Richard’s room—it was full of soft yellow light and dark shadows, the window was wide open—a square of dark blue, flecked with stars.
Richard was asleep. He was lying on his side with one hand beneath his cheek, his dark hair was ruffled and there was a faint rosy flush on his face. His breath came and went easily and lightly—it was the only sound in the quiet room.
Iain leant over the bed—how lovely he was, and how helpless! His heart went out to the child in a wave of tenderness. He was part of Linda—bone of her bone—and, as such, precious beyond words, but even if he had not been Linda’s he would still have been precious.
He said suddenly in a low voice, “I love Richard.”
“I know,” whispered Linda. She tried to tell him how glad she was, but she could not put her feelings into words.
He made a sudden movement towards her. “Do you know that I have never kissed you?” he said.
“Not yet,” she whispered, raising her hands and putting them against his breast to hold him away from her. “Please not, Iain. Perhaps it’s silly, but I don’t want that—I don’t want anything definite until—until I’m free. It’s a sort of superstitious feeling—as if it wouldn’t be lucky—”
He looked down at her gravely; his feeling was the opposite—he felt that if he once held her in his arms and kissed her she would be his for ever. It would be a bond between them that nothing could break—nothing. In a way he was sure of Linda now, for he knew she loved him and would not change, and he was determined that nothing should keep them apart when once she was free; but, beneath that warm certainty, there was a vague fear, a shadowy premonition of trouble and disaster. His Celtic blood had dowered him with credence in superstitions, omens and premonitions, and he could not wholly disbelieve in these things, however hard he tried. He was no seer, but he had felt before, on several occasions, a vague fear, an indescribable spiritual discomfort, and always something had happened—the feeling had presaged death or disaster. To-night he felt it strongly, a heaviness upon his spirits for which nothing that he knew of could account.
They stood quite still for a moment or two. Iain thought: If I could kiss her—just once—
“We must go back,” Linda said softly.
The moment was over and he had not kissed her—he was half glad and half sorry. They crept softly out of the door and shut it behind them—once more they were in black darkness. There was black darkness all around them, but, at the end of the passage where it opened on to the gallery, there was a dim reflection—the reflection of the light from the hall. Suddenly a shadow moved between them and the light. Iain saw it, and he knew that Linda had seen it too, for she clung to his arm with sudden alarm. Iain did not move, he was concentrated upon what he had seen. Was it a man or a woman, or was it some manifestation from another plane? It was coming towards them, slowly and noiselessly. Now it was no longer between them and the light, and was therefore invisible in the darkness of the passage, but it was still evident to some sense that was neither sight nor hearing. It was there. It went past them softly, soundlessly. It almost brushed against them as it passed—almost but not quite.
Linda leaned upon his arm, he could hear the quiet beating of her heart.
“What was it?” she breathed.
Now that it had passed the spell broke—Iain could not understand why he had allowed the shadow to pass unchallenged. Why hadn’t he seized hold of it—or spoken? He turned from Linda and began to follow it down the dark passage.
“Don’t leave me,” Linda cried.
“We must see who it was,” said Iain. “Get a candle from Richard’s room.” He was angry now—angry with himself and with the shadow—whoever it was. Some idiot; playing a practical joke, he supposed.
They found a candle and explored the passage, and the rooms at the end of the passage—there was nobody to be seen.
“Whoever it was must know the house well,” Iain said; “They must have gone down the back staircase—I think; it was a woman, don’t you?” He had an idea of a veil of some sort of filmy material brushing his hand as it passed. The idea was too vague to put into words, he scarcely knew whether he had really felt it or merely imagined it.
Linda didn’t answer. She was sure it was not a man—but perhaps it was not a woman either.
* * * * *
They went down the stairs together as casually as they could, and joined the throng, pushing towards the drawing-room door. There was a skirl of pipes heralding a reel. Iain found himself wondering how many dances they had missed—it seemed to him as if they had been away for hours, away to a different planet. The lights and the heat and the perfume, and the chatter and laughter of the dancers, struck upon his senses like a blow.
He had asked Margaret for the first reel—he saw her standing by the small raised dais speaking to Alec and Gregor. He crossed the room to her side, trying to smile naturally and to look as if he were perfectly at ease; trying to erase the troubling experience from his mind. He felt as if only a part of him had returned to the ball-room. The real Iain was still wandering about in the dark passage, looking for a shadow that had passed by.
Alec and Gregor were dazed and anxious, they had been looking forward to playing the reels for the Ardfalloch Ball. It would be fine fun, they had thought, to see all the grand people amusing themselves—they felt it a compliment to have been chosen to play—and the money would be useful. They had boasted about their distinction in the village, and had been envied by their less fortunate brethren. But, now that the long-looked-for moment had arrived, they were not so sure of their good fortune. The scene was so different from anything they had expected or imagined: the lights, the colour, the gay chatter, the incredible bareness of the women’s shoulders and their painted faces, had demoralised them completely. They gazed round the crowded room with stricken faces, and fingered their chanters with trembling hands. Margaret had seen their distress and had flown to the rescue; she was trying to raise their morale with a little friendly conversation and a few well-timed jokes. Iain joined her and helped on the good work with his usual tact.
“We will be watching you, MacAslan,” Gregor said, with more confidence.
“That’s right,” said Iain. “We’ll show these Sasunnachs how a reel should be danced—are you coming, Meg?”
She put her ha
nd into his, and he led her on to the floor. They were absorbed into a set with two subalterns from Inverness, and Kenneth and Sheila MacArbin.
Sets were forming all over the floor. The Hetherington Smiths and their English guests had taken up positions on sofas and chairs round the room. Their faces wore expressions of boredom or expectancy, according to their experience—or non-experience—of the proceedings. Mrs. Hetherington Smith looked pleased and excited, she had never seen a reel before, and the preliminary skirl of the pipes had stirred her blood. She was like a small child waiting for the curtain to go up at the pantomime.
Greta Bastable sat on the arm of her chair—her expression was amused and disdainful. She thought: Savages, boors, barbarians. Time had not softened her rage against Iain at the way he had treated her, but there was a weapon in her hand, now, which she would use when opportunity occurred. She had seen Iain and Linda vanish up the stairs, and had timed their absence from the ball-room. She had seen them return and marked the strangeness of their looks. The weapon might be useful if it were put into the right hands. She blew a very creditable smoke ring and watched it tremble upwards in the overheated air.
Sir Julius, who had seen—and heard—reels before, had dropped into a chair near Linda and was trying, somewhat vainly, to gain her attention.
“It was unkind to cut my dance,” he told her.
“Oh—yes, I’m sorry,” said Linda vaguely. “It was a mistake.”
“I’ll forgive you this time,” he said slyly. He was obliged to forgive her because he had an uncomfortable suspicion that she didn’t care whether he forgave her or not. “Have you ever seen this barbarous rite before?” he continued, after waiting vainly for Linda’s reaction to his magnanimity.
“No,” she replied, without turning her head. She was watching the sets forming and had picked out Iain and his partner at the other side of the room.
Smouldering Fire Page 22
