“It’s frightfully noisy,” Sir Julius warned her. “Let’s go and find a quiet seat somewhere—”
“No,” she said again. “I want to see it—but don’t wait if you would rather not.”
She wanted to see Iain dancing his own dance. She wanted to see what it was like. . . .
Suddenly the pipes started with a blare of sound—Linda was stunned by the noise, almost frightened. The whole room leapt into motion. The figures leapt and twirled and yelled; the floor rocked under her feet, the candles flared in the draught. At first the whole effect was one of mad confusion; it seemed to Linda that there was no method in it—no sense. They leapt, and shrieked, and whirled, and stamped, and the wind of their passing stirred her hair. It was frenzy, she thought, the whole room had gone mad. . . . And then, gradually, a sort of pattern emerged, a rhythm, a kind of wild beauty. She saw that each dancer knew what to do and did it in perfect time. They were weaving intricate patterns with certainty and confidence. The men’s feet twinkled in their laced shoes; neatly and lightly they sprang into the air or beat the time upon the shining boards of the floor—their bare knees rose and fell, their kilts swung out from their hips. The women were less whole-hearted about the steps, but there was dignity in their deportment as they wove their way through the mazes of the dance. She thought: It is beautiful and exciting—just as Ardfalloch itself is beautiful and exciting. It is right for them—no wonder they love it. This dance is helping me to understand what they are—and the meaning of this places—and the history that lies behind them. They ought to be dancing it in the castle on the island—they belong to this land and the dance belongs to them.
It was difficult to think consecutively because of the noise, but the whole effect made a tremendous impression upon her—the more so because her mind was in a peculiarly receptive condition. She had just gone through a strange and somewhat alarming experience, and she was deeply in love. She was in love, not only with Iain MacAslan, but with Ardfalloch also—they were really one in her thoughts—and this dance was the expression of something that lay beneath the calm surface of both.
After it was over she went out into the hall with Sir Julius. He found her a seat and fetched her some coffee. The refreshment-room was full of people who had been dancing the reel, they were clamouring for lemonade and hock-cup. Linda saw that they were flushed and happy—the bonds of convention had been loosened and the bonds of friendship tightened. She had a glimpse of the freemasonry that bound these people together, and she wondered, a trifle wistfully, if this freemasonry would ever include her in its scope.
Mr. Hetherington Smith came and spoke to them. He, too, had been overwhelmed by the exhibition they had just witnessed. Linda had never seen him so natural, nor heard him talk so much.
“It gives you a kind of clue,” he said, trying to express his feelings and becoming somewhat incoherent in the attempt. “A kind of clue—if you know what I mean—I found the whole thing rather terrifying. They’re so smooth and quiet—and underneath the smoothness there’s this fire—”
“There isn’t really,” Sir Julius said. He was standing in a favourite position with his legs rather wide apart and one hand beneath his coat-tails. “There’s no fire left in them. It’s all spoof. They’re decadent—the whole race is decadent. This exhibition is a kind of hysteria—that’s all. They’re looking backwards instead of forwards. No nation’s any good that looks backwards. They’ve too much tradition; they live in their past glories; they’ve too much pride—and all their pride lies in the past. There’s no push in them. They’ve got a sort of cheek if you like—a sort of damned self-confidence begotten of their pride, but that doesn’t take them far.”
“I don’t see them like that,” said Mr. Hetherington Smith mildly.
Sir Julius laughed. “You don’t know them,” he said. “They’ve taken you in with their spoof. There’s nothing in them—nothing at all—”
“I can’t help feeling—”
“Hysteria,” said Sir Julius loudly and dogmatically. “That’s my diagnosis—and I’ve seen enough hysteria in my time to diagnose it fairly easily, hysteria and paranoia—”
Linda said nothing. It didn’t matter what Sir Julius thought—or Mr. Hetherington Smith either, for that matter. Their ideas could not affect her own secret convictions. She listened to their conversation with one ear—they were discussing the war now, and the part that Highland regiments had played at Loos and on the Somme.
Presently Iain came out of the dining-room with Margaret. She thought: We mustn’t dance together again yet—we mustn’t. Even if he asks me I must refuse. She saw his eyes rove round the hall . . . he had seen her . . . he was coming towards her. . . .
“Mine, I think,” he said, smiling.
Linda rose and put her hand on his arm. The music started, and, the next moment, they had swung out onto the floor.
The evening sped on. Iain danced with Linda, and with Margaret, and with Sheila, and with Linda again. They danced until the grey dawn came in at the tall windows and put the guttering candles to shame. At last it was time to go. There was beer and bones in the dining-room, and hot soup and sausage-rolls to speed the parting guests.
Mrs. Hetherington Smith moved about from table to table, urging people to eat, and reminding them that they had a long way to go home. The party had been a success; she knew it, and she was pleased and excited, and not in the least tired. These people were nice, she thought, they were friendly and natural. They didn’t say so much as London Society people, but they meant a lot more, and they were actually grateful to her for the trouble she had taken to provide an evening’s enjoyment for them. This seemed strange to Mrs. Hetherington Smith—in London it was the hostess who was grateful to her guests for bothering to come.
“I do think it was good of you to have a dance,” they said with sincere conviction; or, “Thank you so much, I have enjoyed it. It’s been a lovely dance.”
Mrs. Hetherington Smith beamed upon them all. “I’ve enjoyed it, too,” she said. “I think your reels are wonderful. We’ll have another dance next year if we’re lucky enough to get Ardfalloch again.”
Iain overheard this and his heart sank a little. Next year—it seemed so far off. Would he have to let Ardfalloch again? Perhaps by next year he would have Linda—it wouldn’t matter quite so much then. They would let Ardfalloch and go away somewhere together.
The guests finished their hybrid meal, and surged into the hall to find their coats and wraps and to say good-bye. They were still laughing and chattering, but the gaiety was a little forced now. Everybody was weary, and longing for bed, and bed—in most cases—was still far away. Iain found himself standing next to Margaret in the queue waiting to say good-bye. He thought she looked tired and unhappy and he was passionately sorry for her. She was such a good friend, so loyal and staunch; they had known each other all their lives and had had such good times together. Now she was hurt and miserable, and it was because of him—he was hurting her. He could not help it, could not do anything to ease the hurt except pretend that he knew nothing about it.
Margaret’s head barely reached his shoulder, she looked up at him, and smiled bravely.
“You enjoyed it, Iain,” she said.
“Yes.”
“She is very pretty,” Margaret added, pressing his arm.
He was very much moved by her generosity. There was a choky feeling in his throat.
“Dear Meg,” he said.
“Is it going to be all right?” she asked him.
“I hope so—I think so,” he replied. “It’s a little—a little complicated. I can’t tell you about it here.”
“If I can do anything—” she said.
“I’ll remember, Meg.”
It was too early to ask her to be Linda’s friend. He had no right to ask that, and, even if he had, it would be unwise. That would come in time—Meg and Linda would be friends (he was sure of it), and Meg would be happy again—they would all be happy. He was so happy
himself to-night—the shadows had disappeared—that he felt virtue flow out of him. Because he loved Linda, he loved everybody, and everybody must love Linda.
CHAPTER XXII
THE EMERALD BRACELET
Iain walked back to the cottage alone. It was very early and the air smelt sweet and fresh after the hot perfumed atmosphere of the ball-room. There was dew on the grass, and on every leaf—tiny, glittering beads of dew shining like diamonds in the early sunshine. Iain seemed to see everything more clearly, more sharply defined than he had ever seen it before. As he went through the pine-woods the smell caught his breath, it was sweet and clean and resinous; the straight trunks of the trees were like the copper pillars of a great hall, and, high above his head, the layers were like a roof—dark green, almost black against the pale-blue sky. The dun-coloured carpet of fallen needles was as soft as velvet beneath his feet.
He let himself into the cottage very quietly, and went up the narrow stairs as noiselessly as possible, but, when he reached the top, his mother called to him—she had been lying awake and listening for his step. Iain went into her room and found her sitting up in bed. Her face was flushed, like the face of a young girl, and her soft white hair lay in curling rings upon her forehead. How pretty she is! he thought tenderly.
She beckoned to him to come closer and held up her arm—“Look, Iain!” she said. “Look how it sparkles!”
Iain saw that she had a bracelet on her arm, a bracelet of flashing green stones set in platinum. It was a beautiful thing—it looked costly—Iain had never seen it before. He sat down on the bed and turned her arm this way and that, watching the stones flash in the sunlight that poured through the open window.
“What a lovely thing!” he said. “I didn’t know you had a bracelet of emeralds.”
“I didn’t know I had it either,” she told him, smiling with pleasure like a child with a new toy. “I found it in my treasure drawer.”
“In your treasure drawer?” said Iain in surprise.
She nodded, and her eyes sparkled with delight. “It was such a surprise, Iain,” she told him; “such a lovely surprise. There were lots of pretty things in the drawer, but this was much the prettiest.”
“Do you mean you found it here?” Iain asked, pointing to the small chest of drawers that stood in the corner by the window.
She shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said; “not here.”
“Where did you find it, then?”
“I found it in my own treasure drawer in my own room.”
Iain’s heart almost stopped beating, but he tried to speak calmly. It was no use frightening her.
“Were you up at the house?” he asked.
“I must have been,” she said. “I know I found it in my treasure drawer—”
“Oh, Mother!” he cried. “You know I told you not to go there.”
Her eyes filled with sudden tears. “I don’t know,” she said incoherently. “I can’t remember—I only know I found it in my own drawer.”
“But I told you there were people in the house and you mustn’t go there—”
“They didn’t see me,” she said earnestly. “They didn’t see me, Iain. I crept upstairs so quietly. I didn’t bother the people. There were bright lights in the house, and music—I think they must have been having a party—so I crept up the stairs very quietly. They couldn’t mind me going to my own room—”
“It isn’t your room now,” said Iain—he was too upset and horrified at what had occurred to consider her feelings, or be wise with her any more.
“It’s always been my room,” she said—her lip trembled and the tears rolled down her cheeks. “It’s always been my room—I don’t understand things very well, now, but I know my own room—my own room—”
Iain pulled himself up—it was no use scolding her, she couldn’t understand; it wasn’t her fault.
“Never mind,” he said, patting her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter, darling, it’s all right. See, I’m not angry with you at all—but you must give me the bracelet to take back, because, you see, it doesn’t belong to you—”
“Oh, no,” she said, clinging to the bracelet firmly. “Oh, no—it’s mine, Iain. It was in my drawer, so it must be mine. I had forgotten about it—you know how I forget things—”
“Please, darling,” Iain said gently. “Please give it to me. You know it isn’t yours.”
She shook the tears from her eyes and hid the wrist with the bracelet on it beneath the bedclothes. Her face hardened before his eyes in a queer way. “No, you can’t have it,” she said. “You can’t have it—I want it, and it’s mine.”
Iain saw that he could not get it from her without a scene. She would forget about it soon, and they could take it away while she was asleep. That was the better way. In any case nothing could be done about restoring the bracelet to its rightful owner until later in the day. She might just as well keep it for a few hours and have the pleasure of it—his heart ached over her.
“All right, you keep it,” he said gently. “But you must cuddle down in bed and let me tuck you up or you will catch cold, darling. There now, is that cosy?”
She lay down obediently, still clutching the bracelet tightly against her breast. Her long dusty eyelashes flickered over her dark eyes—she would sleep now—Iain knew that—sleep for hours perhaps. He went away and left her. Quite suddenly he was tired—so tired that his brain refused to deal with this new problem. He dropped his finery on the floor, crept into his narrow camp-bed, and, in a few moments, he, too, was fast asleep.
* * * * *
When Iain woke it was midday. He opened his eyes and saw Janet standing beside his bed with a tray in her hands.
“It’s time you were waking, MacAslan,” she said quietly.
Iain lay still and looked at her for a few moments. His brain was clouded with sleep, but he had a feeling that something was wrong—what was it? Janet’s face was grave and stern—almost wooden—only her eyes were alive with expression, they were full of misery.
“There’s something the matter, Janet,” he said, struggling to remember what it was.
“Aye,” she said, “there’s something the matter right enough. I doubt you’ll be vexed with me, MacAslan.”
“Vexed with you?”
“I’ve betrayed ma trust,” she said solemnly. She put the tray down on the chest of drawers, and took the emerald bracelet out of her apron pocket, and showed it to him. “See that, MacAslan,” she added. “You’ll never guess hoo that came here.”
“I don’t need to guess. I know.”
“Och, for any sake!” cried Janet in horror-stricken tones. “You’re niver telling me you saw her at the hoose! She said naebody saw her—you’re niver telling me she went intae the room—”
“Nobody saw her—that I know of,” he said quickly. “It was when I came in. She called me into her bedroom and showed it to me.”
“Thank the Lord naebody saw her,” said Janet. She stood there for a moment in silence, looking at the glittering jewel that lay coiled up in her work-worn hand. “Thank the Lord,” she said again, and then she added in a different tone: “If you’re sairtain of that, MacAslan, we can get it pit back where it came frae and nae hairm done.”
Iain lay still and thought about it—he was fully awake now—he was wondering if it was his mother who had passed when Linda and he were standing in the dark passage together—he was almost sure that it was she. That was the way she moved, lightly and noiselessly as one of the Little People themselves. If he had spoken to her then, or touched her, he could have prevented this thing from happening—he didn’t know—he couldn’t think—what strange inhibition had prevented him.
“It was my blame,” Janet was saying, her Doric very much in evidence as it always was when she was moved or upset. “There’s nae ither body tae blame but masel’. I was tired, MacAslan, an’ I went airly tae ma bed. She must ha’ creepit oota the hoose when I was sleeping. I kenned naething of it till I went in this morning, an’ t
here she was happed up in her bed playing wi’ the thing. It was my blame—”
“No,” said Iain firmly. “You couldn’t help it, Janet. How could you know she would take a thing that didn’t belong to her.”
“I micht have kenned,” said Janet miserably. “She’s nae idea of what belongs tae her an’ what doesna’. She did the same thing in Edinburgh in the shops. I had tae keep an eye on her there.”
“You never told me.”
“An’ what was the use? You had eneuch trouble tae bear—an’ there was naething much tae tell. It was just if she took a liking tae a thing—”
“You should have told me,” Iain said, sighing.
“An’ she was all for gaeing up tae the hoose when we were oot in the morning,” Janet continued. “It was all I could dae tae thwart her. I should niver have brought her back frae Edinburgh—and that’s all aboot it. Here,” she added in a different voice, “you’d best tak’ your braikfast before it’s cauld, an’ the tea stewed,” and she took up the tray and set it firmly on his knees.
Iain could not help smiling in the midst of his anxiety. The skies might fall, but Janet would still insist, in her sensible downright manner, upon people taking their food before it grew cold. He sat up obediently and arranged his pillow behind his back.
Janet settled the tray comfortably. “There now,” she said. “Tak’ your braikfast and then we’ll conseeder what’s tae be done. It’s an ungoadly hour tae be taking braikfast, but I wasna’ going tae waken you before noon. I’ve been stravaigling up an’ doon the stair the hale morning watching for you tae waken—an’ no a thing done in the hoose—”
“Poor Janet!” he said, half smiling at the picture evoked.
“Puir Janet indeed!” she echoed indignantly. “I’ve been biting ma thumb at masel’. It would be a kind of comfort if you’d be a wee thing vexed at me, MacAslan.”
Iain laughed outright at that. It was so typical of Janet—she set herself, and others, the highest standard of efficiency and was annoyed when human nature fell short of her ideal.
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