Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  “I was wondering,” he said, looking round at the little group in the lamplight. “I was wondering could I be playing for MacAslan when he is here—”

  “I am playing for MacAslan,” said Alec, frowning at his cousin in annoyance. “It is not the right thing at all that you should play for him, Calum Mor. I am MacAslan’s man—I live upon his ground—”

  “And what harm is there that you should both play for MacAslan?” enquired Donald peaceably. “It will be all the better, and Calum Mor is MacAslan’s man even though he is living at the other side of the loch. The MacNeils are all MacAslan’s men—so they are.”

  Calum looked doubtfully at Alec. He was anxious to play, but he did not want to offend against the laws of etiquette.

  Alec smiled at him. “We will both play for MacAslan,” he agreed.

  “I was wondering,” Calum said again. “I was wondering if I could be playing MacAslan’s own tune for him. I was thinking, maybe, he would be liking to hear it. He was calling it ‘A May Morning.’”

  Alec’s face fell. “A May Morning!” he exclaimed. “That would be a strange tune to be playing—it is ‘The Highland Wedding’ we should be playing for MacAslan—”

  “It is MacAslan’s own tune,” Calum urged.

  “It is a foolish idea,” Alec said sullenly. “A foolish idea to be playing ‘A May Morning’ for MacAslan on a November evening with snow in the air.”

  Calum’s eyes blazed with sudden rage; he was about to reply, but Donald was before him:

  “Och, do not be quarrelling, then!” he besought them. “It is not a good thing to be quarrelling on such a day as this. And you are both in the right—so you are. This is what you will do, you will play ‘The Highland Wedding’ for MacAslan, for it is the right thing to be playing and it is a good tune, so it is. But first you will play ‘A May Morning’ as a compliment to MacAslan. It is his own tune and it will please him to hear it—I am thinking there will be a May morning in MacAslan’s heart when he brings his bride home to Ardfalloch, whatever the weather.”

  Donald’s decision was diplomatic and psychologically sound. It appealed to the imagination of his hearers, to the vein of romanticism and sentiment in their Celtic blood. Alec and Calum were pleased and satisfied. They murmured their approval. Calum sat down and was provided with tea—all was peace once more.

  A gust of wind rattled the window and moaned eerily in the chimney.

  “Och, do be hearing the storm!” Morag cried.

  “Whisht!” said Donald.

  They all raised their heads and listened.

  “Aye, it’s them right enough!” Janet exclaimed.

  They all rushed out into the hall—Donald flung the doors open. The little car (a wedding-present from Mr. Hetherington Smith) was just drawing up at the bottom of the steps. The ground was already white, and the snow was still falling softly. It was very dark, but the headlights of the car streamed out in front, lighting up the snow-covered ground and the bushes on the farther side of the drive with a queer artificial effect.

  MacAslan climbed out of the car. He took his bride in his arms and sprang up the steps and across the threshold of his house—it was the age-old custom—they were both laughing happily and excitedly as he set her down.

  “Ceud mìle faìlte!” cried the Highlanders.

  “Gum a fada bèo thu!”

  “May you live for ever in peace and plenty!”

  “This is a good day for Ardfalloch!”

  They were beside themselves with joy, showering blessings and good wishes on the bridal pair. It was a great moment for them—a moment after their own hearts—the Chief had brought his bride to Ardfalloch. They saw the romance of it, the historical importance—the torch of the MacAslans had been carried forward a step further. Soon there would be an heir—another link in the chain—their eyes strained forward into the future and backwards into the past. It mattered nothing to them that there was no arch in the drive, no company of guests and tenants such as Janet had described—they were there themselves, and MacAslan had come. It was a moment none of them would forget.

  Janet alone said nothing. She was no less moved than the Celts, but it was not her way to show her feelings. She thought, as she looked at the bride’s flushed face and sparkling eyes: This is no dwaibly body, MacAslan has chosen better than his father—and she was glad that it was so. She busied herself with their comfort, helping them to unwind their scarves and to take off their coats.

  Linda was excited and pleased with the welcome; she shook hands with them all and tried to thank them, tried to tell them how happy she was to come back to Ardfalloch. She glanced at Iain—his eyes were shining with excitement, he was unconscious of himself—as she could never be. She saw that he was like these people beneath the surface, they were his people in very truth. He could understand them, could share their enthusiasms and express his feelings in gracious terms. It was a great moment not only for them but for Iain also, a moment for consummation towards which he had been moving for months. It was perfect happiness—this home-coming—Ardfalloch his own once more, and Linda to share it—there was nothing more he wanted in the world. Iain realised his own happiness and savoured it like an epicure. Troubles might come later, money was still scarce, but he would not look forward into the future to find troubles, he would make the most of this moment of pure joy.

  The flood of greeting had scarcely abated when the drawing-room door opened and Mrs. MacAslan appeared. She was smiling happily and her small child-like face was a little flushed. Iain put his arms round her, and kissed her tenderly; then he pulled Linda forward.

  “Linda is your daughter now. You know that, don’t you, Mother?” he said.

  She nodded and held up her face for Linda to kiss. “I have a present for you,” she said in her soft fluty voice. “A present for Iain’s bride. I waited up to give it to the bride, but I am going to bed now, because you would rather be alone.” She nodded gravely like a child that knows it is being good and clever. Linda found a little parcel being thrust into her hand.

  “But, Mother—of course you must dine with us—how absurd!” cried Iain, catching her arm as she turned away.

  “Not to-night,” she said, smiling her little sad smile. “Other nights I will, but not to-night. You will like it better alone. I remember I liked being alone best. It was clever of me to remember—wasn’t it, Iain? It was so long ago—long long ago. But I can remember things that happened long ago better than things that happen now. I remembered when I was sitting in the drawing-room waiting for you to come—I remembered that I liked—that I liked it best when we were alone—together. Janet will bring me my dinner in bed. I like having dinner in bed, don’t I, Janet?”

  They were all standing in the hall listening to her. None of them spoke. They were all—in their different ways—moved by her pathos, by the unconscious courage of her, and by the simplicity of her words. She had lost so much—so much that she had almost lost herself. She was scarcely a denizen of their world, she was only a forlorn little ghost, remembering her past happiness in a former existence.

  Morag’s hand crept into Donald’s. “We will be going now,” she whispered. “She is right, it is alone they should be—those two.”

  They went out together into the snowy darkness of the night, Alec and Calum followed them; Janet ran upstairs after her mistress; Iain and Linda found themselves alone in their own home at last. They stood in the hall, scarcely realising the fact that the others had gone; the house seemed strangely silent after the chatter and bustle which had followed their arrival.

  Suddenly there was a skirl of pipes outside the window, as Calum and Alec began to play “A May Morning.” Iain lifted his head and listened, there was a little smile lurking at the corners of his mouth; he had expected a tune when he saw the pipes tucked under the two men’s arms, but he had not expected that they would play “A May Morning.” By playing his own tune they had paid him a very charming compliment, and the hidden significance which
Donald had intended was not lost upon him. It was spring in his heart in spite of the softly falling snow. Iain marvelled afresh at the instinct of the Celt for the deeper things of life—the meaning that lay beneath the surface. As he listened to the gay tune his mind went back to the night when he had whistled it to Calum on Cluan pier. He thought of all that had happened since that night—he had found Linda, and lost her, and found her again. His happiness enfolded him.

  “They are playing a welcome for you,” said Linda softly. “How happy they are to have you home again.”

  “They are playing for you, too,” Iain said.

  She shook her head smilingly. “It is for MacAslan,” she said. “And, perhaps, a little, for MacAslan’s bride—they don’t know me yet, but I love them already—your people.”

  Iain did not answer—it was true, what she said, but some day they would know her and love her for herself, he was sure of that. They went into the drawing-room and stood there near the fire looking at each other gravely.

  “I really believe it now,” Iain told her. “It was all a dream before, but now that I see you here it is real—and you are real, Linda.”

  “I am real, and you are real,” Linda said. She put her arms round his neck and drew his head down on a level with her own—she was no ice maiden now, no fairy woman; she was warm and living, and wholly mortal as she melted into her husband’s arms.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  DONALD AND MORAG

  Donald and Morag walked home together; it was still snowing gently, and the ground was crisp under their feet, lightly powdered with pure sugary flakes. Far away in the forest a stag was bellowing. They could hear also the sound of the pipes, of Alec and Calum playing a welcome to MacAslan—the sound grew fainter as they went through the trees.

  Morag put her hand on Donald’s arm, it was a strong safe arm, and she needed its support and the comforting feel of it. She said, “My heart was sad for her, Donald.”

  “Mine also,” Donald replied in his deep voice. “He was a fine man—the old Chief—and he held her soul in his hand. She had lost everything when he was gone from her.”

  “She had her son,” Morag said. “Was her son so little to her, Donald?”

  Donald did not reply to that; it was always a strange thing to him that her son meant so little to Mistress MacAslan, but he would not criticise her. She was one of the family he revered, and was therefore above criticism.

  After a moment’s silence Morag added shyly, “Would you be liking a son, Donald?”

  “Morag!” he exclaimed, stopping and looking down at her with shining eyes.

  “It is true,” she told him, nodding her head. “A son—or maybe a little daughter. You would not be grieved if it were to be a little daughter, Donald?”

  “It is a wonderful thing,” he said gravely, tenderly. “It is what I have been wanting this long while—and you, too, have been wanting it. Och, Morag, it is a wonderful thing!”

  They went on together, hand in hand, full of happiness at the consummation of their hopes, full of thoughts and fears and rosy dreams of the future.

  After they had walked on for a little in silence, Morag said softly, “Will you be telling me now what happened to Mister Middleton?”

  Donald’s face changed. “Can you not be leaving that?” he asked her. “I have told you that I do not want to speak of it. It is not a good thing to speak of—it is not a good thing for you to be thinking of things like that.”

  “I cannot help it,” she said rather sadly. “I have tried, but I cannot help it. The thing is a trouble to me. If I knew what had happened I could put it away and not be thinking of it all the time. It has been a trouble in my heart since the day that MacAslan came to the cottage and called for me. I am afraid.”

  “Na biodh eagal ort!” Donald exclaimed. “Why are you afraid, Morag?”

  “I am afraid in case there is trouble in it—trouble for you.”

  Donald sighed. He said, “Why should you be thinking I know any more about Mister Middleton than other people?”

  Morag did not answer that, but her grip on his hand tightened.

  “What do you know about it, Morag?” he asked.

  “I know that you killed him,” she said softly.

  “And is that not enough for you to be knowing?”

  “It is too much—or not enough,” Morag said. “The thing is a trouble in my heart all the time—a trouble and a fear.”

  “A fear?” he questioned. “What are you afraid of, then?”

  “I am afraid that they may find his body,” she whispered.

  “They will not find his body,” said Donald simply.

  They said no more until they had reached the cottage. Donald went round, closing the doors and snibbing the windows; Morag made up the dying fire, and pulled Donald’s chair in front of it. She knew that he would tell her now, and she was half afraid to hear the story, but she felt she must know what had happened. She must know that Donald was safe, that he had left nothing undone that could trap him. She shivered a little with the fear and the excitement of it all.

  Donald came in and sat down in the chair; she drew the creepy stool to his knees, and sat upon it, leaning against him and looking up into his face.

  “I did not mean to be telling you,” he said softly. “I do not know how you are knowing anything about it, Morag.”

  “It is because I know you,” she told him.

  There was a little silence, the fire was burning up now, the pine branches crackling, the room was full of warm red light.

  He said at last, “I will tell you, then—from the beginning. I will tell you how it happened. I met him in the woods, he was coming away from MacAslan’s wee house and he was angry. I could see he was an angry man by the gait of him, and by the way he drove at the grasses with his stick, as though they were his enemies and he would kill them all. He has been quarrelling with MacAslan, I thought, and MacAslan has got the best of it or he would not be so angry; but MacAslan has made an enemy. He was almost on the top of me before he saw me—so full was he of his angry thoughts; but when he saw me he stopped and said in his English voice, ‘Hullo, Donald, you are the very man I wanted to see!’—‘Good afternoon to you, Mister Middleton,’ I said. He began speaking to me then, sounding me about the way I was feeling towards MacAslan, sounding me very cautiously to see what I would be saying. ‘Och!’ I said to him, ‘MacAslan is a hard master—he is a proud, overbearing man, MacAslan is.’ ‘Proud, is he?’ said Mister Middleton, with a nasty look on his face. ‘Proud, is he? I’ll soon humble his pride. I’m going to drag him through the mud, Donald. He won’t like that, will he?’ ‘No, indeed, Mister Middleton,’ I said, laughing. ‘It would be a fine thing to be seeing MacAslan in the mud.’ He looked at me very hard at that. ‘But I thought you were so devoted to your laird,’ he said in a sneering voice. ‘I am living on his ground,’ I said. ‘I am his slave—or little better. He is a hard master,’ and then I pretended that I had suddenly become afraid, and I said, ‘But you will not be speaking of this, Mister Middleton, or you will be getting me into trouble. I do not want trouble with MacAslan,’ I told him. ‘MacAslan is a hard man.’ ‘I will keep your secret,’ he said, smiling in a nasty way. ‘Your secret is safe with me,’ he said. We talked a little more, and then he told me that he was wanting me to go to London, and go into the law-court, and tell the judge about the morning that I went to the island—the morning after the storm—and fetched MacAslan and Mistress Medworth. I would get money for it, he said, and all my expenses, and we would have a good time in London together. ‘Och, and that would be fine!’ I said. ‘It is very quiet here. It would be fine to see London—so it would.’ ‘Then you will come,’ he said. ‘That’s great. I will have some pretty girls ready for you, Donald. I will write and tell you when you are wanted and send you the money.’”

  “Och, but he was wicked!” Morag exclaimed.

  “He was very wicked,” agreed Donald gravely. “So then I made out that I was fri
ghtened, and I said to him, ‘But what will I be saying to the judge, Mister Middleton?’ ‘I’ll tell you what to say,’ he said, laughing. ‘Don’t worry about that. All I want is for you to tell how MacAslan and Mrs. Medworth spent the night on the island together, and how you went for them in the morning. By the by, where were they when you went for them?’ ‘They were waiting on the rocks,’ I told him. ‘That is a pity,’ he said. ‘But it is good enough with the other evidence as well,’ I told him that I did not understand, and he said that Mistress Medworth was his wife, and that she had divorced him, and that his name was Medworth and not Middleton at all. ‘But you can keep that to yourself,’ he said to me. I could not make head nor tail of the thing, and I could not understand why, if Mistress Medworth had divorced him, she was not free from him—”

  “I do not understand either,” Morag murmured.

  “It is difficult,” Donald said. “It is very difficult to understand, but it did not really matter whether I understood that part of it or not. I understood very well that he was MacAslan’s enemy and would do him harm. There was no doubt in my mind about that. If you had seen his face when he was speaking of MacAslan—Och, he was dangerous—dangerous and bad.”

  “How could he have hurt MacAslan?” Morag questioned. “MacAslan had done no wrong—-”

  “And that I do not know either,” replied Donald. “A man like that has ways of doing harm. He was deep and sly and there was no truth in him, nor any scruples. But that was a thing I had to know, and the only way I could be knowing was to see MacAslan himself.”

  “You saw MacAslan and spoke to him about the man!” Morag exclaimed. “Then MacAslan knew—”

  “MacAslan knew nothing of it.”

  “Then how—”

  “If you would be letting me tell the story in my own way—”

  “I will be quiet,” Morag promised.

  Donald was silent for a moment, arranging his thoughts. He found the story more difficult to tell than he had expected. The thing had been done with haste and urgency, in a sort of cold rage that had left his brain very clear to plan the details of his self-appointed task. But, looking back, it was not so clear. He could see his own actions, but he could not see how his mind had worked.