Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

  “We’ll let you know,” said Guy. “We’ll think up something pretty hot. I’m afraid it may disturb the game a bit—but—well, I’m afraid that can’t be helped.”

  Mr. MacDonald sighed. He said: “I hate the birds to be disturbed, but, as you say, it can’t be helped. Perhaps you could warn your men to be as careful as possible. The local people know to be careful.”

  “I’ll warn them, sir,” Guy promised.

  Frances was trying to talk to Miss Stalker but it was uphill work, for Miss Stalker made no attempt to meet her half-way. She tried household subjects and inquired whether Miss Stalker was able to save sugar for jam-making, but even this failed to lure Miss Stalker out of her shell, so after a few minutes Frances abandoned her to her fate and lent an ear to the other conversation.

  “. . . but even before the war started we had been living on our capital for years,” Mr. MacDonald was saying earnestly.

  “I’ve heard it said before,” admitted Guy. “But I’m no economist, I’m afraid.”

  “It is quite easy to understand,” Mr. MacDonald replied. “You know what happens when a man starts to spend his capital, and the same thing is bound to happen when a government starts spending a nation’s wealth. Death duties and succession duties are capital, but the Government has been spending the proceeds as if they were income. It would not be so bad if the Government raked in the money and invested it and spent the income—but that does not seem to have occurred to them. It does not require an economist to realise that a nation’s wealth lies in the wealth of her citizens. Moneyed people are an asset to a nation, paupers are a liability. Take a man with an income of ten thousand a year, he is a valuable asset. The State can depend upon him for a definite yearly income. Then the man dies and the property—instead of passing to his son and continuing to yield the same yearly income to the State—has to be broken up and sold to pay death duties.”

  “I see,” said Guy, nodding.

  “You see,” continued Mr. MacDonald, “every time a big estate is sold up it is a national investment sold out. No more yearly income will accrue from it to the State. It means that the Government has killed one of its geese, so that goose cannot lay any more golden eggs. In the last fifteen years or so the Government has killed off dozens of geese. Soon there will be no more geese left, and therefore no more golden eggs.”

  “It seems very short-sighted,” said Guy thoughtfully.

  “It is short-sighted,” replied Mr. MacDonald. “We have been suffering from short-sighted politicians for years. This dreadful war is due to myopia on the part of our politicians—”

  “That’s true!” exclaimed Guy.

  Mr. MacDonald smiled. “They wouldn’t see and they wouldn’t listen,” he declared. “They never listen to people who try to tell them unpalatable truths. Lord Roberts warned them before the last war and they said he was in his dotage. Winston Churchill, Roger Keyes, Neville Henderson and half a dozen others warned them that Germany was on the warpath again, and all they did was to disarm faster and break up our battleships for scrap. . . . I don’t know whether you have noticed,” continued Mr. MacDonald, “it is rather an extraordinary thing: Churchill has never once said, ‘I told you so,’ or, ‘If you had only listened to me.’ He is a big man, there is no doubt of that.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  After a little more conversation Mr. MacDonald rose and led the way to his study. It was a real “man’s room” furnished with deep leather chairs and a large roll-top desk covered with books and papers. On the walls there were prints and maps and some good engravings.

  Frances and Guy looked round the room with interest, and Guy pointed to the picture of a ship which seemed to be sailing across the land. “Is that a Viking ship?” he inquired.

  “It is a fairly accurate drawing of a Norse galley,” replied his host. “You can see the pointed prow and stern raised high above the deck, the single mast, the rigging of furled shrouds and stays—”

  “But why is it sailing across the land?” asked Guy.

  “Thereby hangs a tale—and rather a curious one,” said Mr. MacDonald, smiling. “I can see that Miss Field is anxious to hear it.”

  “Of course I am!” cried Frances.

  Mr. MacDonald began his story without more ado. “In the last years of the eleventh century there was a Scottish king called Malcolm Canmore. His wife was the saintly Margaret whose chapel can still be seen at Edinburgh Castle. Malcolm made a pact with Magnus Barefoot, a Norwegian king, and in this pact Magnus was given sovereignty over all the islands which lie off the west coast of Scotland. Some of our islands are scarcely separated from the mainland and others are separated from the mainland only at high tide, so to make the matter perfectly clear it was agreed that Magnus Barefoot was to have all land round which a helm-carrying ship could pass, and that he was to take possession by rowing round the islands. Magnus brought his ships round the south of Kintyre—or Satiri as it was called in those days—and as he rowed along he saw that the country was fertile and beautiful. Unfortunately for him, however, Kintyre is part of the mainland of Scotland—it is joined to the mainland by a narrow ridge of high ground between two arms of the sea—so Magnus could not sail his helm-carrying ship round Kintyre.”

  “I’m beginning to understand,” declared Guy.

  “Yes,” agreed Mr. MacDonald. “You can see how his mind worked, can’t you? Magnus wanted Kintyre and Magnus intended to have it, so he sat in his ship and had it drawn across the ridge of ground—just as you see in the picture. Wait a moment and I will read you the description.” . . . Mr. MacDonald rummaged about amongst a heap of untidy papers and after some difficulty he found the passage to which he had referred. He cleared his throat and read: “‘Magnus Barefoot had a small ship drawn across the ridge and the helm laid across in its proper form. The King sat in the poop and took hold of the helm-ball; and thus he got possession of all the country lying on the larboard side.’ It goes on to describe the scene in detail and says that Magnus wore a helmet of flashing gold and carried a red shield emblazoned with a golden lion; the hilt of his sword was of ivory inlaid with gold, and over his coat of mail he wore a short silken tunic of ruby.”

  “What an amazing spectacle it must have been!” exclaimed Guy.

  “Yes,” agreed Mr. MacDonald. “One can imagine the poor ignorant peasants standing by and watching the proceedings—wondering what on earth Magnus was doing.”

  “Sharp practice, wasn’t it?” said Guy thoughtfully. “D’you think our friend Adolf is descended from Magnus Barefoot? He seems to have the same mentality—”

  “Oh no!” cried Frances. “Hitler is worse. Of course it was a dreadful thing for Magnus to do but, after all, he took the trouble to keep to the letter of his pact. I’ve often thought that the worst thing about Hitler is that he has no sense of shame.”

  Mr. MacDonald nodded. “Yes, that is the very worst thing about him.”

  Guy was looking out of the window now. He pointed to a heap of ruins which showed between the trees. “Is that a chapel?” he inquired.

  “Those are the ruins of the old Castle,” Mr. MacDonald replied. “Many of the stones have been removed but I have put a stop to that.”

  “I suppose your family has lived here for hundreds of years.”

  “Yes, I am trying to write a short history of my branch of the family—-just for my own satisfaction—but the fact is, I have got my notes into such a muddle that it has given me a distaste for the job. I wish I could find somebody with an orderly mind to help me with them, to docket them in chronological order—”

  “Would I be any use?” asked Frances on a sudden impulse.

  At first Mr. MacDonald refused to listen to the suggestion, but after some argument Frances managed to convince him that she would enjoy the work, and a day was fixed for her to come up to the Castle and go through the notes.

  During this discussion Guy stood at the window with his hands clasped behind his back. His attitude was one of disapproval,
but it was not until they had taken leave of their host and were walking home together that the reason for his disapproval became apparent.

  “Why on earth did you offer to go and help him?” asked Guy.

  “Why!” echoed Frances in surprise. “Because he wanted someone—”

  “Let him find someone else.”

  “He can’t,” replied Frances in reasoning tones. “He can’t find any one to help him—besides, it would be rather interesting work.”

  “You had better be careful, Frances.”

  “Careful?”

  “Yes, he likes you quite a lot.”

  “Likes me?”

  “He’s in love with you,” said Guy bluntly.

  Frances exclaimed in surprise. “Oh no,” she cried. “Oh, what nonsense! He’s quite old—”

  They were walking back through the woods but now they stopped suddenly and by one accord. “What nonsense!” repeated Frances.

  “Don’t go,” said Guy. “I don’t want you to go, Frances.”

  Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast but she managed to laugh a trifle breathlessly. “I must go,” she said. “I’ve promised—”

  “I’ve warned you,” declared Guy. “Perhaps you don’t want to be warned. Perhaps you would enjoy being the chatelaine of Cairn Castle. He’s got plenty of money, of course. You heard what he said about income-tax and death duties, so—”

  “I think this is an extremely foolish conversation,” said Frances firmly.

  They walked on in silence, and Frances noted that her companion’s brows were knit in a scowl of rage. She was not angry, but was amused and touched at his efforts to shield her . . . as if she could not look after herself! She was surprised, she was even rather pleased to find that she could annoy Guy so easily, that she could so easily produce that terrible frown; he was usually so much master of himself and of the situation.

  By this time they had reached St. Kiaran’s Chapel. It looked different today, for there was a cloud over the sun; it looked sad and deserted, but the spring still bubbled out of the hillside and trickled past the ruined door just as Frances remembered. As they were not on speaking terms at the moment, Frances forbore to acquaint her companion with the history of the place and led the way across the little clearing with a light step; but Guy, instead of following her, knelt down beside the spring and, cupping his hands, took a long drink of the sparkling water. Frances hesitated and came back. She watched him without speaking.

  “What are you smiling at?” he inquired somewhat crossly.

  “It’s magic water,” said Frances mischievously.

  “What do you mean?” asked Guy.

  “It’s magic water,” she repeated, trying not to laugh. “Mr. MacDonald told me all about it. This is St. Kiaran’s Spring. Any one who drinks this water will be married within a year.”

  Guy rose and wiped his mouth. “What nonsense!” he said.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” agreed Frances. “Absolute rubbish. Nobody believes in magic springs now—except the villagers, of course.”

  “Why don’t you have a drink?”

  “I’m not thirsty,” she replied.

  “I don’t believe in magic water,” declared Guy.

  “No,” agreed Frances. “No, of course not. We’ve agreed that it’s nonsense, haven’t we?”

  Guy hesitated and then he said: “It’s beautiful water. There’s a queer sort of smoky taste about it. Why don’t you try it?”

  Frances laughed and shook her head; they walked on.

  Suddenly Guy laughed. He said: “Don’t let’s quarrel, Frances.”

  “No, don’t let’s,” she agreed, looking up at him and smiling with her eyes. “I should hate to quarrel with you—seriously, I mean.”

  “You aren’t angry with me for saying that about old MacDonald?”

  “It’s nice of you to take an interest in me,” she replied.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” he agreed.

  She looked up at him again to see if he were joking, but his face was perfectly grave.

  “I don’t know whether you have noticed,” continued Guy with a serious air. “I don’t know whether you have realised what an extremely altruistic person I am. I have always been renowned for the way in which I sacrifice my own interests to the interests of my friends. For instance, when I was six years old I was very ill after eating a whole box of chocolates which belonged to my sister—I did it merely to save her from a similar fate.”

  “How absurd you are!” exclaimed Frances, laughing.

  He heaved an extravagant sigh and replied: “But I hide a tender heart beneath my motley.”

  “A perfect example of double bluff,” she retorted.

  There was another silence and then Guy said in quite a different voice: “You are a most extraordinary girl—”

  The woods were darker than ever today, not only because of the absence of sunlight but also because the deciduous trees were beginning to bud, to open pale-green leaves in the still air, but Frances did not notice the loneliness of the woods nor think of the people who had trodden this path so long ago on their way to see the saint; she had found before that it was impossible to talk to Guy Tarlatan without giving him the whole of her attention—even then it was difficult.

  “Why am I extraordinary?” she asked, turning her head to speak to him, for the path was so steep and narrow that they were obliged to go single file. “You’re always surprised when I say anything that isn’t completely silly—you seem to have formed a low opinion of me.”

  “I haven’t formed any opinion of you at all,” he declared, “or perhaps it would be more truthful to say that I keep on changing my opinion every few moments. Just when I think I’ve got your measure you say something that doesn’t fit—it’s most unsettling. There’s only one thing that I’m certain of . . . Frances, wait a moment. Let’s sit down here on this fallen tree. I want to talk to you.”

  “You’ve been talking to me all the afternoon,” replied Frances, hastening on.

  “Frances—”

  “Yes?”

  “Why wouldn’t you drink that water? It was awfully mean of you.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes; you let me drink it and then you wouldn’t drink it yourself. I believe it’s poisoned—why are you in such a hurry?”

  “It’s as pure as any water can be,” replied Frances without turning round. “That’s what Mr. MacDonald said.”

  “Oh, is it? I suppose you drank some—you and he together.”

  “No,” said Frances.

  They had reached the place where the burn poured itself into the sea, but the tide was out today, so instead of leaping straight into the sea with gay abandon it meandered across the beach and between the rocks. There were buds on the bushes now, and the larches, which had looked so dead, were veiled in a haze of green. There were a few primroses in the hollow beside the rock where Frances had frightened herself by picturing the tall figure of a Viking with golden hair and golden armlets.

  “What a lovely place!” exclaimed Guy. “What a lovely, lovely place. Do you know what it’s called, Frances?”

  “St. Kiaran’s Cove,” she replied.

  “St. Kiaran’s Cove,” repeated Guy; he hesitated and then added: “It’s a natural harbour, isn’t it?”

  Frances saw what he meant. The spit of red rocks was like a jetty stretching out into the sea, sheltering the little bay. She thought again of the Viking ship, the ship full of golden-haired warriors, stealing in between the rocks with muffled oars. She imagined the tall figures stepping ashore and kneeling to drink at the burn. “Yes,” said Frances; “I thought so when I was here before. I thought it would be a good place to land. In fact, I imagined that I saw—”

  At this moment, before Frances had time to finish her sentence or Guy had time to ask her what she meant, they heard the sound of voices and the clatter of footsteps on the stones.

  “Wait,” said Guy, putting out his hand, but Frances did not want to wait. Frances was
quite glad that her tête-à-tête with Guy had come to an end. She turned the corner of a big rock with Guy at her heels and found Major and Mrs. Crabbe on the beach; Major Crabbe large and massive in his khaki uniform, and Elise tall and willowy in a tweed coat and skirt. Frances was surprised to see them, for Elise was not the sort of person who enjoyed puddling about. Her shoes were unsuitable for walking in the sand, or for climbing amongst the rocks—Elise was essentially a townswoman—but here they were, and Frances reflected that their presence was probably due to the fact that Cairn offered very few distractions to its inhabitants. Major Crabbe was engaged in the ancient pastime of ducks and drakes (which, as every one knows, consists of throwing flat stones in such a manner that they will hop upon the surface of the water), and Elise was aiding and abetting him by searching for suitable ammunition amongst the shingle. She looked up and saw Guy and Frances and waved her hand.

  “Hallo!” she cried. “Where have you been? Come and play with Ned.”

  “Come on!” cried Major Crabbe. “Come on, Guy. I bet you can’t beat my record—five hops—I’ll take you on for half a crown.”

  “Damn!” said Guy below his breath, but he went down to meet them and Frances followed him.

  CHAPTER XX

  The next excitement at the Bordale Arms was the advent of Jennifer Crabbe. She arrived in a large car (with a good deal of luggage) and was carried into the hotel in the arms of her nurse. The hall was suddenly full of people who had heard the car drive up and wanted to see what was happening, but, far from being embarrassed at the crowd of strangers, Jennifer seemed delighted to see them and charmed with their attentions. She smiled at every one and waved her hand in a queenly manner—there was something in the scene which reminded Frances of the arrival of Royalty.

  “The wee lamb!” exclaimed Mrs. MacNair. “She has her mother’s eyes.”

  She had her mother’s elegance too—or so Frances thought. Frances had heard of Jennifer Crabbe from Winkie, but, even so, she was not prepared to see any one so beautiful, so finished, so full of charm and personality.