Lady Runcie-Campbell was in the office at the front of the house writing letters. When he knocked, she bade him enter in her clear courteous musical voice.
A stranger, hearing her, would have anticipated some kind of loveliness in so charming a speaker; he might not, however, have expected to find such outstanding beauty of face and form married to such earnestness of spirit; and he would assuredly have been both startled and impressed.
Duror, who knew her well, had been afraid that in her presence he might be shamed or inspired into abandoning his scheme against the cone-gatherers. In spite of her clothes, expensive though simple, of her valuable adornments such as earrings, brooches, and rings, and of her sometimes almost mystical sense of responsibility as a representative of the ruling class, she had an ability to exalt people out of their humdrum selves. Indeed, Duror often associated religion not with the smell of pinewood pews or of damp Bibles, but rather with her perfume, so elusive to describe. Her father the judge had bequeathed to her a passion for justice, profound and intelligent; and a determination to see right done, even at the expense of rank or pride. Her husband Sir Colin was orthodox, instinctively preferring the way of a world that for many generations had allowed his family to enjoy position and wealth. Therefore he had grumbled at his wife’s conscientiousness, and was fond of pointing out, with affection but without sympathy, the contradiction between her emulation of Christ and her eminence as a baronet’s wife.
She would have given the cone-gatherers the use of the beach hut, if Duror had not dissuaded her; and she had not forgotten to ask him afterwards what their hut was like. He had had to lie.
Now when he was going to lie again, this time knowing it would implicate her in his chosen evil, he felt that he was about to commit before her eyes an obscene gesture, such as he had falsely accused the dwarf of making. In the sunny scented room therefore, where the happy voices of the cricket players on the lawn could be heard, he suddenly saw himself standing up to the neck in a black filth, like a stags’ wallowing pool deep in the wood. High above the trees shone the sun, and everywhere birds sang; but this filth, as he watched, crept up until it entered his mouth, covered his ears, blinded his eyes, and so annihilated him. So would he perish, he knew; and somewhere in the vision, as a presence, exciting him so that his heart beat fast, but never visible, was a hand outstretched to help him out of that mire, if he wished to be helped.
He saw her hand with its glittering rings held out to invite him to sit down.
‘Good morning, Duror,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Isn’t it just splendid?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
She looked at him frankly and sympathetically: it was obvious she attributed his subdued tone to sorrow over his wife. If at the same time she noticed with surprise that he hadn’t shaved, it did not diminish her sympathy, as it would have her husband’s.
‘How is Mrs Duror?’ she asked gently.
‘Not too well, I’m sorry to say, my lady. This spell of fine weather has upset her. She asked me to thank you for the flowers.’
She was so slim, golden-haired, and vital, that her solicitude for Peggy gripped him like a fierce cramp in his belly.
She noticed how pale he had turned, how ill he looked.
‘I often think of your poor wife, Duror,’ she said.
She glanced at her husband’s portrait in uniform on the desk in front of her.
Duror could not see the photograph from where he sat, but he could see clearly enough in his imagination the original, as gawky as she was beautiful, as glum as she was gay, and as matter-of-fact as she was compassionate.
‘This war,’ she went on quickly, ‘with its dreadful separations has shown me at least what she has missed all these years. Something has come between us and the things we love, the things on which our faith depends: flowers and dogs and trees and friends. She’s been cut off so much longer.’
She glanced again at Sir Colin as if expecting to find him glummer than ever at this condescension. She was not mistaken. With a sigh she turned to business.
‘Mrs Lochie would explain what I wanted to see you about?’ she asked.
‘Yes, my lady. I’ve been out having a look through the wood.’
‘You think we can manage all right?’
‘I think so, my lady.’
‘Good. Captain Forgan seems to have set his heart on it. He has a belief that nothing impresses the scenery on one’s mind like taking part in a deer shoot, especially if you get a kill.’
‘I understand what the captain means, my lady.’
She laughed. ‘I’m not sure I do, Duror. Often it’s a long cold wait for nothing. And if you’re lucky and shoot a deer, well, I suppose it is sentimental of me to think that a living deer is much handsomer than a dead one.’
He remembered that her son, as an infant of four, also a sentimentalist, had seen him with a dead roe deer, and for years afterwards had disliked him. Perhaps she too was remembering that.
‘They’re classified as vermin, my lady,’ he said.
‘Oh, no.’ She laughed and gestured. ‘I won’t have it, Duror. Whatever any government says, I refuse to call deer vermin. They’re far too beautiful.’
‘They’re enemies, my lady.’
‘Yes, call them that. Not all our enemies are ugly, cruel, savage, and beastly; some are beautiful and gentle.’
He noticed how her hands involuntarily clasped, and her eyes avoided the portrait.
‘There’s a herd in the wood just now, my lady,’ he said, ‘between Runacraig and Lettermore Burn. It should be a fairly easy stretch to drive, which is important, for we’ll be short of drivers. How many guns will there be, my lady?’
She became brisk.
‘I was thinking of that before you came,’ she said. ‘Not many, I’m afraid. It’s not like the old days.’
‘We might not need many, my lady. We’ll drive towards Runacraig. Three or four guns in the drive there should have a good chance.’
‘Well, there’s Captain Forgan for one. Oh, yes, Duror, here’s a problem for you to solve. Captain Forgan has one opinion, I have another. I’m going to abide by your decision.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll do my best, my lady.’
‘It’s simply this: Master Roderick wants to be one of the guns. Now I know he’s handled one before: he’s shot a few rabbits. But naturally at his age he’s somewhat nervous. Is it safe to let him loose on a deer drive? What do you think, Duror, as the expert? I may say that Master Roderick will accept the decision as coming from me.’
Was this, he thought, another opportunity? Say that it would be safe enough and hope for an accident? If the boy stumbled in excitement and shot himself, she would be inconsolable, for all her goodness and beauty. Why not therefore add this shade to the encompassing darkness?
He could not afterwards say why he replied as he did.
‘If you’ll pardon me putting it in this way, my lady,’ he said: ‘if he was my son, I’d say no, not just yet.’
For a moment he thought of that incommunicable phantom, his son; and he felt the treachery of regret.
‘Then that’s settled,’ she said firmly. ‘If Master Roderick wishes to be there, it’ll have to be as a spectator, like his sister. I’ll take a gun myself. Mr Baird has promised to come.’ (As the grieve in charge of the home farm he could scarcely have refused.) ‘And Mr Adamson of Ledaig is always keen; though of course,’ she added smiling, ‘Master Roderick is sure to tell me that if Mr Adamson can be trusted with a gun, so surely can he.’
Will Adamson, over seventy, had once put a pellet into old Graham the estate handyman.
‘That gives us four,’ she said. ‘Five, counting yourself.’
‘I think, my lady, I ought to go with the drive. If I can, I’ll try to head the deer towards where the captain will be posted.’
She was pleased. ‘Thank you, Duror.’
Now, he thought, comes the lie; the obscene gesture; the spitting upon her lovely generous face.
‘The beaters are the trouble,’ he said.
‘Yes, I know. Whom have we got? I suppose Graham, though he does complain so and gets stuck in brambles. Young Harry, who’s usually very useful: I mean, he can be depended upon to make a merry noise. Then Betty the landgirl, whom Mr Baird has said can be spared. Mr Adamson’s going to supply a man, but apparently he’s rather deaf and has a poor sense of direction. That makes four of a sort. Hardly enough.’
‘No, my lady. When the spaces are too wide between the beaters the deer get too good a chance to double back, and then all our labour’s been in vain.’
‘Yes, I know. But what are we to do? I suppose we could borrow men from neighbouring farms, but ought we to? After all, it is war time, and our drive is for pleasure.’
‘I’ve got a suggestion, my lady, that might help.’
‘What is it, Duror?’
‘I was wondering if we could have the use of the two men who are in the wood gathering cones. I’m sure Mr Tulloch wouldn’t mind if we borrowed them for a couple of hours.’
She was delighted. ‘The very thing, Duror! Why couldn’t I have thought of that? Of course Mr Tulloch will oblige. He’s an admirable person, and he spoke very highly of these men.’
She had her hand on the telephone ready to pick it up when a doubt occurred to her; she frowned.
‘Isn’t one of them a kind of cripple?’ she asked.
‘I wouldn’t call him that, my lady. He’s a hunchback, but he’s as agile as any monkey.’
‘Yes. So Roderick says. He has an immense admiration for him. I can’t for the life of me tell why. Climbing trees, I suppose, is a fairly common accomplishment, and, though useful, is scarcely worthy of reverence.’ She noticed his surprise at her use of that last word. ‘Yes, reverence,’ she repeated, laughing. ‘He became embarrassed when I questioned him. It’s really very odd. I understand this hunchback has rather a striking face?’
Duror nodded. ‘Yes, my lady.’
‘And fine black curls,’ she added.
As she laughed at this odd but praiseworthy interest of her children in so insignificant a person, Duror wondered if this was a good time to repeat the lie he had told to Mrs Morton.
He hesitated too long.
‘However,’ she said, still laughing, ‘I suppose I’d better telephone Mr Tulloch.’
While she was speaking to the exchange, and then waiting to be put through to Ardmore, Duror saw all that he was doing with a strange clear neutrality: his ignoring of Peggy, his lying to Mrs Morton, and above all his resolution to torment the cone-gatherers and destroy them, if he could. Seated in this chair, with his cap respectfully on his knee, and his hands laid upon it so calmly, without a twitch, he thought it incredible that all that villainy should be schemed by him; but then, he did not wish to be there, the part of his life associated with this bright room and this beautiful woman was over, and if he was where he wished to be, close to the hut in the darkness, under the cypress tree, he would not only understand and approve of what he had done, but would find in it his only possible consolation and release.
Lady Runcie-Campbell at last was talking to the forester.
‘No, no, there’s been no trouble, Mr Tulloch. On the contrary. Your men are being as discreet as squirrels. I haven’t set eyes on them myself, but I intend to soon, as my son assures me their climbing is really wizard. No, what I want to consult you about is this: we’re hoping to have a deer drive this afternoon in honour of my brother who’s been posted overseas. The trouble is, we’re desperately short of beaters, and I thought you might consider lending us your two men for the afternoon. We’ll pay them, of course.’
She paused, and listened to what, from her expression, must have been fervent assurances.
‘Thank you so much, Mr Tulloch. Oh, yes, I think so. I’ll ask him just to make sure.’
She turned from the telephone to ask Duror if he knew where the cone-gatherers were working. He nodded.
‘Yes, it’s all right,’ she went on. ‘He knows where to find them. It’s very obliging of you, Mr Tulloch.’ Then she listened with amused pout. ‘A quid pro quo, is that it? Pardon the Latin. I’m having to coach the children myself these days, as their tutor is on a visit to England.’ She laughed again at some remark of Tulloch’s. ‘Well, I’ll think about it. You know my objection: I just don’t want them too near the house, overlooking the windows. Yes, I know I did, but squirrels are inquisitive creatures. No, of course not. Well, I promise I’ll give it further consideration. One good turn deserves another, and besides, it’s flattering to be told my silver firs are so handsome and eligible. Goodbye, Mr Tulloch, and thanks ever so much.’
She smiled as she was thanked in return, and then she set the receiver down.
‘A very sound person, I think,’ she said. ‘Well, Duror, I take it you got the gist of that. We’re to have our beaters. That gives us six altogether; which will have to do.’
‘Yes, my lady. Would it be suitable to start the drive from the dead ash tree at the burn at two o’clock? The guns could be in their places along the ride by then.’
‘Very good, Duror. Perhaps two is rather soon after lunch. Let’s make it half-past. If you see to the beaters, I’ll see to the guns.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’ He rose. ‘With your permission, I’ll go now and tell these men gathering the cones.’
‘Yes, please do that, Duror.’
She was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. She picked it up.
‘Lady Runcie-Campbell speaking. Oh, it’s you, Mr Tulloch.’ She began to frown, and signalled to Duror not to go. ‘How extraordinary. Yes, I knew there was something peculiar about him, but I thought it was restricted to his physical appearance. I wasn’t aware he also suffered from abnormal squeamishness. Is it some outlandish religious objection? You think so? Surely not. I look upon myself as a reasonably conscientious Christian, and I have shot deer before now, and will again. Is he utterly consistent? I mean, would he set traps for rats? Does he eat meat? Surely then, his objection is really rather frivolous? How old is he? Over thirty! Good heavens, I thought he could hardly be more than twenty with such callow views. My own son, who’s not quite fourteen, wishes to be one of the guns at this deer drive, but I’ve refused simply because he’s not experienced enough. Certainly I wouldn’t wish to force anyone into acting against his principles, but I’m afraid I can’t recognise principle in this case. Would I encourage my own son to take part in what was wrong? I understand you have some conscientious objectors working at your forest. He’s not one of these, is he? Well, has he been influenced by them at all? I see. That makes it all the more peculiar. Do you mind if I consult my gamekeeper for a second?’
Duror noticed that in spite of the confidence in her voice the hand holding the telephone trembled. She seemed either insulted or dismayed. He guessed that within her was a struggle between her Christian sympathy for the weak-minded hunchback and her pride as a patrician, to whom hunting on her own estate was as sacred as singing in church.
Her voice now had that harsh edge which always denoted that she was about, for duty’s sake, to assert her authority.
‘What do you make of this absurdity, Duror?’ she asked. ‘He tells me that one of these men, the deformed one, has some kind of scruple about taking part in deer drives. Apparently he’s excused them in the forest.’
‘What is his objection, my lady?’
‘You might well ask, Duror. Something dismally vague.’
‘They say he’s next door to being an imbecile, my lady.’
‘That would be an explanation. What do you advise, Duror? Ought we to humour the fellow?’
It astonished Duror that she, so genuinely good, should be helping him in his plan of evil.
‘I think, my lady, he owes you something. He’s earning his living in your wood.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s true. I wouldn’t like,’ she added, her voice a little shrill, ‘to be unfair.’
‘There are all kinds of shirkers, my lady. Did Mr Tulloch say these conscientious objectors had been at him?’
‘Apparently they have not. It seems they take part in deer drives. Our friend is unique.’
She uttered that last remark cuttingly, but remembered a moment after that the perfect exemplar of uniqueness was Christ Himself. She could not endure that rebuke, and snatched up the telephone.
‘Mr Tulloch?’ she said haughtily. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. It seems we require every help we can get, otherwise the drive is sure to fail. Therefore I’d like your permission to approach your men. We shall do our best to protect their sensibilities. Is that all right then? Thank you. Good morning.’
She put down the telephone firmly.
‘He agreed all right,’ she said, ‘but he did not sound at all pleased.’
Duror had discreetly sat down again while she was telephoning. Now he rose.
‘I’ll talk to them, my lady,’ he said. ‘I’m quite sure I can persuade them.’
‘Yes, please do, Duror.’
When he was at the door, she called sharply: ‘Duror!’
‘Yes, my lady.’
She was staring at her clasped hands. He was sure she had moved the portrait so that she could not see it.
Her voice was still harsh. ‘Are we being unfair to this poor wretch?’ she asked. ‘After all, he is deformed, and a simpleton.’
‘He’s an active man, my lady, and he’s sensible enough to earn a pay.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said testily. ‘But he does seem to be abnormal. Heaven knows what may go on in his mind.’
He waited as she made up her mind.
‘I tell you what,’ she said, ‘if you are convinced his reluctance is genuine, for whatever reason, just leave him in his tree to gather his cones. His brother alone will have to do.’
‘I doubt, my lady, if they’ll separate.’
‘But good heavens, they’re not children.’
‘I know, my lady, but they’re always together; even in a tree where there’s sometimes little room.’
‘In that case, Duror,’ she cried, ‘they’ll just have to come. We cannot have them dictating to us in every way.’
‘No, my lady.’
‘Be sure and tell them you have my and Mr Tulloch’s authority.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Oh, and by the way, Duror,’ she said, with an attempt to restore the pleasantness and music to her voice, ‘tell your wife I’ll be dropping in to see her soon.’
‘Thank you, my lady. I’ll be sure to tell her. She’ll appreciate it very much.’
Then he shut the door quietly, walked calmly along the corridor hung with stags’ heads and cases of stuffed birds and fish, and entered the kitchen. To Mrs Morton’s obvious annoyance Jean the maid was there, pert and talkative. He chatted for a minute or two, and then went to the door. Mrs Morton accompanied him.
In the sunshine his dogs showed their red pleased tongues.
Mrs Morton asked him in a whisper if he had told the mistress about the hunchback.
‘No,’ he said.
She smiled nervously. ‘Maybe you should have, John.’
‘I’ve got to be sure, Effie. As you said yourself, such a charge would break the man. His life’s not worth tuppence ha’penny, I fancy, but to him it’s precious.’
‘It’s generous of you to say that, John, especially when you’ve got such worries of your own.’
‘What worries, Effie?’ he asked, with a laugh.
He thought, from her quick breathings and furtive peeps at the sky, that she wished to make some assignation but still found shame in the way.
He touched his cap and left her in her predicament. The dogs, so innocent of lust or hate or cunning, followed him like guardians.