The amount of trouble Aunt Horatia had taken to ensure that her dance was a success was well repaid. It was a surprise to Karen to discover that despite the apparent isolation of Auchenwiel large numbers of people lived near enough to have accepted invitations, and the drive was filled with cars bringing beautifullydressed men and women to the brilliantly-lighted house.
Craigie, with its gentler beauty and much smaller size, was a fitting background for intimate small dinnerparties, and perhaps occasionally a very informal dance; but Auchenwiel, with its impressive panelled hall and staircase, its suits of armour and its portraits, huge public rooms and specially built-on ballroom, was exactly the type of house to provide a perfect setting for an occasion such as this. It was little enough used in this way, because Aunt Horry so disliked anything in the nature of severe weather that she fled abroad to her Italian villa for increasingly lengthy periods. But tonight, although a light mist hung about the silent hills, and only a few stars showed through wisps of trailing vapour, the cars had come considerable distances, because a dance at Auchenwiel was something which everyone knew they would thoroughly enjoy.
Karen wore the white dress patterned with silver leaves, and she looked really enchanting with her shining fair hair and glowing eyes, especially as Aunt Horry had decided she was so nearly a Mackenzie that she should be permitted to wear a tartan sash draped over one shoulder which all Highland ladies wore on occasions such as this, and which served to emphasise the beauty of her white dress.
“I feel a little bit of a fraud,”she said to Iain, when he took her in his arms in the quiet library shortly before the first guests arrived, and a kind of breathless excitement assailed her because the tartan sash which so emphasised her youthful slenderness was the same as the Mackenzie tartan of his own kilt and plaid. “I haven’t any right to wear the Mackenzie tartan—at least, not yet,” with an adorably shy upward glance at him.
“In a few days, my darling,” he told her, resisting the temptation to crush her close to him and thereby possibly damage her dress, and kissing her fingeringly on the top of her head instead, “you will possess the right not only to all I am and possess, but to my name and everything else about me. Only a few days,” sighing softly against her hair. “And then you’ll be my wife!”
“Have you seen the vicar? ”she asked, suddenly covered in shyness.
“Yes; I have—only we don’t call them vicars in Scotland,” he answered, laughing at her gently. “I’ve Seen the minister, and we don’t have to have our banns called, or anything like that, because I’ve provided myself with a licence which entitles me to marry you at a minute’s notice if I feel like it, Miss March.”
“But—but was that necessary?” she stammered, blushing uncontrollably.
“It was,” he answered. “I don’t propose to wait three weeks for you, my little love, and I think you know that!”
They heard the noise of the first arrivals, and then the orchestra which had arrived from Edinburgh started to tune up, and after that there was so much danger of the library being invaded that he kissed her hurriedly—although very satisfyingly—on the lips, and they left the library together.
Dancing with him later, Karen decided inwardly that if she had been born for no other purpose than to dance with him tonight in such a setting it was almost, if not quite, a sufficient justification for her existence. She was feeling so much stronger, and he was such a perfect partner, and the music was so tuneful, that for the first time for many weeks she felt as if happiness was a thing which could never escape her, and looking up into the face of the man she was to marry she felt utterly confident of their future together.
She might not be the kind of wife he should have had —she would not make a perfect mistress for Craigie, like Fiona, for instance—but she loved him with all her heart, and held in his arms like this she knew without a doubt that he loved her.
Afterwards she danced with one or two of the younger men visitors, to whom she was proudly introduced by her hostess, and with Aubrey, who was not really a very good dancer, however, and managed to catch his heel in the hem of her dress, with the result that he practically succeeded in ripping it off.
Fiona Barrington, who was passing at the time in the arms of a man who had paid her a good deal of attention all evening, paused and went to Karen’s rescue, shaking her head over the torn hem and the clumsiness of Aubrey at the same time, and then leading her away to a far corner of the ballroom where she could inspect the damage more carefully. Then she said:
“You can’t dance any longer like that. You’ll probably catch your foot in that tear and fall down or something, so you’d better come up with me to my room and I’ll see what I can do to effect a quick repair.”
Karen was at first loath to trouble her and interfere with her enjoyment of the dance, although Fiona had worn an expression ever since dinner which suggested that she was not greatly enjoying herself. However, she gave in, and Fiona led the way up the broad staircase to her room, and there brought out a work-box and a needle and thread.
“Just a few stitches,” she said, “and at least you’ll be able to continue dancing. Iain would hardly enjoy his evening if you had to fall out, would he?” looking at her a trifle drily.
Karen thanked her, and hoped that they might return downstairs as quickly as possible, but Fiona seemed in no hurry—in fact, she seemed very much the reverse, and after tacking the hem up again she suggested that as it was very hot downstairs, and very cool where they were, and that Iain, in any case, had a few duty dances to perform, they might as well enjoy a few moments of respite.
“Sit down,” she said, “and have a cigarette.”
She pushed a comfortable chair towards Karen and took another herself, then produced an exquisite toy of a gold and enamel cigarette-case from her evening bag and offered it to the younger girl. Karen so seldom smoked that she would have preferred to decline, but she thought at once that this might cause Fiona’s lovely sleek eyebrows to lift a little in amusement because of her lack of sophistication, and so she accepted one instead.
She had already observed that the bedroom was very similar to her own, but it was filled with so many of Fiona’s own costly things that it looked extremely luxurious. The bed was already turned down, and there was Fiona’s nightdress—an exquisite froth of transparent peach-coloured georgette—laid out ready for her across it. Fiona’s black satin house-coat lay across the foot of the bed, and a pair of tiny velvet mules were placed ready for her to step into.
The dressing-table was loaded with cosmetics and various gold-stoppered bottles and flagons, as well as magnificent gold-backed hairbrushes and a handmirror. A photograph in a neat but expensive-looking frame occupied a prominent position amongst the various toilet articles, and as the room was flooded with soft but brilliant light it was easy enough for Karen to recognise the face of the man who seemed to be looking straight towards her.
She sat almost bolt upright in her chair as she recognised Iain, and Mrs. Barrington, lying languidly back in her own chair, smiled a slow, appreciative smile.
“Ah, I see you have caught sight of Iain’s photograph!” she exclaimed.
Karen looked at her as if she was seeking an explanation, and then back at the handsome, faintly smiling face of the man she was to marry. The photograph had probably been taken three or four years before, but it was Iain as she knew him—and loved him!
“Are you so very surprised to see that I treasure his photograph?” Fiona demanded softly.
“I don’t think I quite understand,” Karen began. “I mean—I know, of course, that you were once engaged to be married——”
“Just as you are at the present time,” Fiona murmured, as if the thought amused her. “You’re going to marry Iain now—and I was going to marry him two years ago. But I made a mistake and let him go, and of course I lived to realise how wrong I was! You may live to do just that very thing, and that’s why I thought it would be a very good plan to remain up here for a little while and have a little talk with you instead of rushing back to the dancers. One can dance at almost any time if one seriously wants to, but once one’s made a bad mistake like rushing into an unwise marriage it isn’t so easy to extricate oneself.”
“I still don’t think I understand.” Karen managed to articulate, very stiffly, and the other woman smiled pleasantly.
“My dear girl, that’s because you’re young, and at the moment you think you’re in love—but are you quite sure Iain’s in love with you?”
“I— ‘‘Karen put a hand up to her throat, as if she felt a tightness there—”I—You’ve said yourself that we’re going to be married!”
“Yes, of course you are, my dear—or you will be, if you feel like going through with it. But what I asked you was—is Iain in love with you? Not just temporarily carried away because you’re so young and helpless, and he happens to be the type of man to whom helpless creatures appeal! I think I told you once before that he’s terribly kind, and you more or less put him into the position where he hadn’t much choice but to ask you to marry him, didn’t you?” Her smile remained pleasant, and even sympathetic. “Oh, my dear, I understand perfectly. He’s terribly attractive, and you couldn’t say ‘no ‘ when he asked you, of course.”
Karen found that she was voiceless. Inside her she had gone very cold, and something was still and waiting deep down amongst the roots of her being—waiting for the moment when everything she valued most would be wrenched away from her.
“Listen!” Fiona leant a little towards her. “Shall I tell you the truth about Iain and myself?” As Karen made no attempt to answer she continued: “We adored one another years ago, and I adore him still. I married another man because he was wealthier than Iain, and because I was a fool. But the moment I was free I wrote to Iain and told him I wanted us to meet again, and he agreed it was the only sensible thing to do. Because when two people have been so deeply in love that they know they can never experience anything like it again they can’t afford to let pride stand in the way! And Iain had already wandered unhappily about the world for nearly two years because of me. So when his aunt asked me to stay with her I thought it a splendid idea, and Iain would have thought it a splendid idea—but for you!”
Her golden eyes flickered, as if she was endeavouring to keep reproach and hostility out of them, but finding it difficult.
“If he hadn’t run into you on that night train to Edinburgh, and taken you to Craigie House—where he had to say something to prevent gossip arising, and thought up that story about an engagement—he and I would now be preparing for the wedding that should have taken place two years ago, and you wouldn’t be any the worse off, would you? Because you would never have known him!”
“And what do you want me to do?” Karen asked, in a strangely quiet, controlled, and rather weary voice.
“My dear child, I don’t want you to do anything dramatic. But just think, before you take the very final step of marrying Iain, whether it really is the wisest and most sensible step you could take! Ask yourself what there is about you that could hold a man like Iain for long, even if something about you appeals strongly to him at the moment! Ask yourself how you’ll feel when it becomes obvious that he’s losing interest a little—that he’s resenting being tied—that he’s resenting losing me! Because I can assure you he’s never stopped loving me-—not deep down in his heart!”
She crushed out the end of her cigarette in an ashtray, and then carefully selected another, stuck it in the end of her long turquoise holder and lighted it. She looked at Karen carefully and consideringly.
“I’ve known all along that you don’t actually believe in his love for you,”she told her. “It’s been in your face at times—that nagging doubt! And so do please think this thing over very carefully before you take that final step, not only for your own sake, but for the sakes of all three of us!”
Then, although she had only just lighted the fresh cigarette, she crushed it out in the ashtray and rose gracefully.
“Perhaps we’d better get back to the others now,” she said; “or our absence will begin to be noticed.”
Karen got through the remainder of that evening without noticeably betraying the fact that there was no longer any enjoyment in it for her, and when at last Iain remarked that she looked tired she explained that she had given her ankle a slight wrench, and it was hurting her a little.
It was close upon three o’clock in the morning, and already there was a slight thinning of the guests. She decided that it would not be unreasonable to plead a desire to go to bed.
“If you’d explain to Aunt Horry that I’m tired,” she said, looking up into his face with large but quite unrevealing eyes. She smiled faintly. “This sort of thing is new to me, you know,” she added. “I’m not accustomed to exciting dissipations of this sort."
“Of course, darling,” he answered, and drew her into the quiet hall and to the foot of the handsome carved staircase. There he kissed her gently, but lingeringly, on her slightly drooping lips. “Don’t you bother about Aunt Horry—she’ll understand. And I think you can do with some sleep."
He stood watching her until she reached the bend in the stairs which took her out of his sight, and even after that she had the feeling that he was still standing and looking upwards at the spot where she had disappeared.
In her own room she not only shut the door but locked it, because it provided her with a feeling of inviolability which was important to her just then. She could not have borne it if Aunt Horry had sent someone to help her into bed, or to bring her hot milk, or something of the sort. And she simply could not have endured it if Fiona Barrington had come along to have any more conversation with her.
She sat on the side of her bed and remembered the words Judith Drew had used to her on the afternoon which now seemed centuries ago. “You’ve got to be very careful,” Judith had said, “but it’s the dark and the light—the dark and the light, who were made for one another, and who may miss one another altogether!… You may be caught up in a mist that will wrap you about—you won’t see your way….”
But Karen was seeing her way all too clearly. In fact, it was the only possible way ahead of her, and at the bottom of her heart she had known this for weeks. Fiona Barrington was right when she said that there was nothing about Karen to hold a man like Iain—in fact, the only really amazing thing was that he had ever been attracted to her at all. And, of course, he hadn’t, really. It had been pity in the beginning, and now he probably felt responsible for her, and at all costs he was determined to go through with this idea of marrying her because she had already shown how little she was capable of looking after herself.
But, in time, the tie between them would pall abominably, and also he would have lost Fiona for the second time. Just now he might be feeling sore with Fiona—secretly willing to punish her—but when he awoke to the full realisation that by his own act he had put another barrier between them, he was almost certain to be horrified by what he had done. And by that time it would be too late!
Karen, viewing the whole matter as calmly and dispassionately as if she had never had any feelings whatsoever, and was incapable of even a twinge of self-pity—odd though it was, she felt rather like something that had been cast up by the tide, and without enough energy to be vitally concerned about anything so purely personal as her own interests—knew that there was only one thing for her to do, and she was going to do it.
She went to her window and looked out. The stars still seemed to be shining thinly through a curtain of mist. There were hardly any cars left in the drive, the music of the orchestra had died away, and the house itself was becoming very silent.
She slipped out of her lovely white evening gown and the tartan sash that had filled her with so much pride all evening, and putting on a dressing-gown lay down on the outside of her bed to wait until the house was completely silent, and the daylight not fat away. Her wrist-watch said four o’clock, which meant she had another full hour, and more, before dawn began to break. But in the interval she did not dare to close her eyes, even if she felt like sleep—which she did not!—and as soon as the first faintly greyish light began to steal in through her windows she slipped like a shadow from the bed and started to dress feverishly.
She would have to leave all her things behind— but that didn’t matter, because they were not really her things. Only the heavy tweed coat which Aunt Horry had had made for her she decided to wear, as a protection for one thing against the raw chill of the morning, but chiefly because Aunt Horry had had it made for her, and it would be something belonging to these past few weeks that she could keep and treasure.
She felt that the writing of a note to leave behind her was a gesture which she disliked because of the drama which clung to it, but it had to be done because no one must suffer any anxiety on her account, and minds had to be set at rest. The letter (addressed to Aunt Horry and not to Iain) said simply that she had made up her mind to leave because after much thought she was certain it was the wisest course, and offered thanks to her hostess for all that she had done for her. Then she placed it in a prominent position on the dressing-table and turned to leave.
She spared herself that last look round the room, with its security and its comforts, which might have caused her to weaken, and because she was so anxious that no one should be disturbed by her departure or attempt to prevent it she took off her shoes and carried them until she reached the bottom of the wide staircase.
The hall was almost in complete darkness, because as yet the dawn light had not found its way into it, and she did not dare to switch on any electric light inorder to unfasten the great front door. This meant that she had to fumble in the gloom with latches and bolts, tugging at them breathlessly, and with fear in her heart lest someone should overhear and appear at the top of the staircase.
But no one did overhear, and the bolts were kept so well oiled that, despite their cumbersomeness, after a few moments they yielded to her tugs, and the front door at last opened so suddenly that it took her a little by surprise.
The cold, dank air of a misty March morning rushed in and past her face, and she shivered a little after the warmth of the hall. But in a moment she was outside, her breathing not quite so agonised, the rawness and the coldness causing her to forget for a moment the urgency of all this.
And then she closed the door silently behind her. Spirals of cotton-wool-like vapour drifted towards her, wreathing about her like gossamer scarves, and she realised that it would probably be very misty out on the moor. But she had only to cross a very small portion of it in order to reach the village and Nannie McBain’s house. And once at Nannie McBain’s the only thing she had to do was to persuade her old nurse somehow or other to get a taxi that would take her to the station at Inverlochie.