Iain allowed several days to elapse before taking advantage of the Finlays’ invitation. He was not looking forward to telling them that he had let Ardfalloch, and he could not go over and see them without telling them his news. He had a suspicion that they would think it foolish and unnecessary. He and Meg had so often fulminated together upon the folly of landowners who let their places for the season and loosed a horde of ignorant Sasunnachs upon the innocent country-side. And now he had done this very thing himself. He was loath to visit Cluan at all, but he must go. The Finlays would think it queer if he did not go over and see them, and welcome them home.
At last he felt that he could put it off no longer. He had no excuse for putting it off. It was a beautiful afternoon, sunny and bright, with a fresh breeze. He walked down to the little harbour through the woods. There was a pair of cuckoos in the woods somewhere above the house, they had been calling to each other all the morning and they were still at it. “Cuckoo, cuckoo,” said one, and a moment later came the reply—if such it could be called—“Cuckoo.” Then came the first one again, “Cuckoo, cuckoo.” It went on and on interminably, it rasped his nerves, it was a weariness of the flesh. Even so must the psalmist have found the grasshopper a burden. . . .
Donald was mending the roof of the boat-house, perched on a high ladder, struggling with a piece of tarpaulin that flapped and wriggled like a live thing in the wind.
“Hullo, Donald!” said Iain.
“The roof is bad, MacAslan,” Donald told him gravely, looking down from his perch. “It is very bad indeed. I am thinking it will not be lasting us another winter.”
“We’ll get a new roof,” replied Iain cheerfully. “I shall have lots of money to spend on repairs—”
“Och, well now, do not be saying that aloud. The whole glen will be asking for this and that and the other when there is no need for it at all. But if there is a little money to spare you will be remembering the wire for the forest, MacAslan. It would be a very good plan to be putting a wire fence along the road to Balnafin—a high wire fence like they are having at Achnafettel. Would you be thinking of that, MacAslan?”
Iain could not help smiling, but he promised quite gravely to think about the wire.
“And the harbour,” added Donald, pointing with his hammer. “Could we be digging out the harbour a wee bit, do you think? It’s an ill thing if you are wanting the motor-boat and the tide at ebb.”
Iain was well aware of that. There was a submerged sandbank at the entrance of the little harbour which masked it completely. The motor-launch drew a good deal of water, and, when the tide was out, there was not enough water to float her over the bank. So there was a period at every low tide when the launch could not be taken out, or, if she were out, could not be brought in. The period varied according to the wind and the state of the tides.
“I’m afraid that would be a big job!” said Iain doubtfully.
“Och, well, we do very well as we are,” replied the philosophical Donald. “It will be a fine thing to be getting a new roof to the boat-house, and a wire fence—”
“What’s the tide like at present?” Iain enquired. “Can I take her out just now?”
“You can take her out fine. It is two hours past the ebb,” replied Donald promptly. Like every sea-fisherman he had the state of the tides at his finger-ends.
“Good, I’m going over to Cluan. You had better come with me, Donald.”
Donald climbed down the ladder with alacrity. He was tired of wrestling with the tarpaulin, and a trip to Cluan was after his own heart. Besides, it would not be the thing at all for MacAslan to go over to Cluan alone. He had very strict ideas of what was correct for MacAslan, and it was certainly not correct for the chief to go and visit Cluan—or any other place—unattended. If Iain had allowed it he would have constituted himself a bodyguard on every occasion. Unfortunately, Iain had different ideas—new-fangled ideas in Donald’s opinion—he went about alone, driving his own boat, and often even rowing himself upon the loch if there happened to be none of his men at hand when the spirit moved him to go. The old chief would as soon have thought of making his own bed as rowing his own boat. There was no motor-boat in his day, of course—none at Ardfalloch anyway—but Donald was pretty sure that, even if there had been, the old chief would still have taken a couple of men with him when he went out in it to visit his friends, or to see the factor at Balnafin, or for any other purpose. The old chief was not one to soil his hands with oil or grease . . .
Donald said something of this in his own quiet tactful way. He was sitting at Iain’s feet with his eye on the engine as they sped across the loch. Iain tucked the tiller under one arm and stooped down to light his pipe in the lee of the cabin.
“It’s interesting that,” he said. “I hadn’t thought about it really, but of course what you say is true; my father never went anywhere without a couple of men. It’s an old custom dating from the days when it wasn’t safe for the chief to go alone and unattended, and, like many old customs, it persisted when the need was gone. It remained as a convention. Rather a stupid convention, I think.”
“It is more dignified for MacAslan to have a servant with him,” said Donald obstinately.
Iain sighed. “Dignity is a fine word, Donald.”
“It is a fine thing.”
“But it is not for me. I had to swallow my dignity when I let Ardfalloch.”
“MacAslan is still MacAslan.”
They said no more. The breeze blew stiffly from the east; they got the full force of it on their starboard beam as they sped across the loch. Small waves slapped the sides of the launch and broke in fine spray. Iain laughed aloud, he could never be depressed for long, his nature was too sunny, too buoyant. The wind and the waves were vitalising. He loved the spray in his face; he loved the feeling of the launch cutting through the water, lifting to the waves, rolling a little as the wind struck her broadside on. The sun had warmth in it to-day, it was bright and golden. The sky was blue and flecked with racing clouds. In the dark woods patches of bright green showed where the larches grew; they had put on their summer finery. There was pale-green bracken on the lower slopes of the hills, and, round about the small crofts, patches of different tones of green—tiny fields of sprouting oats, or potatoes, or hay.
As they neared the pier at Cluan, Iain brought the launch round in a big sweep. The engine ceased throbbing and the launch bumped gently against the mats. The two white motor-launches were both at home. They were fine boats, no bigger than Iain’s own, but smarter and faster and better found. Donald looked at them enviously—“You would not be thinking of getting a new boat, MacAslan?” he suggested hopefully. “A boat like Mr. Finlay’s, maybe.”
“I would not,” replied Iain, smiling. “There are dozens of more important things to think of. This boat is good enough—she would be as good as new with a coat of paint.”
He jumped lightly on to the pier and walked over the hill to the house.
Cluan Lodge was almost forty years old. It was a large white building (in the form of an L) with a grey slate roof. It lay, sheltered from the winds, in a meadow behind the promontory of rock. The meadow had been turned into a garden, formal and tidy. It was not Iain’s idea of what a garden should be—he preferred the natural wildness of his own place—but the garden at Cluan was beautiful in its own way, full of colour and scent, and the hum of innumerable bees. Here, sheltered from the wind which swept the loch, it was warm—a different climate altogether. There was nothing wild here, even the wild wind was excluded. The lawns were smooth as velvet; the paths were meticulously raked; not a weed was to be seen.
Cluan belonged to the people who had built it, but Mr. Finlay had been here so long (renting it from the owners on long leases) that everybody in the country-side looked upon Cluan as belonging to the Finlays, or, to be more exact, upon the Finlays as belonging to Cluan. Mr. Finlay had spent a small fortune on the place; he had built garages and green-houses, had made the garden and improved the pier. He was fond of Cluan, and he had plenty of money, so there was no reason why he should not do as he wished. If other people thought it foolish to spend money on somebody else’s property, it did not affect Mr. Finlay. They could think what they liked, and he would do as he liked—that was fair. Money should be spent—so thought Mr. Finlay. People should make money and spend it, that was his creed.
Mr. Finlay was a younger son of a well-known Scottish family. He had gone to America at an early age and had built up a fine business in that country. He had married twice, and had two children—a son by his first wife, and a daughter by his second. The son was now a man of about forty-five years of age. He ran the business in America. The daughter, Margaret, was much younger. She had been born in America, but, shortly after her birth, Mr. Finlay partially retired from business and returned to Scotland. He had seen Cluan, had fallen in love with the place, and had rented it from its owners.
Margaret Finlay was some years younger than Iain, they had known each other since they were children and had always been friends. When her mother died, Margaret took over the housekeeping and did it admirably; she was a capable creature, sensible, honest, friendly. She and her father lived together, for the most part at Cluan, but, once a year, they went to America for a few months so that Mr. Finlay could keep an eye on the business and on the stock market. He was a wise speculator, and money seemed to pour into his lap without much effort on his part. People said he was lucky, both in his business and in his domestic life, and this was true. He and Margaret were very comfortable together, they got on splendidly, they were the greatest of friends. They were rather like each other in a way—though it was difficult to say exactly how they were like each other. Mr. Finlay was plump and round in figure, he had a round rosy face and was very bald, and Margaret was a good-looking girl with a nice figure—slightly inclined to plumpness, perhaps, but none the worse for that—and a great deal of pretty light-brown hair. Yet, when you saw them together, it was easy to see that they were father and daughter. Perhaps it was because they were exactly the same height—five feet six to be exact—or perhaps it was the frank, cheerful, kindly expression which illuminated their two faces, or it may have been because their eyes were the same dark shade of brown. Whatever it was, Margaret was quite used (and almost resigned) to being informed by strangers that she was “exactly like” her father, and to looking at the little man—whom she dearly loved—and enquiring rather pathetically of herself—“Am I as bald as an egg? Have I a bow window? Is my face the colour of a nicely baked brick?”
This extraordinarily unfilial daughter observed Iain’s arrival from the window of her bedroom, and hastened to arrange her hair and powder her nose before running downstairs to meet him at the door.
“Here you are at last!” she exclaimed. “Didn’t you get my message from Donald? What have you been doing?”
They were shaking hands, and Iain was in the middle of explaining how busy he had been all the week, when the door of the library opened and Mr. Finlay emerged, beaming.
Meg can say what she likes, they are alike! Iain thought amusedly, as he greeted Mr. Finlay and made the usual polite enquiries.
“You’ll stay to dinner, of course,” Mr. Finlay said. “There’s a fine salmon to eat if Meg’s cook doesn’t ruin it. I caught it yesterday, myself, and fine sport it gave me, I can tell you.”
“Ruin it!” cried Margaret indignantly. “When have you ever known Jean ruin a fish? Don’t listen to him, Iain, he’s just full of himself because he has made a lot more money in America—”
“There’s nothing like a salmon for sport,” continued Mr. Finlay, ignoring his daughter’s protest completely. “Nothing like it in my opinion. Come over one day, Iain, and we’ll have a day on the river. The water is perfect.”
“Thank you. I’d like nothing better,” Iain said.
“Good, we’ll fix a day. I’ll see you at dinner?”
“Yes, I’d like to stay. I’ve got Donald with me. He’ll go home and come back for me—”
“He’ll do no such thing!” exclaimed Mr. Finlay. “Tell Donald to come up to the house for his meal. I suppose there’s sufficient food in the house to give Donald a meal of some sort?”
“Don’t try to be funny,” Margaret adjured him sternly. “It doesn’t suit your particular style of beauty at all.”
He snorted with sudden laughter. “She keeps the old chap in order,” he said to Iain in a stage-whisper. “Can’t call my soul my own. Not even allowed to be funny in my own house. What a life! Well, I’ve got some work to do—see you at dinner, Iain.” He shut the door of the library and left them standing in the hall.
They looked at each other and laughed.
“He’s in splendid form!” Iain said.
“Yes, isn’t he?” agreed Margaret. “He gets younger every year.”
They went out into the garden together and walked about. It was very pleasant to be with Meg again. Iain would have enjoyed it more if he had not been obsessed with the feeling that he must tell Meg about the letting of Ardfalloch. He tried to tell her several times, but the words stuck in his throat. He did not know how she would receive the news and he was afraid to put it to the test. They talked about their neighbours. Margaret wanted to hear all the news, she plied him with questions:—had a certain engagement which had been in the air materialised yet? How was So-and-so’s baby? Were Mr. and Mrs. Something Else really going to separate? Iain answered some of the questions seriously, and others with deplorable facetiousness. They laughed and teased each other. The sun shone and the bees hummed in the mignonette. Iain forgot his troubles for the time being and was happy—he was nearly always happy with Meg.
It was not until after dinner, when Margaret had retired to the drawing-room and left the two men to their port that Iain found the courage and the opportunity he had been seeking.
“I’ve let Ardfalloch, sir,” he said baldly.
Mr. Finlay put down his port untasted, and looked at Iain in amazement.
“You’ve let Ardfalloch!”
“I’ve let it for the season to a London stockbroker—a Mr. Hetherington Smith,” said Iain quietly. It was quite easy now that the first admission had been made.
“Why the devil have you done that?” enquired his host.
“I need the money,” replied Iain simply.
Mr. Finlay’s face became even redder than usual with indignation. He gasped twice. “What the devil d’you need money for?”
Iain laughed. It was a comical question from a man who had as much money as Mr. Finlay.
“I need money for the estate,” he replied. “Every penny I get goes into the estate—I don’t live riotously at Ardfalloch—but unfortunately there aren’t enough pennies. It’s heartbreaking to see the place falling to pieces and not be able to do anything about it. Some of the farms need new byres or barns—one of them needs a new roof. The house needs repairs, the boat-house is tumbling down. I’m sick of pinching and scraping—”
“Pinching and scraping’s no use to anybody,” said Mr. Finlay. “It’s anti-social, uneconomic. What a man should do is make money and spend it lavishly—circulate the stuff. That’s what’s the matter with this country: we’ve got too many pinchers and scrapers. Why the devil couldn’t you come to me about it?”
“Come to you, sir!” exclaimed Iain, flushing to the roots of his hair with outraged pride—did the man think he was a beggar?
“Come to me,” nodded Mr. Finlay. “I could have put you in the way of making a nice little pile—made a nice little pile myself as a matter of fact. Why didn’t you trust me, Iain? I wouldn’t have let you down?”
“You’ve got to have money to be able to make it, sir.”
“Not very much if you start in a small way—say a couple of thousand—if you’ve got a couple of thousand handy—I’ll tell you what to do with it—”
“If I could lay my hands on a couple of hundred I should consider myself lucky,” said Iain a trifle bitterly.
Mr. Finlay was dumb with surprise. He poured out another glass of port and drank it without the appreciation it most certainly deserved. He thought: this is frightful. I suppose the boy would have a fit if I offered him the two thousand to play about with—these proud Highlanders that stick in their glens and never set foot in the world—you get that nonsense knocked out of you when you begin to move about. Good God, I don’t know what to suggest! I suppose he’d have another fit if I suggested he should sell a farm—they don’t like parting with land—like cutting off their fingers or their toes. Bah, what nonsense it all is! Don’t suppose he could sell a farm for anything worth having unless I bought it myself, and he’d twig that at once. He could mortgage, of course, but perhaps he’s mortgaged already—better not suggest that either. Why the devil doesn’t he marry Meg? She’s eating her heart out for him—perhaps it’s the money again—Pride—the devil’s in this Highland pride! It gets them every way, binds their hands—ugh, blast it all, it’s upset me!
He said at last, “Well, you’ve surprised me. I’d no idea—oughtn’t the estate to be self-supporting?”
“How could it be self-supporting?” Iain replied with some heat, for the subject was a sore one. “The land is so poor. The soil is wretched—full of stones that have to be removed constantly. There’s scarcely a decent field on the whole estate, and the grazing is not much better. I’ve let them burn a lot of heather—my father would turn in his grave if he knew how much—but even so there’s not grazing for more than a score of sheep to each croft. How can I wring money out of my tenants? I go round and see them, and look at the hole in the roof of the byre and the stones in their fields—”
“And you let them off their quarter’s rent,” put in Mr. Finlay.
“Sometimes,” Iain admitted, smiling rather sadly.
“But the government doesn’t let you off your taxes?”
“No. So you see I felt the only thing to do was to let; to make the forest and the moor pay for the farms. What else was I to do?”
“Meg will be sorry,” Mr. Finlay said thoughtfully. “Meg was looking forward to seeing something of you this summer—”
“I’m afraid Meg will think it foolish of me, but you see how it is, don’t you? You understand the situation. I thought perhaps—I thought—I wondered if you would tell Meg about it, sir—explain it to her, I mean.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to tell her yourself?”
“I’d rather you told her.”
“I suppose you think she will be angry with you.”
“I think she might be—rather,” Iain said, smiling a little at the thought. “We have often said it was foolish of people to let their places to strangers—it might be difficult to explain the necessity—”
“You have known each other a long time,” said Mr. Finlay gravely. “I think you should know Meg better than to doubt her sympathy—”
“Oh, I don’t,” Iain cried. “How could I?”
“How could you, indeed! Meg doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve, but you must surely know that she is very fond of you, Iain.”
“I’m very fond of Meg,” said Iain truthfully.
“You’ve seen a lot of each other,” Mr. Finlay continued, choosing his words carefully. “That’s the modern way, and it has its advantages. When I was young, things were very different. Young women were surrounded by a sort of hedge. You couldn’t dance with a woman more than twice without rousing comment. All that has changed now—and rightly—but sometimes I wonder if we haven’t gone to the other extreme. Young people go about together all over the place nowadays, and nobody bothers. Nobody knows what they are up to—not even themselves—”
Iain had listened to all this with growing alarm; he broke in desperately:
“Meg is like a sister to me,” he said.
“Eh? Like a sister, is she? I don’t think there’s much sister about it if you ask me,” said Mr. Finlay with an attempt at jocularity. “Meg doesn’t feel like a sister to you—if either of you had a sister you would realise the difference much more readily. We preferred other fellows’ sisters when we were young. But to return to what I was saying before you interrupted me with this talk of sisters—nobody knows what young people want, it’s this shilly-shallying that I don’t understand—”
Iain’s anger rose—how dare the old fool talk like that about him and Meg? What did he think he was doing? Iain sprang to his feet. “Sir,” he said, in a queer stilted voice, “are you—are you accusing me of tampering with Meg’s affections?”
It was exactly what Mr. Finlay was trying to do, but he knew that he must deny it to his last breath—what have I done? he thought—Meg would skin me—this is frightful . . .
“Good God, no—of course not!” he cried; and again, “Good God, no. Nothing of the sort. Meg can look after herself. Keep Meg out of it—it’s my own idea—mine. Here’s the truth, Iain. I’m an old-fashioned sort of buffer and I’m fond of you, Iain, very fond of you. Sometimes I’ve hoped that you and Meg—well, I’d like to see the child settled with a man I could trust. I shan’t live for ever, and Meg will have a lot of money—I don’t want somebody to marry her for that. You’re the man I’d like to have as a son-in-law. There, you’ve had it now. I’ve come clean, as they say. But you young people—it’s in your hands entirely—yours and Meg’s. Sit down for God’s sake—”
Iain sat down. He had gone as white as a sheet, and his hand trembled as he moved his glass on the polished table. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “You have paid me a great compliment—I am proud of your—of your regard—but I feel sure that Meg—that Meg feels as I do. I admire her more than I can say—she is a splendid friend—loyal—and—and straight—” His voice died away.
“Well, that’s that,” said Mr. Finlay with a forced laugh. He thought—poor Meg, I’ve done what I could. I’ve been clumsy perhaps, but I don’t think I’ve done any harm. It’s not pride that’s kept him away—not pride and poverty—that’s certain at any rate. It may be that he has seen too much of her, knows her too well. He may really feel that she is like a sister to him—God knows. This modern idea of letting young people see as much as they like of each other seems to cut both ways—they have more opportunities of getting to know each other, but they lose the glamour—in my day every woman had glamour, even the ugly ones. Poor Meg isn’t ugly by a long way, but she hasn’t much glamour. Good God, what a fool the man is! Meg’s white all through. There may be hope yet, of course, unless there’s another woman—I’ve put it into his head, anyway . . .
“We had better go in,” he said at last. “Meg will be wondering—”
They went into the drawing-room. Margaret was sitting by the fire with her toes on the fender, smoking a cigarette. She was surrounded by a cloud of blue smoke—it was one of Margaret’s peculiarities that she managed to make more smoke with one cigarette than most people make with half a dozen. Iain had often teased her about this, and called her the smoke stack.
“What ages you’ve been!” she said, smiling up at them. “Has father been telling you the latest naughty stories from America?”
“We were discussing business matters,” Mr. Finlay replied.
“How dull!” exclaimed Margaret.
Neither of the men replied to this. Their conversation could hardly be described as dull. Iain felt utterly exhausted after the strain, his collar was clinging to his neck, his knees felt weak . . .
“Poor Iain,” Margaret continued. “Was it frightfully dull—all about stocks and shares and floating capital?”
“No, it wasn’t dull,” replied Iain in a strained voice.
Margaret looked at him swiftly, and then at her father. She thought: What have they been talking about? They both look odd. They both look uncomfortable . . .
“What about a game of piquet?” she said aloud.
Iain agreed with alacrity. It would be much easier to play piquet than to keep up a three-cornered conversation with Margaret and her father. He fetched the card table and set it up near Margaret’s chair.
“How nice it is to have somebody to do things for one!” she said, lying back with an elaborate pretence of laziness. “Yes, the cards are in the usual drawer—got the markers?”
“We all know how lazy you are!” Iain told her, trying to speak lightly.
“I suppose that means I am lazy.”
“It means you’re not lazy,” replied Iain, shutting the drawer with a snap. “It means that your activity—or whatever the opposite of laziness may be—is practically a vice. You will never allow anybody to do anything for you if you can do it yourself—”
“Because I can always do it better myself,” retorted Meg.
This was unanswerable, because it was true. Meg was an extraordinarily capable person; she always knew what to do in an emergency and did it without fuss.
Iain sat down on a pouffe, and soon they were deep in their game. Mr. Finlay watched them over the top of his newspaper. He thought: The man really is a fool; Meg is exactly right for him and he for her. Friendship is a good foundation for marriage, better really than love—though you’ll never get young people to believe that. How I should hate it if Meg were to marry! What the devil should I do without her? It’s rather mad to work and hope for something to happen when you know all the time you’ll hate it like poison if it does happen. But after I’m gone—and I can’t live for ever—seventy-five now, though I don’t feel it—I can’t have many more years to look forward to, and what about Meg? I’d like to see Meg happy—I’d like her to have children. She’s cut out for that . . .
“Point of six,” Iain said.
“Oh, you wretch!”
“That means ‘good,’ I suppose?”
“Yes, it does. I was a fool—”
“Quarte major.”
“No good.” Meg was bubbling with laughter.
“Oh, Meg! And I have a tierce as well!”
“Go on,” she giggled. “There’s worse to come.”
“Trio of aces.”
“No good.”
“No good!” he echoed incredulously.
“I’ve got a quatorze of tens.”
“Of tens? You are a cad—really, Meg, I wouldn’t have thought it of you!”
She was lying back amongst the cushions, laughing, her face was a little flushed, her light-brown hair a little rumpled; the excitement of seeing Iain again had made her almost beautiful. Mr. Finlay watched them both and thought: they are children. When I was that age I was a staid respectable business man with a wife and family; but they’re just children. Perhaps they’ll grow up—perhaps they’ll never grow up. Iain was thinking: Meg’s sweet, Meg’s a darling! Why can’t I marry her and be happy?