Iain MacAslan stood on the steps of his house and watched the car lurch off down the rutty drive and disappear into the shadow of the trees. His mother and Janet were going to Edinburgh and he was remaining as he had arranged. His mother had been excited like a child over their departure, and Janet was looking forward to “seeing life”—so they were both pleased. But, just at the last, Janet’s heart had failed her. She had turned to him with eyes, suddenly wet, and had said in a queer husky voice, “Eh, MacAslan, I’m sweir to leave Ardfalloch!”
It had brought them very close together, that impulsive cry. Iain could understand it so well. Ardfalloch was hard to leave. He thought that Ardfalloch was particularly beautiful to-day. The sky was pale blue, not a cloud marred its brightness. The atmosphere was clear, and crisp, the line of hills clear cut against the blue vault of the heavens. Beneath the dark trees were cool shadows, sharply cut. A film of dew hung upon every leaf and masked the verdant green of the grass, but the sun was gaining strength every moment and sucking up the moisture in a dazzling golden mist. Soon, now, the moisture would be gone—it was going to be very hot to-day.
Iain was alone in the house. It was what he had wanted, and he had made the arrangement himself. He wanted to go through the house, through every room, quietly, by himself, before the tenants arrived. For three months he would not have the right to set foot in his own house—he had sold the right.
Iain sighed. He saw quite clearly that he was going to hate being here in the glen, with strangers in his house. He was putting himself in an invidious position by staying. There was no actual law against a landlord remaining on his land when he had let the place to tenants, but the thing was not done. The Finlays had been horrified at the idea. They had tried to persuade him to stay at Cluan, and, when they had failed in that, had besought him to go away. He realised that they were right, but he couldn’t go. Something bound him here, something stronger than his pride. He could not leave his home.
As far as the tenants were concerned there was no need for Iain to go. It would make no difference to them whether he were here or not. They would never know, because nobody in the glen would tell them. The ghillies were all his own men and their loyalty was unquestionable. Donald had let it be known that MacAslan was staying on, but the London people were not to know. That was all that was necessary. Not a creature in the glen would breathe a word on the subject. There was no difficulty about that. No, the only difficulty was Iain’s own pride—that he should be staying here—practically in hiding—while strangers lived in his house.
But Iain had gone over all that before and had told himself that he must be sensible, and had reminded himself of the money that he was getting, and of all the improvements that he was going to carry out . . .
He started off on his tour of the house, opening every door and taking a farewell glance at every room. The rooms were all ready now, of course, the furniture was uncovered and the windows were flung wide to admit the sunshine and the sweet morning air. It was delightful to see all the rooms open again—all the old, well-remembered furniture and pictures. It looks very nice, Iain thought; rather shabby perhaps, but that can’t be helped. Janet has done her part well. He lingered for a little in his mother’s room, opening and shutting the drawers in the big old-fashioned wardrobe where she kept her small stock of jewellery and the little treasures which meant so much to her. He had seen her sitting here so often with a drawer open, fingering a pretty scarf or a string of coloured beads. They were all gone now, these treasures, Janet had seen to that—the drawers were empty and freshly papered. Iain went out of the room and along the passage to the gallery which ran round the top part of the house. There was a railing of fumed oak round the gallery and you could look down into the big square hall below. The sunlight streamed through the staircase window, showing up the worn places on the carpet, gilding the tarnished frames of the pictures, shining on the polished horns of the royal stag that Iain had shot when he was seventeen. It was his first stag. He remembered the day very well—he would never forget that day. It was a day of sunshine, with sudden misty clouds that appeared from nowhere, and clung to the mountains for a little while until they were swept away by a fitful breeze. He and Donald had gone out together—the two of them. He could see them climbing up the bare face of Ben Falloch, striking off across his jutting shoulder, crawling down the narrow corrie on the farther side. What a stalk it was—the blazing sun, and then, all at once, the cloud, wet and misty all about them so that they could scarcely see three yards before them. They had lain by a rock and waited until it should clear—there was nothing else to be done, and then, just as suddenly, it had cleared, and there was the stag—a sixteen pointer—the very one that they had pursued all day, standing in all his pride and glory within easy range. It was an ineffable moment. He could scarcely believe his eyes. He remembered how his hands had trembled as he moved his rifle very carefully to take a sight, and how Donald had whispered, “Do not be hurrying yourself—there is time and to spare.” He remembered the deafening report—the fear that he had missed, and how the proud creature had bounded high into the air and fallen dead in a crumpled heap. He remembered Donald’s wild shout of triumph as he rushed down the hillside to gralloch the kill. Those were the days, thought Iain with a little sigh—all the happiness of Ardfalloch and none of its responsibilities, all the joy and none of the pain.
He went slowly down the stairs and across the polished floor of the hall, and opened the drawing-room door. He had left the drawing-room to the last. The long, beautifully-proportioned room was full of sunshine, the furniture shone. The china in the cabinets glistened in the bright light. A fire of peats flickered on the hearth. On the mantelpiece was the gilt ormolu clock which his father had bought in Paris on his honeymoon. It struck twelve in thin silvery tones. The little boudoir off the drawing-room had been his grandmother’s room. It was full of her presence. The bureau where she wrote long letters to her Southern relations in a thin flowing hand, the chair by the fire where she sat and read or knitted—her old-fashioned work-table with its little drawers, these things all spoke to Iain of his grandmother and spoke with no uncertain voice. There was a picture of her hanging on the wall, a picture of her as a young woman with a child—Iain’s father—standing at her knee. Iain had never known her as a young woman, but she had not changed fundamentally—the contours of her face had remained the same to the day of her death, and the eyes . . .
Iain looked at the calm face with its wide-set eyes and high cheek-bones and large, firm, well-shaped mouth and he thought: she would understand and approve of what I am doing—none of the others would understand—my father would have gone on until everything crashed about his ears. I suppose I must have a little of grandmother in me—I wish I had more. Sometimes he could feel the two strains battling within him—the Highland or Celtic strain that had come down to him through long centuries, and the Lowland strain from his grandmother. He thought: the Celt wears himself out by mistaking dreams for realities, but the Lowland folk will never do that; they see more clearly, they are more balanced, they have a better grip of life. It ought to be a perfect blend—sense and romance—but the two are not blended in me; they are there, side by side, distinct, irreconcilable. (I see sense, but I can’t accomplish it. If I could accomplish sense I would marry Meg and be happy.) Perhaps these two strains are like oil and water and could never mix—west and east, Highland and Lowland, Donald and Janet. He smiled a little as he thought of those two that loved him—they could never mix, there was armed neutrality between them which was only preserved with difficulty by Iain’s tact. Donald and Janet lived in different worlds, and Iain shared both their worlds. They spoke to different parts of him, and different parts of him spoke to each of them. There were things in Iain’s life that Janet would never understand—and these were the things that Donald knew without words. And there were things beyond Donald’s mentality which Janet could share. . . .
Iain thought: is it a strength or a weakness in me that I see both sides, that I face both ways? Or is it neither a strength nor a weakness itself, but only strength or weakness according to how I use it?
His reflections were interrupted by a sound of footsteps in the quiet house, and, turning quickly, he found Donald at the door.
“I was saying good-bye to my grandmother,” Iain told him. This was one of the things that could be said to Donald—but not to Janet.
“She wass a great lady,” Donald said gravely. “Sometimes I think there is much of her in MacAslan, and sometimes I think there is not any of her at all. It is a strange thing.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Iain said.
There was a little silence, and together they looked at the picture of old Mrs. MacAslan, resurrecting her in their thoughts.
“Did you want me for something?” Iain asked at last.
“What time would you be expecting the London people to come?” Donald enquired, answering Iain’s question with one of his own.
“About three, I suppose. They were staying the night at Fort William. I’m waiting to hand over the house.”
“I was wondering—could I not be doing that? Morag is getting your dinner at the cottage—”
“Morag shouldn’t have bothered.”
“Och, it wass no bother at all. It wass Morag thought maybe I would do to be here for the London people when they arrive.”
They looked at each other gravely. Iain saw that there was more in this than met the eye.
“Tell me what you are thinking, Donald,” he said.
“It wass Morag,” Donald said, looking down at the pattern on the carpet. “Morag wass saying this—if MacAslan does not want the London people to be knowing he is in the glen, it would be better for them not to be seeing MacAslan when they come. For then they would not know it wass MacAslan, if they would be seeing him in the glen.”
Iain considered this, and he saw that there was a good deal in it. If his tenants did not know him by sight he would be free to come and go about the place as he chose—not to come near the house, of course, that was far from his mind—but to move about the moors, or visit the village. If he were seen, his tenants would merely think he was one of the men on the estate. He would not have to hide. . . .
“Morag’s right,” he said at last.
The big man chuckled. “It is a way she is after having,” he said slyly.