For the remainder of the day Iain could think of nothing but her face—pale and fine-drawn beneath the brim of her shady hat—of the way she moved, the buoyancy of her step as she breasted the hill; he could hear nothing but her soft laugh, and the notes of her voice—It was an obsession. He tried to interest himself in his boat, and, when that failed, in a book that had just come from the library—it was no use. His thoughts wound themselves about this woman who had come back into his life. He could not tear them away.
He went to bed and slept fitfully, dreaming that he had lost her again, that she had gone from the glen and he could not find her. . . . He rose early and made his breakfast, then he took his field-glasses and went up on to the hill. The pull that drew him to her was like the pull of a magnet, it was irresistible. He thought: if I could just see her, even in the distance, so that I would know she was still here. . . . Perhaps she would come. Perhaps Richard would come and she with him.
The day moved on and the sun rose higher; it was not so hot to-day, for there was a breeze, and white clouds moving slowly across the blue sky. He finished tarring his boat that afternoon and left it to dry. By that time he was dirty, and hot in spite of the breeze, and, when he had cleaned most of the tar off his person, he caught up his towel and went down to bathe. The tide was coming in, creeping up the rocks, oozing between the stones, trickling gently between the half-dry seaweed. The water near the shore was quite warm, but, as he waded in, it grew colder . . . he struck out boldly, the small waves flipped him in the face.
When he came out of the water he was tingling all over. He felt refreshed in mind and body, some of his impatience had been washed away. He decided to walk over the hill to Ardfalloch Village and hear what was going on. It would be a change.
Ardfalloch Village belonged to Iain; it was a small place—just a double row of cottages, a post office and a shop. The inn was kept by one of his own people—a big burly man called MacTaggart—it was a comfortable place, clean, and well run, and the village took full advantage of its amenities. There were four or five men in the bar-parlour when Iain walked in and asked for a drink. They greeted him with the respectful familiarity of their breed; one of them offered him an evening paper. They were talking about some sheep-dog trials which had taken place that afternoon, and, after a few minutes general conversation, they returned to the subject.
Iain felt happy and peaceful. The bathe and the walk had eased the fever in his blood. He drank his beer and glanced through the paper and listened with one ear to the conversation. He was at home with these men, and they with him. He understood them. They were staunch and brave, with a kind of childish simplicity of heart; they were also deep and secret as their own mountain lochs; they respected themselves and each other. There were black sheep among them, of course, as there are amongst any community, but, for the most part, they were good-living men with high ideals. It was a fine breed.
MacTaggart left the bar and came over to take part in the argument. Iain observed them all—he tried to see them dispassionately, objectively. He tried to look at them with new eyes. You could tell their professions by looking at them—even if you did not know them. Alec Finlay could be nothing else but a shepherd. He had a weather-beaten face with high cheek-bones, and sunken chops, and pale-blue eyes that could see far on the hills, with deep brown creases at the corners. Nobody except a shepherd could have such patient eyes, Iain thought—and his hands were patient, too. Iain had seen them tending a sick sheep and knew how gentle those great gnarled hands could be. Beside Finlay, MacTaggart was commonplace. His work was different: he was indoors most of the day, but his face was not exactly an “indoor” face, it was round and smooth and rosy. He wore a white apron tied tightly across his broad stomach. The other men were farmers—two of them from Balnafin way, and the third from Auchencraigs, one of Iain’s own farms—Auchencraigs was the smallest croft on Iain’s estate and the poorest. Iain always felt sorry for Alec MacNeil—(he was one of Donald’s numerous cousins)—the man was a speldron, he looked overworked and underfed, and, most probably, was both. That man is a real hero, Iain thought; it’s a lone fight against poverty and the elements. This land is not intended for farming, and Nature seems inimical to farmers. He’s got dozens of children, I know. I must do something for Alec MacNeil when I get the money from Hetherington Smith. What would he like, I wonder?
Iain caught the man’s eyes and leaned forward. “How are things, Alec?” he enquired with his interested smile.
“Things are not so bad at all, MacAslan,” replied the man. “The London shentleman is wanting ghillies and the children are to be beating. It is Donal’ that has been arranging it all—Och, we will be doing not so bad.”
“Perhaps I could build you a few pigsties,” suggested Iain.
Alec’s eyes brightened. “Och, and that would be grand!” he said. “We could be doing nicely with some pigs—Och, it would be grand—if it would not be troubling MacAslan—”
“That’s settled then,” Iain said. “But don’t say too much about it, Alec, or everybody in the glen will be wanting pigsties.”
Alec laughed. “And that is true,” he said. “I will keep my mouth shut, MacAslan.”
“That’s right—keep your mouth shut and you shall have what you want,” Iain told him.
They were so intent upon their discussion that they did not notice the door open to admit a new-comer.
“Can I get a drink here?” he enquired, looking round the room.
Iain looked up and saw a tall, very broad-shouldered man in a brown check overcoat and a soft hat. He had a fair moustache—rather bushy—and his eyes were very bright and roving.
MacTaggart started to his feet. “Indeed and you can, sir,” he said politely. “And what can I be giving you?”
“Beer, please.”
The new-comer leaned against the bar counter, and consumed his drink slowly, conversing with the landlord in a pleasant English voice. He asked questions about the fishing in the neighbourhood, and whether there was any likelihood of his being able to get a day on the river.
“The river is mostly Mr. Finlay’s,” said MacTaggart; “but MacAslan could be telling you all this a lot better.”
Iain smiled. “I have let my place for the season,” he said. “But in any case I have no salmon fishing. Mr. Finlay is the man—he might give you a day.”
“I’d like that,” said the stranger. “I’m fond of fishing, but what I’ve really come for is to observe bird life in the district.” He was talking to the whole room now, leaning comfortably against the counter with the glass in his hand. “I’m writing a treatise on the habits of birds.”
The company listened to him politely. If they thought it a queer occupation to observe the habits of birds they did not show it. A man could do what he liked—and, if he liked things that seemed odd to other people, that was his own affair.
“Can you give me a bed here?” enquired the stranger, turning towards the landlord.
“And why not?” replied MacTaggart hospitably.
The stranger looked a trifle puzzled at this truly Highland reply to his question.
“You can?” he enquired again.
“And why not, indeed—it will be a pleasure.”
“Good. That’s settled. I don’t know how long I shall be staying—it depends on the birds,”—he smiled in a queer way, Iain thought, and added, “My name’s Middleton—James Middleton.”
“And would the gentleman be having any luggage?” MacTaggart asked anxiously.
“It’s outside in the taxi,” Middleton said. “I came over from a place called Balnafin in the oldest taxi I’ve ever seen—over the worst road. The fellow’s waiting outside with my gear. Hi—I give the fellow a drink,” he called after MacTaggart as that worthy waddled off to the door to arrange for his new guest’s luggage to be brought in.
Mr. Middleton took off his hat and his overcoat and hung them on the rack behind the door. He smoothed his fair hair and took a seat near Iain.
“Nice place, this,” he said conversationally.
Iain was quite pleased to talk to the man, and he found him interesting. He had travelled a lot and he made his reminiscences amusing. Soon they were all listening to him. He told some funny stories rather well—they were not drawing-room stories, but this was not a drawing-room, and Iain, although he would not have cared to repeat them himself, was not such a fool as to take exception to them. He thought the man amusing—rather a good fellow in his way—not the sort of man one would choose for an intimate, but excellent company for an evening of this kind.
It was late when Iain rose to depart. Middleton rose, too, and offered to walk home with him, saying that he wanted a breath of fresh air before turning in.
“Can we see Ardfalloch—the house, I mean—from this path?” enquired Middleton as they walked along.
“No, it’s farther down the loch,” Iain said. “You could see it from the hill, of course.”
“Hetherington Smith has got it, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, d’you know him?”
“I’ve met him,” Middleton said. “Don’t suppose for a moment he’d remember me. D’you know who he’s got staying there?”
Iain smiled—it was easy to see through the man’s elaborately casual questions. Quite obviously Middleton wanted to get a footing at Ardfalloch. It was shooting birds he was after, not observing their habits. Iain had noticed a gun-case amongst the other luggage that had been brought into the inn—rather a battery-looking gun-case with “J. M.” in large letters on the side. He thought: well, why shouldn’t he shoot my grouse? I don’t care. Why shouldn’t he get a footing at Ardfalloch if that’s what he wants?
“I don’t know who’s coming for the twelfth,” Iain said slowly. “My keeper tells me he’s got people coming. If you do meet the Hetherington Smiths I’d rather you didn’t mention my name.”
“Of course not,” Middleton said. “It’s no business of mine—nor of theirs either as far as I can see.” He was silent for a moment and then he added, “I thought the Hetherington Smiths had some people staying with them now.”
Iain felt a twinge of annoyance—he had not wanted to mention the Medworths to this man. But after all it was foolish not to—he could hear about them from anybody—and he had been quite decent.
“Yes,” he said, trying not to sound reluctant; “there’s a Mrs. Medworth staying there.”
“She has a boy, hasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve met her. Good-looking woman, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” said Iain. He could not help sounding reluctant—he didn’t like to think that this man had met her and admired her. This man wasn’t the sort of man—quite a good fellow, of course, but . . .
“Have you got a boat on the loch?” Middleton enquired.
“Yes—such as it is. You can have it any time you like—you get mackerel out there—”
“Thanks,” Middleton said. “I’ll take you at your word.”
“Do. Look me up some time and have a drink.”
They shook hands and parted; Iain went home to bed.