The Hetherington Smiths had not passed a very restful night. They were very fond of Linda and she was their guest—in a way they were responsible for her safety. She had been swept out to sea and wrecked upon an island—they had ample cause for anxiety. That they had been able to sleep at all was due to three factors: firstly, the vicissitudes of their own lives had taught them to accept the decrees of Providence with philosophy and make the best of a bad job; secondly, their entire and absolute ignorance of the conditions of life at Ardfalloch and the cataclysmic forces of nature had veiled the danger; and thirdly, they were upheld by Donald MacNeil’s assurances that all would be well.
The bombshell had fallen upon the assembled company in the drawing-room during that somewhat boring period between tea and dinner. The house-party was smoking and discussing the sudden storm, and the effect the storm would have upon the behaviour of the birds to-morrow, when Jim Wyllie burst in, wild and dishevelled, and informed them—somewhat incoherently—that Mrs. Medworth had been swept out into the middle of the loch in a small boat. Everybody started talking at once, suggesting different courses of action, arguing, declaiming, asking questions and informing the company at large of occasions when similar—or somewhat similar—accidents had happened to themselves or their friends.
Mr. Hetherington Smith was aware that it was up to him to do something about it—he was fond of Linda, and Linda was his guest—but his knowledge of boats and lochs in general was so extremely vague that he had no idea at all what course of action was open to him. Donald MacNeil will know, he thought; the first thing to do is to get hold of him. Mr. Hetherington Smith rang the bell and gave orders that Donald MacNeil was to be found and brought to Ardfalloch House without delay.
The storm was now at its height. Lightning was flashing, thunder was crashing, and rain had started to fall. The wind was still terrific, but Ardfalloch House was sheltered from the full force of the wind. Mr. Hetherington Smith went to the front door and looked out. By this time the rain was jumping up from the gravel in the drive. It was filling the holes and running down the ruts like miniature rivers. The clouds were very low and black, the hills had all disappeared, it was getting darker every minute. Lightning zigzagged eerily over the loch, thunder rumbled amongst the shrouded hills and the wind whistled mournfully amongst the trees—it was not the sort of night one would choose to be out on the loch in a small boat, even Mr. Hetherington Smith realised that. He was alarmed.
Mrs. Hetherington Smith was upstairs with Richard. She had watched him having his bath, and was now reading Winnie the Pooh to him while he took his supper of bread and milk. It was unfortunate, Mrs. Hetherington Smith thought, that they had just arrived at the part where piglet is marooned by the rising flood. She tried to skip the more alarming pieces of description, but Richard knew the story by heart and insisted on hearing every word. Well, it can’t be helped, she thought, and read on with a chill in her heart. She had managed to reassure Richard as to his mother’s safety by comfortable placid lying. His mother was sheltering from the storm in the MacNeils’ cottage and would be back soon, she told him. Richard must take his supper like a good boy, and go to bed.
Richard trusted Mrs. Hetherington Smith. She was large and calm and soothing. She helped him to feed the dilapidated Polar Bear which was the apple of his eye; watched Ellen brush his teeth; listened to his prayers, and tucked him up securely.
“If Mummy comes back before I’m asleep tell her to come and see me,” Richard said, as he snuggled down comfortably between the sheets.
“Yes, of course,” agreed Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “She’ll be back any minute now, but we don’t want her to get wet.”
“No. D’you think the rain will stop soon?”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
“H’m,” said Richard sleepily. “I think I’ll stay awake till she comes. I like saying good night to her, you see.”
“Yes, that’s right,” agreed Mrs. Hetherington Smith with the guile of the Evil One. “You stay awake till she comes. She won’t be long now.” She knew—as anybody who has had to do with children knows—that there is no better way of inducing sleep in a child than by telling it to stay awake. She had proved it time and time again, not only with her own child—so long dead—but with the children of her neighbours on the stair in the little street off the Edgware Road. She lighted the night-light, turned down the lamp and went away. Richard was almost asleep already.
Mr. Hetherington Smith was waiting for her in her room.
“Well?” she said anxiously. “Well, Arthur?”
“I’ve seen MacNeil,” Arthur told her. “He’s just left. He says there’s no need to worry.”
“But where is she?” demanded his wife.
“MacNeil says she’s on an island in the middle of the loch.”
“How does he know?”
“Because there’s a light in the window of a house on the island.”
Mrs. Hetherington Smith digested this information. “Why?” she said at last. “Why should the light prove that Linda’s there?”
“I asked him that, and he said that nobody lives there now, so if there is a light it must be them—and there is a light. I suppose the people who lived there found it inconvenient and came over to the mainland.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith thoughtfully; then she added, “Did MacNeil know who the man was—the man who went with her in the boat?”
“He said he knew the man well,” said Mr. Hetherington Smith. “He’s a sort of relation of MacNeil’s as far as I could make out. But you know how vague these people are—they never seem to be able to answer a question directly. Sometimes I wonder how much they really understand. Even MacNeil, who speaks quite good English, seems so dense sometimes. I think he finds difficulty in putting his ideas into words. He’s extraordinarily good in his own line, but, when you get him on to something else, he seems—dull. You can’t make him understand what you want to know.”
Mrs. Hetherington Smith nodded. She had experienced the same difficulty herself. MacNeil had been most helpful and clever about the fires, but when she tried to talk to him—about Mr. MacAslan it was—he did not seem to understand a word she was saying.
“Is the man a sort of ghillie?” she enquired.
“I suppose so. MacNeil seems to have absolute confidence in him—said he was a ‘grand man with a boat’ and that he knew the island well. Altogether he seemed certain that the man would look after Linda all right—I got that much out of him.”
“Well, that’s a comfort, anyhow,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith, “and I suppose, now he knows where she is, he can take the motor-launch and fetch her home.”
“He says it’s too rough.”
“Too rough! But he must go.”
“He says it’s impossible. It would be dangerous to attempt it. Even if he got there he says he could never get back again. We shall have to wait until the storm is over—”
“D’you mean Linda will have to stay on the island all night?”
“It looks like it,” said Mr. Hetherington Smith with a sigh.
“That’s awful! Can’t we do anything?”
“Well, what can we do? I know so little about it. MacNeil says the thing’s impossible—I’ve got to take his word for it. He says Linda is safer where she is, even if he could get there in the launch—which is doubtful. He knows the conditions and I don’t. I really feel we must go by what he says, Mary.”
Dinner was an uncomfortable meal. Some of Mr. Hetherington Smith’s guests thought that “something should be done”; they did not specify what should be done, nor offer to take action themselves. Others—more conversant with the conditions—were aware that nothing could be done, until the storm was over, to rescue Mrs. Medworth. There were acrimonious passages between the two factions. The host and hostess were silent, occupied with their own thoughts. Mr. Wyllie was also silent. He felt guilty and ashamed, and, at the bottom of his heart, furiously angry with himself and everybody else. He was sure that everybody thought the whole affair his fault—that he had muddled things, been, at the least, criminally careless—but how was he to know the beastly storm was coming, or to suspect that the painter was not fixed to the boat? Painters always were fixed to boats, weren’t they? That was the whole object of a painter, wasn’t it? Mr. Wyllie had explained the whole thing to everybody, both singly and collectively, and nobody had been very helpful, nobody had said very much about it—they had grunted and looked the other way. Even his hostess, who could usually be depended upon for sympathy, was extraordinarily obtuse about the matter.
The party broke up early and went to bed—if not to sleep. The wind had gone down a little by now and the actual storm was passing over. There was still an occasional growl of thunder from the distant hills. Mrs. Hetherington Smith went into her husband’s room.
“I don’t see why MacNeil can’t go for her now,” she said. “The storm is nearly over and the wind has gone down. I think we ought to try. It may be uncomfortable for her on that island—the beds are sure to be damp.”
“MacNeil will go directly it’s safe,” Mr. Hetherington Smith assured her. “He promised me he would, and he will. I can’t do any more, Mary.”
Mary sighed. She didn’t believe that Linda couldn’t be fetched, but she realised it was no use saying any more about it.
“Is the boy asleep?” enquired Mr. Hetherington Smith.
“Sound as a top, the darling! I’ve just been in to look at him—he’s as pretty as a picture.”
“Well, that’s a mercy!” said Mr. Hetherington Smith—referring to Richard’s condition rather than to his looks—“We’d better get to bed now and try to get some sleep ourselves. It’s the twelfth to-morrow, and I suppose if everything’s all right we shall have to have the shoot. I’m not looking forward to it, Mary, I can tell you.”
* * * * *
The news that Mrs. Medworth was safe and well was spread over the house by the bearers of morning tea. It was well received by all. Even those who had no special interest in Linda were delighted to hear of her safety, for, if “anything had happened,” the shoot would have had to be postponed. Now, all was well. Mrs. Medworth was safe and the storm had blown itself out. Watery sunshine, growing stronger every moment, poured in at the eastern windows, rousing the sluggards. Birds were singing, the earth was wet and goodly smelling. There was also a comforting and delicious smell of fried bacon drifting up the stairs.
Linda arrived as the gong boomed loudly in the hall. She avoided the dining-room (she had breakfasted already) and ran up the stairs to Richard’s room. Mrs. Hetherington Smith was there with him, helping him to part his hair—it was a task Linda always undertook herself. She lingered in the doorway, unperceived, amused at their efforts.
“That’s too near the miggle, Mrs. Hevverington Smith,” Richard was saying. “I think p’r’aps I’d better try myself. You see you’re not really accustomed to boys’ hair—” He turned round, and saw Linda, and, in a moment, he was in her arms.
“My dear!” cried Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “My dear! There you are—what a Mercy!—Ah—um—how did you get on?” She controlled her transports for Richard’s sake, and the cry that they had been wild with anxiety was stifled at birth. She had told Richard that his mother was perfectly safe, and she had no wish to damn herself as a liar in the child’s eyes. “Were you in MacNeil’s cottage all night?” she continued, signalling frantically to Linda over Richard’s head. “What a storm it was! You would have got frightfully wet if you had tried to come home through all that rain.”
“Oh, yes,” said Linda. “Yes, of course I would, frightfully wet.”
They talked for a few minutes longer and then Linda yawned and expressed a desire to sleep. Mrs. Hetherington Smith hustled Richard down to breakfast and piled hot-water bottles into Linda’s bed with her own hands. She was now free to express her anxiety and did so. Linda told her tale between yawns. She could scarcely keep her eyes open.
When Mrs. Hetherington Smith got down to breakfast she found that the shooters had finished their meal and the hall was full of the bustle of their departure. It was full of men in nailed boots with guns and cartridge bags. The drive was cluttered with ghillies and dogs. Mr. Hetherington Smith was speaking to Donald on the steps—he wore a worried expression.
“But if we’ve got to ballot for places, how can you be sure that Mr. Stacey will get a good place?” he enquired anxiously. “Couldn’t we just arrange who’s to have which butt in every drive?”
“It would not be the thing at all, at all,” Donald assured him. “The other gentlemen would not be liking that way. But if you would be leaving it to me, Mr. Hetherington Smith, then everything will be all right. You will see it will be all right, and there will be no difficulty at all.”
Mr. Hetherington Smith had no option but to leave it to Donald. He turned away with a sigh and found his wife at his elbow enquiring about lunch. When and where was it to be sent? Donald was called back to solve the problem. He solved it without any difficulty.
“It will be best to have lunch in the wee bothy on the moor,” he said gravely; “the wee bothy at Ballochgorm. If you will be telling them to have it ready at midday or soon after.” He told the chauffeur how the bothy was to be reached, and went out to give some final directions to the ragged group of beaters.
A few minutes later the whole party moved off towards the first drive. The moors were so near the house that there was no need for cars. They walked through the woods and found themselves knee-deep in purple heather. Everything was astonishingly wet, and the heather was wettest of all. It was more like paddling than walking, Mr. Hetherington Smith decided. At every step the water was driven from the heather like spray. But, in spite of the discomfort, there was something rather pleasant about it—the sun was delightfully warm and there was a small fitful breeze. Mr. Hetherington Smith was enjoying himself until he suddenly found Mr. Stacey at his elbow.
“Your keeper says I have drawn Number 3 in the first drive,” said Mr. Stacey. “You’re letting him arrange it?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Hetherington Smith. “At least there’s no arranging. We ballot for places—it’s the fairest method, I always think.” He thought: I hope to Heaven Number 3 is a good place. Why on earth don’t I know more about it? I should have gone round with MacNeil and got him to explain, instead of pottering round shooting rabbits.
“Well, of course it’s fair in one way,” Mr. Stacey replied. “But I’m usually damned unlucky, balloting. Sometimes people like to put the best shot in the best butt for the sake of the bag—” He laughed a little to cover the flagrancy of the hint.
“One would like to do that, of course,” agreed the wretched host, with an equally forced laugh, “but I find that leads to a good deal of trouble sometimes—a good deal of unpleasantness. Anyhow, you seem to have been pretty lucky this time. Number 3 is an excellent position in this drive.” He thought: now I’ve done it. Supposing it’s an absolutely rotten place—behind a hill or something—but MacNeil said it would be all right.
They were approaching the butts for the first drive and taking up their positions. Donald had constituted himself loader to Mr. Hetherington Smith because he thought it as well to keep his eye on that gentleman. He was anxious for the gentleman not to make a fool of himself. In the excitement he might easily forget his careful instructions and loose off at the wrong moment. He might shoot a beater, or a dog. Donald felt confident that he could prevent these disasters if he were there, and he wanted to prevent them. He was fond of Mr. Hetherington Smith—increasingly fond of him. The gentleman was foolish in some ways—and lamentably ignorant—but there was something nice about him. His very helplessness and ignorance were endearing. Donald had resolved to be Mr. Hetherington Smith’s nurse, he intended to see that the gentleman got a fair chance and his due share of birds.
Mr. Hetherington Smith found himself in Number 1 butt with Donald beside him and an astonishingly wet black dog between his legs. Sir Julius was in Number 2: Mr. Stacey in Number 3, and the others distributed down the line. Donald loaded the two guns and whispered some last-minute instructions. The birds would come over the shoulder of the hill, they would be flying low. Mr. Hetherington Smith was to wait until they were fairly near before firing, he was to choose a bird—one particular bird out of the covey—and swing well in front of it. Mr. Hetherington Smith nodded, he had heard all that before, the theory of grouse shooting was an open book to him. It was the practice he lacked. At the moment he was much more anxious as to whether or not Mr. Stacey was well placed. He enquired of Donald as to Mr. Stacey’s position in the drive—was he in a really good butt?
“The gentleman has been very fortunate,” said Donald gravely. There was a ghost of a twinkle in his eye and the nearest approach to a smile that Mr. Hetherington Smith had yet seen on his rugged face.
Mr. Hetherington Smith sighed with relief and turned his attention to the birds. They began to come over quite soon—there was a ragged volley of shots down the line. A few stragglers came over Number 1 butt—Mr. Hetherington Smith shot at several and missed.
“If you would be waiting a wee bit longer—” Donald suggested.
A covey came over as he spoke. Mr. Hetherington Smith was flustered and shot wildly into the brown with both barrels. A dark brown body fell with a queer thump just in front of the butt, it fluttered feebly for a moment and was still. Mr. Hetherington Smith had killed his first bird. He was inordinately excited, and, but for Donald’s restraining hand, he would have rushed out and retrieved it.
The next covey—a small one—turned when it reached the shoulder of the hill and flew down the line. It was flying low and Donald was just in time to prevent Mr. Hetherington Smith from shooting the occupant of the next butt. He knocked up the barrel of the gun and the charge exploded harmlessly in the air. It was unfortunate that the butt of the gun should hit its owner on the ear, but it was a glancing blow and did no serious damage. Mr. Hetherington Smith took the accident in good part, and accepted Donald’s explanations and apologies very graciously.
“Good heavens, it would have been frightful if I had killed Sir Julius!” he exclaimed.
“Och, you would not have killed him!” said Donald comfortably. “Gentlemen are not so easily killed, but you might have annoyed him a little—gentlemen do not like to be shot at when they are out shooting.”
The drive was now over. Donald collected the slain bird, and sent the black dog after a runner which really belonged to Sir Julius.
“Have I shot two—I mean a brace?” enquired Mr. Hetherington Smith eagerly, as they walked down the hill to the next butt.
Donald held up the two birds for him to see. There was no harm in claiming the runner, for Sir Julius had done quite well, and two birds were more than twice as good as one. Sir Julius was pleased with his own performance and displayed two and a half brace. Mr. Stacey in Number 3 had done terrific execution, there was a heap of brown feathers behind his butt and he was still urging his unpleasant bitch to locate another in the heather.
“Perhaps you just wounded it,” suggested Mr. Hetherington Smith helpfully.
Mr. Stacey turned and glared at him. “I’m not in the habit of wounding birds,” he said.
“Good Lord, no, of course not. It was only a joke,” his host assured him, trying to retrieve his ghastly blunder.
“H’m,” said Mr. Stacey. It was a peculiar sort of joke, he thought, but he had had excellent sport and was inclined to be magnanimous. No more was said and the three gentlemen with their loaders walked on down the hill.
The other members of the party had acquitted themselves according to their capabilities; everyone was pleased except Jim Wyllie, who thought he had been allotted the worst position in the drive—but Jim Wyllie didn’t matter.
Donald despatched the beaters to the next drive and led his flock over the hill. He was not worried about the beaters, for they were under the direction of one of his many cousins, a man who bore the same name as himself—Donald MacNeil. This man, to differentiate him from our Donald, was known to his intimates as Donald Dubh—or Black Donald—on account of his swarthy complexion. He was an excellent ghillie and absolutely reliable so long as there was no whisky about. It was unfortunate that Black Donald combined a fondness for whisky with the inability to stand it like a gentleman. One dram went straight to his head and made him belligerent—not to say dangerous—two drams laid him out. If Black Donald had one dram there was usually somebody willing—not to say eager—to stand him another. He was a powerful man. Donald was aware of his cousin’s weakness, as indeed was everybody in the glen. They were all very sorry for him; it was generally agreed that Black Donald was much to be pitied.
The shooters walked over the shoulder of the hill. The heather here was not so high, but it was still troublesome to Mr. Hetherington Smith. The strong woody stems twined themselves round his ankles and impeded his progress. He fell into holes and stumbled into boggy patches which looked as if they would afford firm foothold, but were really a delusion. Donald pulled him out of several of these devilish snares and adjured him to “be avoiding the sphagnum now.” It was all very difficult; he envied Donald’s careless stride.
The sun was gaining strength, and sucking up the moisture from the heather; the cap of mist on Ben Falloch was thinning rapidly; a lark soared up from their feet and sang lustily in the blue sky. They skirted a sheep bank of unmortared stones and found their butts on the other side.
The second drive was much like the first except for the rearrangement of the shooters. Mr. Stacey was again fortunate in his position, he had number 5. Mr. Hetherington Smith was in number 3, with Mr. Proudfoot on one side of him and Colonel White on the other. He acquitted himself better this time, shooting when Donald told him to shoot, and withholding his fire when the birds passed between the butts.
After this they climbed higher, the ground became more rocky—a few gnarled pine-trees clung with bare distorted roots to the stony soil. The earth was shallow, the skin had split, as it were, and the bones were showing through. There was little heather here and Mr. Hetherington Smith was glad. They scrambled up a scree of gritty stones and found themselves on the flank of the hill. Mr. Hetherington Smith had drawn number 8; it was the highest of all, and was out of sight of the others, on account of an outcrop of boulderous rock. He scrambled into his butt and sat down. He was panting after his climb and perspiring freely. It was extremely hot and there was no shade of any description, the sun seemed to be straight over his head; it glared down, golden, baking, dazzling.
Mr. Hetherington Smith mopped his red face. “You shoot this time,” he said to Donald.
“Well,” said Donald doubtfully. “But you must not be telling the others. It is not the thing at all.”
“Nobody will know,” said Mr. Hetherington Smith, “so if you would like to—”
“Och, I would be liking it fine—and it would be a help to our bag—so it would.”
Mr. Hetherington Smith didn’t mind about their bag—he had not yet learned the importance of a good bag—he was merely tired and very hot, and disinclined for further slaughter.
Donald loaded the guns carefully, and took up his position—it was lucky that the butt was out of sight of the others. He handled the guns reverently—he had never seen such guns in his life. The birds were a long time in starting to come over—so long that Donald began to wonder, a little anxiously, whether his swarthy namesake had discovered any whisky. There was just a possibility that the beaters had met the lunch. However, they began to come over at last and they came quickly down-wind. Donald had a busy five minutes and trebled Mr. Hetherington Smith’s bag. It was grand sport. They collected the slain and walked down the hill to meet the others. Mr. Stacey was in high good humour. Jim Wyllie was somewhat distrait; he confided to his host that Mr. Proudfoot had shot a bird directly over his head. “The man’s not safe,” he said earnestly. “He ought not to be trusted with anything more lethal than a pop-gun. Look at him now!”
Mr. Hetherington Smith looked, but he could see nothing wrong with Mr. Proudfoot—“I see what you mean,” he said.
“You see,” said Jim Wyllie. “The man’s not safe to come out with a party like this. He might pepper anybody, I mean.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Hetherington Smith. “Yes, of course.”
The shooters were all glad to hear the word “lunch,” although Mr. Stacey remarked that lunch was a waste of time—the ideal thing was to have a couple of sandwiches in your pocket.
They put up a small covey as they neared the bothy. Mr. Stacey shot two with an admirable left and right, the remnant swung outwards past Sir Julius at about a hundred yards and were sped on their way with both barrels. Sir Julius never let a chance go by. He was not a bad shot, but he was a very inconsiderate one.
“Damn fool!” said Grant Stacey under his breath. Donald echoed the imprecation silently. He hated his birds to be wounded—a man should know what he could do, and do it, he should not attempt the impossible.
Lunch was all ready in the little bothy at the entrance to the green pass. Mrs. Hetherington Smith and Greta Bastable were there, so, also, the be-whiskered butler. The chauffeur had brought them to within a few hundred yards of their destination over the most appalling road he had ever seen. They had carried the baskets the rest of the way.
The shooters were exceedingly hungry and thirsty, they sat down and ate. There was shepherd’s pie, deliciously hot in a thermos dish, there was cold ham and cold beef and salad, and banana tartlets, crisp and short, with chocolate sauce. The beer had been iced, and there was hot coffee and a bottle of liqueur brandy, and whisky for the men. It was an excellent repast.
Greta sat between Grant Stacey and Desmond Cray. She enquired anxiously how they had got on and received their accounts of their prowess with well-feigned interest. Colonel White managed to obtain a seat near his hostess. He was still interested in her face, although, so far, he had not heard her make a remark worthy of attention. He set himself out to please her and draw her out, and after a few minutes he began to succeed. Mrs. Hetherington Smith was feeling very cheerful—it was a lovely day and she liked picnics. She thought Colonel White was a nice man, and his conversation interested her—he had travelled a great deal and knew how to talk. Very soon Mrs. Hetherington Smith was laughing heartily at his jokes and quite forgetting to be on her best behaviour. Her husband was not altogether pleased at her absorption in Colonel White; it gave him a strange feeling of emptiness, he was used to having the whole of Mary’s attention—when he wanted it—and he had to ask her three times to pass the salt before she heard him. He looked at her with new eyes—he had not really looked at her for years—and realised, almost with surprise, that Mary was still an exceedingly good-looking woman. When she laughed like that she looked quite young.
The men lunched outside. Donald kept an eye on his namesake and diverted the whisky when it came his way. Mr. Stacey’s loader—who was also his valet—drank a good deal of whisky, but he seemed none the worse. He spoke to Donald and complimented him on the arrangements. “We go about a lot,” he said. “’E’s very partikler about ’ow things is done, an’ ’e was sayin’ jus’ now ’e ’adn’t never seen a better run show.”
Donald accepted the eulogy without enthusiasm. He didn’t like the man any better than his master, and he had taken an unmitigated dislike to Mr. Stacey at first sight. He liked Colonel White’s man better. The other gentlemen had not brought loaders and were provided with local men—most of whom were Donald’s cousins or relations of some sort.
After lunch they had half an hour’s rest, and then set forth once more. It was hotter than ever, for the breeze had vanished entirely, and the sun blazed down from an unclouded sky.
“What d’you think of Greta Bastable?” enquired Desmond Cray of Sir Julius Hastie as they toiled up to their butts.
“Greta is the great enigma,” replied Sir Julius immediately. He had no objection to discussing the foibles and failings of his fellow creatures—rather the reverse—and it made no difference to him whether his audience agreed with him or not. When he thought a thing he said it, and people could take it or leave it. Strangely enough they usually took it. Sir Julius was “quite a character,” his patients said—and, once a man has achieved a reputation for being quite a character, he can say what he likes.
“Who is she, and what is she?” enquired Desmond Cray.
“Nobody knows anything about her except that she’s smart and amusing—d’you mean to say you haven’t run up against her in town?”
“I’ve seen her about,” said Cray vaguely.
“You must have. She goes everywhere.”
“Is she a widow?”
“Presumably,” replied Sir Julius. “Nobody has ever seen Bastable—or heard of him.” (Sir Julius meant that he had never seen nor heard of Bastable, of course.)
“She seems fairly—oncoming,” said Cray thoughtfully.
“Oh!” returned Sir Julius mysteriously. “Is it a man she wants, or just men?”
“I see.”
“Does she attract you, Cray?”
“She does rather—in a way,” Cray admitted. “I like the type—easy to get on with, you know—or off with,” he laughed a trifle self-consciously.
“Ah!” said Sir Julius again. “Sometimes these easy people are a delusion. I had a mare once—she used to gallop up to her fences like mad and then refuse at the last moment.”
Cray laughed. “You think she’s that type?”
“Aggravating,” said Sir Julius. “Very aggravating.”
* * * * *
The day was very successful from Mr. Hetherington Smith’s point of view—very successful indeed, but extraordinarily long and tiring. From the moment when he had emerged from Ardfalloch House, to look at the weather and discuss the prospects with Donald, until he sought his bed at midnight he had not a moment’s peace nor leisure. Everything had gone off well, thanks to Donald. The drives had been well timed, the birds had been plentiful, and he had been saved on several occasions from making a complete fool of himself. But the most important thing that Donald had done, and the thing for which Mr. Hetherington Smith was most grateful, was the manner in which Donald had carried out his instructions with regard to Mr. Stacey. He had wanted Mr. Stacey to be well placed, and Donald had seen to it that he was well placed. Somehow or other—Mr. Hetherington Smith had no intention of enquiring how it had been arranged—somehow or other Grant Stacey had managed to draw the best butt—or nearly the best butt—in every drive. So it had been all right, just as Donald had assured him that it would be. Mr. Stacey had been so delighted with his day’s sport, and with the number of birds that had fallen to his share, that he had asked to be allowed to remain longer than he had intended in this delectable spot; and it had been quite easy—in the library after the ladies had gone upstairs to bed—to hint, in the most vague and gentlemanly manner, that his host would not refuse a directorship in the new company which Mr. Stacey was forming. Indeed it had scarcely required a hint. Mr. Hetherington Smith had merely opened his mouth, and the directorship, ripe and juicy as a sun-warmed peach, had fallen in.
Mr. Hetherington Smith washed his teeth noisily and vigorously and thought about it all. He decided that life was easy to manage when you knew how to manage it. He was so pleased with himself at the way he had Managed Life, that he felt he would like to talk to somebody about it. Mary was the obvious person to talk to—indeed, the only possible person—he wondered if Mary were asleep. The thought of Colonel White strayed through his mind and made him vaguely uneasy. It was a long time since he had seen Mary so full of animation as to-day at lunch when she was talking to that man. Well, he thought, that man can talk to Mary if he likes, but she’s mine—she belongs to me. Just to show the truth of this assertion he opened the door of her room and peeped in.—She was not asleep; the lamp was burning on the table near the bed—she was reading.
“Hullo!” she said, smiling at him over her book. “Did everything go off well, Arthur?”
“Splendidly. Grant Stacey is staying on another week.”
“That’s good.”
“He’s offered me a directorship in the new company.”
“That’s very good,” said Mary. She thought—so that’s what he wanted, how funny men are! I wonder why he wanted it so badly.
“Yes,” said Arthur. “Yes, I think I shall accept it. There are big responsibilities attached to the post, but a man in my position must shoulder—are you laughing, Mary?”
She was laughing. She said, “Oh, Arthur, you don’t have to act to me. You know quite well that was why you took Ardfalloch.”
He looked rather taken aback for a moment, and then he chuckled. “Well,” he said. “Well—what if it was?”
“Nothing—except that I think it was rather clever of you,” Mary told him.
He chuckled again. It was pleasant to have his cleverness appreciated.
“Now tell me about your day,” said Mary. “Tell me all about it.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed and told her about his day. She was wide awake and interested in everything. She wanted to know if the lunch was all right and whether he had shot many birds himself. He told her that the lunch was exactly right, and that his own performance, though capable of improvement, had been good enough to pass muster.
“The whole thing was a success,” he said complacently, “and the whole success was entirely due to that man, Donald MacNeil. I’ll have to give him a good tip when we leave here, Mary.”
“He’s a nice man,” she agreed. “But don’t spoil him, Arthur.”
“I don’t think you could spoil him,” said Arthur thoughtfully.
It was very pleasant talking together like this; the house was very quiet—everybody else was asleep. The big room was full of shadows, Mary Hetherington Smith lay in bed with the soft lamplight shining on her; she was very good to look upon—fair and plump and comely—her complexion was milk and roses, her blue eyes were bright and kind. Arthur looked at his wife and he thought: No wonder that old stick of a Colonel admired her—but she’s mine. He said aloud, “You’re very pretty, Mary.”
Mary laughed delightedly. “Go along with you!” she said. “I’m too old for compliments.”
“And you’re very clever, too,” he added. “Fancy you guessing it was the directorship I wanted out of Stacey! We’ve come a long way, haven’t we? And we’ve come all the way together. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Her eyes were suddenly wet. They had come a long way and it had been a weary road, but if Arthur was pleased, if Arthur appreciated her efforts to keep up with him it had been worth while.
“Yes,” he continued, nodding gravely, “you’re clever, Mary. Cleverer than I am in some ways. We’re really rather an extraordinary pair.”
They looked at each other and smiled.
Arthur thought—she’s a beautiful woman, and she’s mine.
Mary thought—Arthur has come back to me.