Several days passed. Iain did not see Linda, but he heard from Donald that she was none the worse for her adventure. He was not unhappy, for he knew that she was here in the glen, and he felt that things would come right for him if he waited patiently. He practised his pipes and roamed about with his field-glasses, and sometimes he went out in the old boat and caught some mackerel for his breakfast.
One day when he was finishing his solitary dinner he heard the sound of a motor-launch approaching.
“It is Miss Finlay,” Morag said, putting her head in at the kitchen door. “It is Miss Finlay and Calum in the Cluan motor-boat.”
Iain left his coffee and went out. He met Margaret coming up the path.
“Just in time for some coffee,” he said, smiling at her. “Morag makes it very well now that I’ve persuaded her not to boil it.”
“So you’re still alive!” Margaret exclaimed.
He wondered if she had heard of his adventure on the island with Linda and, if so, what garbled version she had heard.
“It’s nice to see you, Meg,” he told her.
“You knew where to find me if you wanted to see me.”
“But I haven’t got wings.”
“Oh!” she cried remorsefully. “Oh, what a fool I am! Here have I been cursing you for not coming over, and you haven’t a boat. You know, Iain, you really are a difficult person to get hold of. Why haven’t you a telephone? I haven’t been able to do a thing I wanted since the grouse-party arrived; it’s been one thing after another. Father nearly demented because of people falling off at the last moment; Fergus in bed with lumbago—and you know how father relies on Fergus for everything, he simply hates anybody else to load for him, poor dear—and my cook’s uncle falling downstairs and insisting that nobody else can nurse him properly. Of course I had to let her go—I couldn’t have her weeping into the souffles—”
Iain put her into a chair, gave her some coffee, found a cigarette and lighted it for her.
“Basingstoke, Margaret, Basingstoke,” he said, smiling.
“I know,” she said, laughing a little, despite herself, “I’m sort of worked up about everything. Oh, Iain, d’you remember that time in Edinburgh when we saw Ruddigore?—How I laughed!”
“Yes, it was fun,” he said. He thought: poor lamb, she’s worried and bothered—I feel exactly as if she were my sister in spite of what old Finlay said. The worst of it is I mustn’t be too nice—how horrible!—Ruddigore was fun. I almost asked Meg to marry me that night—I wish I had shared memories with Linda.
Margaret was looking at him through the smoke of her cigarette—as usual she had managed to shroud herself in a smoke-screen in a few moments.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He picked amongst his thoughts for a suitable offering. “Ruddigore,” he said. “It was fun. Tell me about your worries, Meg, but tell me slowly.”
“Oh, Iain, you are nice! But I don’t want to bother you. I really came over to cheer you up, you know. Would it cheer you up to hear about my worries?”
He laughed. “I’m not such a hard-hearted brute as all that. But I don’t really need much cheering. I’m all right.”
“Yes, you look quite cheerful,” she said, looking at him intently. “I expected to find you a bit under the weather with the guns popping off all round you—”
“I’m all right,” he said again.
“Well, I wish I were. I told you about my cook. I’ve got a temporary with a foul temper who’s upsetting the whole house and making everybody’s life a burden. Father’s annoyed because Sir Julius has deserted him at the last moment and gone to Ardfalloch. I can’t say I’m sorry because I’ve no use at all for Sir Julius, but it’s rather cool, and of course it has put the numbers out.”
“You can’t get anybody at the last moment. What’s the attraction at Ardfalloch?—Who are those people, Iain?”
“The Hetherington Smiths?—Oh, they’re just London people—as Donald says—I don’t know anything about them except that they have plenty of money.”
“They seem quite nice. I wondered if you knew anything about them. I called, you know—father made me—and she was in. I rather liked the woman. She’s plump and comfortable, and unshockable—I don’t mean that I tried to shock the poor lady, but I felt she was unshockable—I felt she would have been perfectly calm if I had turned a somersault in the drawing-room or put my feet on the tea-table. It was horrid going to Ardfalloch and finding strangers there—simply horrid— Oh, Iain, why did you do it?”
“I had to,” he said firmly.
She sighed. Then she continued: “They’re coming over to lunch at Cluan on Sunday—and they want to give a dance.”
“A dance!” he exclaimed.
“Yes. It’s rather sporting of them, I think. Mrs. Hetherington Smith said the drawing-room would be perfect for a dance—of course it would be. I’m to ask anyone I like and as many as I like. She wants it to be a success.”
“A dance,” Iain said again—they were going to give a dance in his house! At first he was almost angry, and then he thought—how foolish I am! Of course they’ve a perfect right to give a dance at Ardfalloch, why shouldn’t they? And then he thought—Linda will be there—Linda.
“I wondered about pipers,” Margaret was saying. “Pipers for the reels. They’re getting a band from Glasgow—money seems to be no object—but we must have pipers for the reels. What about Alec MacNeil?”
“Alec, of course,” agreed Iain; “and Gregor Macpherson from Balnafin—”
“I thought of Black Donald,” Margaret said.
“No, not Black Donald,” said Iain, smiling. “He’s a very good piper, but somebody might give him whisky by mistake—on no account must you have Black Donald.”
“Well, what about Duncan?”
“He’s very good,” Iain admitted; “but Gregor is better for reels. Alec and Gregor are the two to get, Meg. Are you going to ask me to the dance?”
“You!” she exclaimed in amazement.
“Yes, I’d like to go,” he replied. He thought—I shall dance with Linda—with Linda. Already he seemed to feel her slight body in his arms.
“Is it a joke, Iain?”
“No,” he said quietly.
“But, Iain, you don’t want to go—you don’t want to go to a dance—at Ardfalloch.”
“Yes, I think I do.”
“But, Iain—you can’t mean it,” she said incredulously. “My dear—you would hate it. You would be miserable—wouldn’t you?”
“I’d like it,” he said stubbornly. He thought—it will be heaven to dance with Linda—of course, Meg thinks I’m mad. I can’t help that, I must go. I wish I could tell her about Linda—it would be the best thing—but I can’t do it. No, I can’t. . . .
“Well,” she said in a strained voice, “well, that’s settled then. You had better dine with us first. I’ll send a boat for you. The date isn’t settled yet, but I’ll let you know when it is—”
“Don’t be cross with me, Meg.”
“Cross!” said Margaret almost tearfully. “How can I help being cross. I don’t understand—it’s not like you, Iain. It’s not you. It’s all horrible, the whole thing. You living here in this pig-sty—simply because you’re too proud—too proud—”
“It’s not pride, Meg.”
“Yes, it’s pride. And then you say you want to go to this dance—to go to your own house as a guest—you of all people—to accept the hospitality of this London upstart who wouldn’t know his own grandfather if he met him in the street—to go to your own house as this man’s guest—it’s not you, Iain.”
“Don’t, Meg,” he said, holding out his hand and trying to stop the wild rush of words.
Meg took his hand and held it. She looked up at him, smiling shakily through her tears. “Basingstoke again, I suppose,” she said.
“Basingstoke again,” he agreed, trying to speak lightly.
He rose and walked across to the window and stood there, looking out. This is horrible, he thought—this is ghastly!
She was talking more calmly now. “It’s because I don’t understand,” she explained. “I thought I knew you so well. You see, when you know a person well—have known them for years and years—you know how they feel about things. You know how they’ll act in given circumstances—and you—you’re not.—I thought it was the last thing on earth you would want to do. It isn’t even as if you were mad about dancing. There must be something . . . something I don’t know. . . .”
Her voice died away into silence.
“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I suppose that’s it.” He thought—she’ll guess now. It was the only thing to do, but how I hate myself for hurting her! What a brute I am! What a darling she is! I wonder if she could ever be friends with Linda, or is that too much to expect?
He heard her saying in a queer strained voice, “Well, I must be going. Calum will be tired of waiting—I left him in the boat. It’s such an inconvenient landing-place here. Come over and see us soon.—Oh, I forgot, you haven’t a boat. I’ll send one over for you.”
“Yes, I’d like to come—but there’s no hurry, Meg.”
“I had better get back,” she said quickly, almost desperately. “It might rain. I only came over for a few minutes. What an awful storm it was on Sunday night! The waves were enormous, breaking over the pier. Father said he had never seen a worse storm in the summer—it came on so suddenly—you’re sheltered here, of course—” She was gathering up her bag and searching for her gloves as she spoke.
Iain longed to comfort her, but he knew he mustn’t. He dare not offer her sympathy. The only thing he could do for Meg was to help her to get away quickly. He found her other glove, which had fallen under the table, and followed her to the door.
As they went down to the boat together, through the summer afternoon sunshine, they heard a staccato volley of shots coming from the Ardfalloch moors, and a covey of grouse swooped over their heads, uttering terrified squawks, and fled away over the loch.
“I’m sorry for them,” said Margaret shakily. “It must be horrible. If they were shot all the year round it wouldn’t be so bad, but to be left in peace for months and months—and then—suddenly—”
“I know,” said Iain. “I’ve been feeling the same thing all week. It’s not logical, I suppose, because, if I were shooting them myself, I wouldn’t think about it. But when you see them flying away like that—flying away from their homes where they have been so happy and peaceful—it makes you think.”
They had reached the boat. She pretended not to see Iain’s hand and jumped in by herself. She was so shaken that she was afraid to take his hand—she wouldn’t be able to bear it.
“It will be all right about the dance,” she said, “I’ll let you know—”
Calum started the engine and let in the clutch, they sped away in a splurge of white foam. Iain watched the boat to see if she would look back and wave—but she did neither—he watched it out of sight and then went slowly home. He felt utterly exhausted and miserable. Far from cheering him up, Meg’s visit had depressed him beyond words.