It was a glorious afternoon of golden sunshine. The loch was very calm, the breeze was fitful; here and there a patch of ripples caught the rays of the sun and shimmered like burnished brass; here and there on the shore a wave plashed feebly, or ran along the side of a rock in a silver undulation, before it was drawn back into the calm bosom of the loch—for the tide was starting to ebb.
Linda and Richard and Iain were on their way to the island in the old patched boat. It was the long-promised expedition.—On the very first day that Richard had met the boatmender they had talked about the island, and the boatmender had promised that some day they would go for a picnic there—some day when the boat was mended. The boat had been mended for days and days, and Richard had begun to think that “some day” would never come—and then, suddenly, it came. Richard shivered with happiness—it was quite perfect—there was nothing else that he wanted. He leaned over the side and dabbled one hand in the water. It was so clear, that, in the shallows, you could see the little shells at the bottom, and the seaweed moving gently with the ebbing tide—it was so green that you almost felt it would stain your hand green—but it didn’t.
Linda was happy. It was a lovely day (the sort of day when it would have been a crime not to feel happy); if there were another reason for her happiness, she did not seek it.
Iain was happy. Of the three, he, alone, knew and appreciated to the full the happiness that possessed him and the reason for it. There was really only one reason for his happiness—Linda. He rowed with full strokes, bravely, confidently. The old boat clove through the water; the mainland receded; the cottage dwindled into a house for dolls. He beached the boat at the old landing-place on the north side of the island and helped his passengers to disembark. Then he lifted the tea-basket on to his shoulder and led the way up the grassy slope.
The turf was short and resilient; here and there were grey-green cushions of leaves from which sprung long wiry stems supporting the pink flowers of sea-thrift—round pink balls of stiff petals that looked as though they were made of paper. Richard ran ahead and began to pick them with cries of delight.
“How different it looks!” Linda exclaimed.
“It is peaceful to-day,” said Iain.
It was extraordinarily peaceful, the whole island seemed to dream in the warm sunshine. The castle, hoary with age, was slumbering, too—it was grey amongst its green surroundings, old and grey. Linda saw how completely ruined it was—the tumbled stones were covered with thick ivy, there was yellow lichen on the walls. Here and there, where soil had gathered amongst the rubble of fallen stones, there were cushions of purple thyme which gave off a thick sweet smell like honey in the hot sunshine. Graceful strands of “Ladies Bedstraw,” yellow as gold, lurked in sheltered corners. It was all so green and pretty, but, beneath the greenness and the prettiness, Linda saw the bones of the dead giant.
For a long time she did not speak, and then she said, “I can’t—I can’t imagine it—as it was—people living here.”
“Have you been trying to imagine it?” he asked her.
“Yes, but somehow I can’t—can you?”
“Sometimes I can,” he replied. “But not to-day. The present is enough for me to-day. I don’t want the past.”
In the outer courtyard was the well. It was very deep. Linda looked down, and saw, far below, the glimmer of dark water. It looked like oil, Linda thought, there was a faint shine upon it like oil. The sides of the well were uneven and covered with brown fungus, and small pale green ferns.
Iain took her hand and they went inside the great hall of the castle. The roof gaped forlornly; two large oak trees overhung the roofless part and dimmed the light, the sunshine pierced through the leaves and fell in yellow splashes on the uneven floor. Here, in the great hall, it was almost as if they were standing at the bottom of a still pool, for the light that filtered through the leaves was pale green, and the shadows moved quietly and reluctantly like sea-weed in undulating water. The pale green blades of grass that had sprung up in the crevices between the tilted flags treasured a light of their own—they seemed dimly luminous as glow-worms are.
Iain and Linda walked through a crumbling doorway on to a little terrace bright with sun. Linda gazed round her, gazed at the ruined mullions, the ivied windows, the heaps of rubble spilled from the thickness of the ruined walls. At last she said:
“It is wonderful—all of it. Other ruins have histories, but these ruins are yours—your history. Your own people lived here—-they lived their lives just like our fives—they were born here, and died. These stones sheltered them—”
She scarcely knew what she said, her thoughts were too evasive, too inconsequent to put into words. Iain watched the expressions chase each other across her face—he did not interrupt her thoughts. The castle meant a great deal to Iain, it was precious to him for many reasons. He was glad that Linda appreciated the romance of the castle, that she felt the strange appeal of the place, that she was moved by its pathos and its history. He was glad she had not gushed over it, that would have hurt. It had been rather a dangerous experiment to bring Linda here to-day—he had almost feared to do so—but the experiment had been successful beyond his wildest hopes.
“Do you ever wish you still lived here?” she said at last.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. He laughed a trifle ruefully, and added: “The past must have been easier to live in.”
“Do you mean easier financially?”
“Partly, I suppose, but not altogether. My ancestors did not need much money—they lived on the produce of their land and took what they wanted.”
“What else did you mean?” Linda wanted to know. She sat down on a sun-warmed stone and looked up at him. The sun fell upon her small intent face; Iain saw that the white skin had warmed to a pale gold, and there were some tiny freckles on her nose, and beneath her eyes—Ardfalloch freckles, he thought, with a warming of his heart.
“What else did you mean?” she said again.
He pulled himself together to answer her question. “Life is awfully complicated now,” he said, trying to express his thoughts; “you have got to conform to laws that your instinct tells you are false laws—it makes me angry sometimes.”
“They must have had laws, too.”
“They had their own laws, of course,” Iain admitted. “Natural laws, dictated to them by their own consciences, by their honour, by their own feeling of what was right for themselves. If the chief happened to be a bad chief—a few of them were bad—he made life a hell for everybody; but, if he had naturally fine instincts, the thing worked admirably. Everybody was happy and prosperous. Laws are made for bad people, really. They are made for people who have no decent instincts. My ideal state would have no laws.”
“But you would be king,” Linda said, laughing at him.
Iain laughed too. “King!” he exclaimed. “At present I am king of a deserted island. But, yes, you are right. I envisaged myself as a benevolent autocrat—rather funny, isn’t it?”
Linda did not think it funny, she thought it was natural. He was descended from a line of men who had been kings in their own small way, and even now, in the sight of his own people, he was a king. Their devotion and loyalty could not fail to influence him, he had been influenced by it from his cradle. Linda thought he was wonderfully humble and human considering the circumstances of his life. She had found no arrogance in him.
“Let’s go and see the tower room,” Linda said at last.
“Yes, if you like,” Iain replied. “It will be damp and gloomy to-day, but we will visit it for the sake of old times.”
He led her through the passages; they were quite light to-day, for the sunshine streamed in through the gaping holes in the walls and roof. The tower chamber was cold and damp and gloomy—just as Iain had said—There were evidences of their tenancy in the empty cocoa tin which stood on the table, and the grey ash of the dead fire in the hearth.
Linda shivered. “I almost wish we hadn’t come,” she said. “It was so warm and cosy that night—”
“I must put it straight and refill my cupboard,” said Iain. “Donald usually cleans it up, but he’s too busy.”
“Perhaps we had better see what Richard’s doing.”
They went back to where they had left Richard (the sunshine was warm and comforting after the damp chill of the ruins). He had not moved far from where they had left him. He had picked a big bunch of flowers, yellow and pink, they were lying beside him on the ground.
“Look at him!” Iain said softly. He put his hand upon Linda’s arm with a restraining movement, and, together, they stood looking at Richard.
He was sitting in a little hollow of soft turf with his feet doubled back at either side of him, the sun shone on his dark hair giving it the greeny blue sheen of a raven’s wing, his small pale face was serious and preoccupied. Before him on the short turf were some pebbles, and one or two shells that he had found on the tiny strand. Richard took the pebbles in his hand, one by one, and looked at them and put them down again, he was singing a little tune to himself the while, a little crooning song with no beginning and no end. Now he bent forward over his treasures, now he leaned back and looked at them sideways. He was entranced by his occupation, caught up into a world of his own—a little friendly world, a little sheltered place in the big unknown world. These things were fragments of his child’s world—a piece of broken china, a few rounded pebbles, two shells—they were sharp, or smooth, hollow or rounded, they were different in shape, in colour, in texture. They were real. Richard felt them in his hands, and, by so doing, he made himself real. . . .
Another thought flitted through his mind in a shadowy way—they were his because he had found them himself, and they were precious—his treasures. In a little while Richard’s standard would change, but these treasures were the beginning of his education in values—they had set him a standard of what was worth while. Values are only arbitrary after all. Why should a golden pebble be of more value than a stone one? The world has decreed that it shall be so. Richard’s values were his own, he knew nothing of the world’s standard of values—that would come when the savage became civilized. He treasured this pebble for its strange shape, that one for the vein of quartz that ran through it like sugar; the piece of china was pretty, he had found it when he was picking flowers amongst the debris of the ruins, it was part of an old cup—there were pink roses on it and a band of gold. (Richard ran his finger along the broken edge and his brain said “sharp.”) The jagged fragment of china belonged to the past, but it was not for its associations that Richard valued it; he valued it because it was pretty—the past was nothing to him. For Richard the world started afresh each day when he awoke, and was rounded off by bed-time.
“He is making a little garden,” Linda whispered.
Iain shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s something much more—fundamental. Don’t let’s disturb him.”
They retreated and sat down a little way off, on a heap of fallen masonry.
“What is he doing? What do you mean?” Linda asked. She felt a strange sense of annoyance, a shadow of anger: Richard was hers, why should Iain think he knew what the child was doing better than she did? “What do you mean?” she said again.
Iain handed her his field-glasses and, after a moment or two, she got them focussed upon the small intent figure in the hollow. She saw that Richard was not making a garden—he was not making anything.
“What is he doing?” she said again, but this time the note of irritation was absent from her voice, it was a question pure and simple.
“He is discovering—Life,” Iain said, trying to explain.
“I don’t understand.”
“The world is so big—so strange and complicated. Have you ever thought what a queer thing it must be for a child to be pitchforked into Life—into this big strange terrifying world that it knows nothing about? It doesn’t happen quite like that, of course, because the unconsciousness of a child protects it, and only lets a little bit of the world through at a time. The child’s consciousness grows, gradually it can take in more and more of the world, but the world is not real. And then there comes a time—there must come a moment when things become real—it happens suddenly. I think Richard is realising the reality of things—it is difficult to explain, but I feel sure I am right. If he had lived in the country it would have come before—less dramatically, because he would have been younger, and his consciousness would have been less developed—”
With a sudden return of her anger Linda said, “Why should you understand Richard better than I?”
Iain laughed. “Darling, you’re not jealous!”
Linda considered this carefully and then she smiled. “I believe I am a little,” she admitted. “You see Richard has been all mine—”
“And now I want a bit of him,” Iain said gravely.
“Oh, Iain, I am a fool! It is good for Richard to be with a man—with you. I have always wanted it for him—”
“You have done splendidly,” Iain told her. “Richard is perfect—not spoiled at all—but he is getting older. In a little while he will need a man—and I shall be here to help you with him.”
“You are very sure!” she exclaimed, withdrawing a little.
“I am very sure,” he replied. He was sure. He knew quite well that unless Linda had loved him she would not have allowed him to go so far; she would not have allowed him to say what he had said without making it plain that there was no hope for him. She was too fastidious. She was too kind to let him hope unless she intended to reward him. He was quite sure that the only barrier between them was the fact that she was not yet free. She would not let him approach any closer until she was free, and he loved her all the more for her scruples.
After a little, Richard tired of his treasures; he looked up, like a person waking from sleep, and saw Iain and Linda, and waved. Then he came towards them, running up the slope.
“Look, what I’ve found,” he said eagerly, anxiously.
Linda said nothing. She did not really understand, and she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. She watched while the two dirty little hands unfolded to display their treasures.
Iain was grave. He took the pebbles and examined them carefully; then he looked at the piece of china—
“Do you know,” he said, “that piece of china is a piece of a cup which belonged to my great-grandmother? She used to live here when these ruins were a castle. There are still two cups and saucers belonging to the set.”
“I’ve seen them,” Richard said breathlessly. “They’re in the cabinet in the drawing-room.”
Linda took the fragment; it was interesting, it brought the past very close. For her, the value of the fragment was in its history, its associations. She held it in her hand and thought—I wonder how it was broken—was she sorry? China was very valuable in those days—and tea was a luxury. Perhaps somebody brought her these pretty cups and she valued them—life must have been rough and bare here—and the cups were pretty and fragile. How sad she must have been when one got broken!
“I’ll show you something funny about your pebbles,” Iain was saying. He had unscrewed one of the lenses of his field-glasses and was holding it near his eye. Richard leaned against his knee. “This is a magnifying glass—it makes things look bigger. Look at your pebble—can you see it, Richard?”
“No,” said Richard, screwing up his eyes. “Oh, yes—no—oh yes, I can.—Oh Boatmender, how queer! It’s all made up of little bits.”
Linda watched them and her heart enveloped them both. There was no shadow of jealousy left. She thought—he is perfect with Richard. He is teaching Richard—opening his mind. I could never give Richard that. She listened to the careful, simple description of how rocks were made, and pebbles, and gravel, and sand. Richard’s eyes were bright, he was listening eagerly, asking the meaning of words that were unfamiliar to him. She thought—I am not enough for Richard—not enough. There was pain in the thought, but only a little pain, and there was happiness too. A strange new beautiful happiness was flooding her life. It had started that night on the island and she had fought against it, tried to rear defences against the flood. She had told herself over and over again that she would have nothing to do with love, she had finished with men—and marriage—all that was over and done with. Good heavens, hadn’t she suffered enough! She was free now, and she would remain free, she would devote the rest of her life to Richard, it was her duty.
She had told herself all this again and again with quite unnecessary vehemence, unnecessary since there was nobody to argue with her. She could have disposed of Iain MacAslan in a few words, but she didn’t. She argued with herself instead. And the queerest thing was, that, despite all her arguments and brave decisions, the tide of happiness rose. . . .
Linda had said that she would devote the rest of her life to Richard, but now she began to wonder whether that decision was as wise and unselfish as it had seemed. Was she enough for Richard? Could she give him all that he needed, or did he need more than all she could give? She thought suddenly—Why—I shouldn’t be taking anything away from Richard, I should be giving him something. And suddenly this new reason for loving Iain made everything more real, more sane. She ceased to struggle and protest, she opened her heart and saw that she loved him—loved him dearly—every hair of his dark head. She had loved him ever since that night on the island. She had loved him unreasonably then, against her will, but now she began to see that there was no sane reason why she should not love him, and plenty of sane reasons why she should. She saw suddenly that she could marry Iain. Apart from her own feelings—which she was afraid to trust, because she had trusted them before and they had let her down—apart from her own feelings there were practical reasons for the thing. Marriage with Iain—from a wild dream the thing became a possibility, a real future.
The gates opened, Linda saw a glimpse of that possible future—future with Iain. It was very beautiful, and warm and safe. She and Iain and Richard together—Iain protecting them with his strength and his gentleness, loving them. She saw a future in which days like this would be frequent; days of sunshine and leisure in the glorious surroundings of Ardfalloch. She saw long evenings before the fire—she and Iain reading and talking, with Richard safely in bed upstairs. She saw—with surprise—that there was nothing to prevent these dreams from becoming realities. They loved each other, what could part them? Once she was really free, free to acknowledge her love for Iain, free to give him what he wanted and make him happy, there would be nothing between them—there could be nothing—ever again. . . .
And then, quite suddenly, the gates closed; the shadow of her fears returned; the future was dark again, she could see no happiness there, no safety.
Linda struggled against the impending sense of doom—how foolish it was to be afraid of shadows! They loved each other; what could happen? She did not know the answer now, she only knew that she was frightened. The golden sunshine was a mockery. She rose and went over to the place where Iain had left the hamper and began to unpack it and set out the tea. She was too restless to sit still, and the peace and quietness of the afternoon had become oppressive. As she unpacked the cups and spread the white cloth upon the grass she looked up and saw that Iain and Richard were still examining the pebbles, still discussing them. The two heads were very close together, bent over the magnifying glass. Two heads, both dark and smooth—they might have been father and son if fate had been kinder.
Was there anything of Jack in Richard, Linda wondered. She had found nothing yet, no trace of Jack. But these things sometimes developed later—and if there should be anything—Richard would need a man all the more—a man to guide him. She sighed; the wheel of her thoughts had come full circle.
They sat on the short resilient turf and had tea. Richard was in the highest spirits; he chattered continuously about all he saw, or had seen. It was just as well, for his innocent chatter eased the tension. Iain felt the shadow that had fallen upon Linda’s soul; it showed in her eyes. He wondered what it was; perhaps she did not know herself. If they had been alone he would have tried to find out what the shadow was, but they were not alone. He thought—she has suffered a great deal. I shall have to be patient and very gentle—it will all come right—it must come right.
Presently Richard, too, fell silent; he was replete and contented. The sun was warm, but there was a small cool breeze off the water, it came to them in little whiffs scented with seaweed from the rocks which had been bared by the receding tide. A rabbit came out of its hole and looked at them, it came quite near and sat erect with pricked ears, gazing at them in surprise. They all kept very still. “Why is it so tame, Boatmender?” Richard whispered. “Because the island is so quiet—so deserted,” Iain told him. “Nobody comes here for months at a time, so the rabbits forget that they ought to be frightened.” Richard threw a small piece of scone at the rabbit—it was gone in a flash, bounding away with a whisk of its white scut.
“Oh!” said Richard in a disappointed tone. “I thought it would like something to eat—”
“You frightened it, Richard,” Linda said. “Rabbits don’t like scones—they eat grass and lettuce.”
“Silly old rabbit!” said Richard crossly.
“It is you who are silly,” Linda told him, with rare and inexplicable irritation.
“I’m not,” he said. “Rabbits are silly not to eat scones—aren’t they, Boatmender?”
Iain looked at him gravely, there was a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth, but he kept it carefully in check. “Mummy’s right,” he said. “Rabbits know what’s good for them. It was because you didn’t know what was good for it that you offered it a scone.”
Richard considered the matter, frowning thoughtfully. “You see,” Iain continued, “I might offer you something that wouldn’t be good for you—a glass of whisky, perhaps—well, if you refused it you would be wise. I should be silly for offering it to you.”
Richard laughed. “The rabbit was me and I was you,” he said. “I was silly to offer it a scone—I was silly, not the rabbit. If I had offered it whisky would it have drunk it, Boatmender?”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because rabbits don’t drink anything. They couldn’t live here on this island if they needed water to drink. The only water here is in the well, far too deep for any rabbit to get near. There are casual pools amongst the rocks when it rains, but they are always a little brackish—”
“What’s brackish?”
“Salty,” said Iain, smiling.
“D’you mean rabbits never drink anything?” Richard asked incredulously.
“They drink the dew, I suppose, and they get moisture from the grass and the sap that is in all growing plants.”
“I didn’t know that either,” Linda said, “about rabbits not needing water. It’s interesting. I’m afraid I don’t know much about the real country.”
“You’ll soon learn,” Iain said with a significant look.
Linda blushed, and her eyes fell, but she did not contradict his assertion.
It’s all right, Iain thought, it really is all right. His heart sang within him, and, all at once, the sunshine seemed more golden and the loch more blue.
After tea Richard collected sticks and they made a fire—a little picnic fire amongst the rocks near the shore to keep the midges at bay. There was driftwood amongst the rocks (some of it from Iain’s boat which had been dashed to pieces the night of the storm) and pine branches full of resin which caught the flame and roared themselves into fine grey ash. Richard’s face as he watched and tended the fire was solemn—almost awed with happiness.
“It’s lovely,” he kept saying. “It’s lovely—it’s a real fire, Boatmender.”
“I think he ought to call you—something else,” Linda whispered. “It seems—”
“No,” said Iain quickly. “Leave it just now—I like the name. It’s Richard’s own name for me. Later perhaps—”
Richard sighed. “I wish we could stay here always and always,” he said gravely.
They lingered over the fire, talking intermittently until it was time to go, then they embarked in the little boat and rowed back to the old cottage.
“When am I going to see you again?” Iain asked anxiously.
“Soon,” Linda replied. “I can’t promise anything definite—it’s so difficult with the house full of people, and Mrs. Hetherington Smith really needs me.”
“I’m coming to the dance. Are you glad, Linda?”
“Yes, of course,” she said simply. “But—but you won’t like it, Iain—”
“I’m coming to dance with you,” he told her.
“You must come and see me in bed, Boatmender,” Richard said. “I won’t be asleep—I’ll stay awake specially. You will come, won’t you?”
“If Mummy lets me,” Iain promised, smiling.
It never occurred to Richard to be surprised at the news that his friend the boatmender was coming to the dance at Ardfalloch House. Social distinctions mattered nothing to Richard, his world was divided sharply into two classes: those who liked him and whom he liked, and those who took no notice of him and of whom he took no notice. There were one or two exceptions to the rule, but that was all.
Richard jumped out of the boat as it touched the shore and pulled at the rope with energy and determination. Iain and Linda got out more slowly—it had been a happy time and they were disinclined to end it and say “goodbye.” They got out slowly and the boat was made fast; they walked up slowly to the little house.
“We must hurry,” Linda said. “It is past Richard’s bed-time—no, don’t walk back with us, Iain, it will be better—not to.”
They stood still for a few moments, looking at the loch, at the sun that had begun to descend towards the western hills, at the reflections of the tall trees in the water.
“I shall be late for dinner,” Linda said. She found it difficult to go, difficult to leave him. She wanted to stay; she was safe with Iain; she loved him.
Richard ran on up the path.
“I must go,” Linda said, almost desperately. She let her hand rest in Iain’s hand for a few moments, and then she withdrew it. “Good-bye,” she said.
“Au revoir, Linda.”
“Yes, au revoir.”
She turned quickly and followed Richard up the path that led through the woods to Ardfalloch House—the steep path with the tree roots that held it together—at the top of the slope she stopped and looked back—he was still there, standing just where she had left him; they waved to each other.