Iain walked back to the cottage alone. It was very early and the air smelt sweet and fresh after the hot perfumed atmosphere of the ball-room. There was dew on the grass, and on every leaf—tiny, glittering beads of dew shining like diamonds in the early sunshine. Iain seemed to see everything more clearly, more sharply defined than he had ever seen it before. As he went through the pine-woods the smell caught his breath, it was sweet and clean and resinous; the straight trunks of the trees were like the copper pillars of a great hall, and, high above his head, the layers were like a roof—dark green, almost black against the pale-blue sky. The dun-coloured carpet of fallen needles was as soft as velvet beneath his feet.
He let himself into the cottage very quietly, and went up the narrow stairs as noiselessly as possible, but, when he reached the top, his mother called to him—she had been lying awake and listening for his step. Iain went into her room and found her sitting up in bed. Her face was flushed, like the face of a young girl, and her soft white hair lay in curling rings upon her forehead. How pretty she is! he thought tenderly.
She beckoned to him to come closer and held up her arm—“Look, Iain!” she said. “Look how it sparkles!”
Iain saw that she had a bracelet on her arm, a bracelet of flashing green stones set in platinum. It was a beautiful thing—it looked costly—Iain had never seen it before. He sat down on the bed and turned her arm this way and that, watching the stones flash in the sunlight that poured through the open window.
“What a lovely thing!” he said. “I didn’t know you had a bracelet of emeralds.”
“I didn’t know I had it either,” she told him, smiling with pleasure like a child with a new toy. “I found it in my treasure drawer.”
“In your treasure drawer?” said Iain in surprise.
She nodded, and her eyes sparkled with delight. “It was such a surprise, Iain,” she told him; “such a lovely surprise. There were lots of pretty things in the drawer, but this was much the prettiest.”
“Do you mean you found it here?” Iain asked, pointing to the small chest of drawers that stood in the corner by the window.
She shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said; “not here.”
“Where did you find it, then?”
“I found it in my own treasure drawer in my own room.”
Iain’s heart almost stopped beating, but he tried to speak calmly. It was no use frightening her.
“Were you up at the house?” he asked.
“I must have been,” she said. “I know I found it in my treasure drawer—”
“Oh, Mother!” he cried. “You know I told you not to go there.”
Her eyes filled with sudden tears. “I don’t know,” she said incoherently. “I can’t remember—I only know I found it in my own drawer.”
“But I told you there were people in the house and you mustn’t go there—”
“They didn’t see me,” she said earnestly. “They didn’t see me, Iain. I crept upstairs so quietly. I didn’t bother the people. There were bright lights in the house, and music—I think they must have been having a party—so I crept up the stairs very quietly. They couldn’t mind me going to my own room—”
“It isn’t your room now,” said Iain—he was too upset and horrified at what had occurred to consider her feelings, or be wise with her any more.
“It’s always been my room,” she said—her lip trembled and the tears rolled down her cheeks. “It’s always been my room—I don’t understand things very well, now, but I know my own room—my own room—”
Iain pulled himself up—it was no use scolding her, she couldn’t understand; it wasn’t her fault.
“Never mind,” he said, patting her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter, darling, it’s all right. See, I’m not angry with you at all—but you must give me the bracelet to take back, because, you see, it doesn’t belong to you—”
“Oh, no,” she said, clinging to the bracelet firmly. “Oh, no—it’s mine, Iain. It was in my drawer, so it must be mine. I had forgotten about it—you know how I forget things—”
“Please, darling,” Iain said gently. “Please give it to me. You know it isn’t yours.”
She shook the tears from her eyes and hid the wrist with the bracelet on it beneath the bedclothes. Her face hardened before his eyes in a queer way. “No, you can’t have it,” she said. “You can’t have it—I want it, and it’s mine.”
Iain saw that he could not get it from her without a scene. She would forget about it soon, and they could take it away while she was asleep. That was the better way. In any case nothing could be done about restoring the bracelet to its rightful owner until later in the day. She might just as well keep it for a few hours and have the pleasure of it—his heart ached over her.
“All right, you keep it,” he said gently. “But you must cuddle down in bed and let me tuck you up or you will catch cold, darling. There now, is that cosy?”
She lay down obediently, still clutching the bracelet tightly against her breast. Her long dusty eyelashes flickered over her dark eyes—she would sleep now—Iain knew that—sleep for hours perhaps. He went away and left her. Quite suddenly he was tired—so tired that his brain refused to deal with this new problem. He dropped his finery on the floor, crept into his narrow camp-bed, and, in a few moments, he, too, was fast asleep.
* * * * *
When Iain woke it was midday. He opened his eyes and saw Janet standing beside his bed with a tray in her hands.
“It’s time you were waking, MacAslan,” she said quietly.
Iain lay still and looked at her for a few moments. His brain was clouded with sleep, but he had a feeling that something was wrong—what was it? Janet’s face was grave and stern—almost wooden—only her eyes were alive with expression, they were full of misery.
“There’s something the matter, Janet,” he said, struggling to remember what it was.
“Aye,” she said, “there’s something the matter right enough. I doubt you’ll be vexed with me, MacAslan.”
“Vexed with you?”
“I’ve betrayed ma trust,” she said solemnly. She put the tray down on the chest of drawers, and took the emerald bracelet out of her apron pocket, and showed it to him. “See that, MacAslan,” she added. “You’ll never guess hoo that came here.”
“I don’t need to guess. I know.”
“Och, for any sake!” cried Janet in horror-stricken tones. “You’re niver telling me you saw her at the hoose! She said naebody saw her—you’re niver telling me she went intae the room—”
“Nobody saw her—that I know of,” he said quickly. “It was when I came in. She called me into her bedroom and showed it to me.”
“Thank the Lord naebody saw her,” said Janet. She stood there for a moment in silence, looking at the glittering jewel that lay coiled up in her work-worn hand. “Thank the Lord,” she said again, and then she added in a different tone: “If you’re sairtain of that, MacAslan, we can get it pit back where it came frae and nae hairm done.”
Iain lay still and thought about it—he was fully awake now—he was wondering if it was his mother who had passed when Linda and he were standing in the dark passage together—he was almost sure that it was she. That was the way she moved, lightly and noiselessly as one of the Little People themselves. If he had spoken to her then, or touched her, he could have prevented this thing from happening—he didn’t know—he couldn’t think—what strange inhibition had prevented him.
“It was my blame,” Janet was saying, her Doric very much in evidence as it always was when she was moved or upset. “There’s nae ither body tae blame but masel’. I was tired, MacAslan, an’ I went airly tae ma bed. She must ha’ creepit oota the hoose when I was sleeping. I kenned naething of it till I went in this morning, an’ there she was happed up in her bed playing wi’ the thing. It was my blame—”
“No,” said Iain firmly. “You couldn’t help it, Janet. How could you know she would take a thing that didn’t belong to her.”
“I micht have kenned,” said Janet miserably. “She’s nae idea of what belongs tae her an’ what doesna’. She did the same thing in Edinburgh in the shops. I had tae keep an eye on her there.”
“You never told me.”
“An’ what was the use? You had eneuch trouble tae bear—an’ there was naething much tae tell. It was just if she took a liking tae a thing—”
“You should have told me,” Iain said, sighing.
“An’ she was all for gaeing up tae the hoose when we were oot in the morning,” Janet continued. “It was all I could dae tae thwart her. I should niver have brought her back frae Edinburgh—and that’s all aboot it. Here,” she added in a different voice, “you’d best tak’ your braikfast before it’s cauld, an’ the tea stewed,” and she took up the tray and set it firmly on his knees.
Iain could not help smiling in the midst of his anxiety. The skies might fall, but Janet would still insist, in her sensible downright manner, upon people taking their food before it grew cold. He sat up obediently and arranged his pillow behind his back.
Janet settled the tray comfortably. “There now,” she said. “Tak’ your braikfast and then we’ll conseeder what’s tae be done. It’s an ungoadly hour tae be taking braikfast, but I wasna’ going tae waken you before noon. I’ve been stravaigling up an’ doon the stair the hale morning watching for you tae waken—an’ no a thing done in the hoose—”
“Poor Janet!” he said, half smiling at the picture evoked.
“Puir Janet indeed!” she echoed indignantly. “I’ve been biting ma thumb at masel’. It would be a kind of comfort if you’d be a wee thing vexed at me, MacAslan.”
Iain laughed outright at that. It was so typical of Janet—she set herself, and others, the highest standard of efficiency and was annoyed when human nature fell short of her ideal.
“You couldn’t help it,” he said again. “You can’t be with her night and day—”
“An’ that’s jist it,” cried Janet. “That’s jist the verra thing folks will be saying if they hear aboot it. They ought to have her watched, folks will say, or, if they canna watch her properly, they ought tae pit her away—” The last words were almost a whisper, she did not dare to look at Iain as she said them. “And you ken yoursel’ it’s not true,” she continued defiantly. “You ken yoursel’ there’s naething wrang wi’ the puir soul but just a kind of vagueness, whiles. But if she was tae be watched an’ thwarted there’s no saying where it would lead. You ken yoursel’ she hates the verra idea of folks interfering wi’ her. It would drive her clean demented—or intae her grave—”
“I know,” said Iain wretchedly.
“There’s nae need tae be unco fashed aboot it,” Janet continued. “She’ll be fine when we get hame tae oor ain hoose. It’s jist she’s restless here and she doesna’ understand why she’s no getting hame tae Ardfalloch. She’s for ever wandering—she’s wanting back tae her ain hame that’s a’.”
Iain nodded. He knew what people said about his mother—he knew it all. He could read their thoughts in their faces—or thought he could. But she was all right in her own home, just as Janet said. She could wander about the place at will, and there was nothing to hurt her. The people on the estate watched over her unobtrusively, they were fond of her, and they respected her strangeness; it was a distinction in their eyes to be different from other people. She wandered about Ardfalloch like a little ghost, and she was—in her own way—happy.
He thought of all this, and then he said, “It’s my fault, really, Janet—not yours. I had a feeling that it would upset her—the change. I should never have let Ardfalloch.”
“Och—away wi’ you!” she said. “What else were you tae dae? You didna’ let Ardfalloch for the pleesure of the thing. Dinna fash yoursel’, MacAslan, there’s some way oot o’ this coil—an’ I’ll tak’ guid care it doesna’ happen again.”
“Some way out of it,” echoed Iain thoughtfully.
Janet nodded. “We’ll get the thing pit back,” she said. “If naebody saw her, naebody’s tae ken who took it.”
“And who’s going to put it back?”
“Donald will,” said Janet firmly. “He’s waiting on you the noo—doon the stair—”
* * * * *
It was afternoon. Iain was walking up to Ardfalloch House with the emerald bracelet in his pocket. He had thought of every other way out of the mess, and none of them satisfied him—there was only one thing to do and Iain was on his way to do it, he was going to see Mrs. Hetherington Smith and tell her exactly what had happened. It would not be pleasant to lay bare the secret of his mother’s weakness (he hated the thought of it. He never spoke of the subject if he could avoid it, he shied from speaking of it even with Janet, and now he was on his way to expose his secret to a stranger). Iain had thought of every other way first. He had considered Janet’s suggestion that the bracelet should be restored to the drawer as surreptitiously as it had been taken, and Donald’s suggestion that it should be dropped somewhere in the house where it would be found and restored to its owner. Donald and Janet had combined—for once—in trying to dissuade him from the course he was taking; Donald, because he felt the honour of the house was at stake, and Janet because she feared that if Mrs. MacAslan’s condition should become known she would be removed from her care; and both of them because they loved MacAslan and were anxious to spare him the ordeal of returning the bracelet, and explaining the circumstances of its removal to Mrs. Hetherington Smith.
Iain had listened to them both and considered their suggestions, but he knew that neither way would do. Somebody might get into trouble over the thing, somebody might be accused of theft. It would not do to shirk the issue, he must bear his mother’s weakness on his own shoulders, it was his burden.
He rang the bell and waited quietly on his own doorstep for the butler to come. He found himself hoping that Mrs. Hetherington Smith would be out—but that was foolishness. If she were out he would merely have to sit and wait until she returned—what good would that be?
Mrs. Hetherington Smith was at home. Iain was ushered into the big airy drawing-room and left there. He looked round with interest and some pain. Last night the room had been a ball-room—any ball-room—this afternoon it was once more a drawing-room—his own drawing-room. Queerly enough, the room seemed almost more strange to him than a totally strange room would have been—the furniture was disposed differently, and there were strange objects amongst the familiar ones. He thought there was a strange atmosphere in the room—it was probably imagination—the room did not seem to welcome him, it smelt different, somehow.
He was still trying to chase his elusive impressions when Mrs. Hetherington Smith came in. She was dressed in grey tweeds, very correctly and suitably for a Highland afternoon.
“How nice of you to come!” she said, giving him her hand and smiling at him. “You’re our landlord, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Iain.
She thought: goodness, the man’s in trouble! He’s nervous and miserable—what on earth’s the matter with him, I wonder. “You came to the dance with the Finlays,” she said aloud. “I didn’t know who you were when you spoke to me—our butler’s stupid at names—but the funny thing was that I was sure I knew your face.”
“I don’t think we had met before.”
“You hadn’t met me, but I had met you,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith, smiling. She made a little movement with her hand. “The pictures,” she explained. “You are awfully like the pictures of your ancestors, you know, especially the one in the library. I’ve been longing to see you and ask you about everything—who was he?”
“He was my great-great-grandfather,” replied Iain. “A bit of a brigand in his day, I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Hetherington Smith nodded. “He looks like that,” she said. “Now don’t go and think I mean you look like a brigand.”
“It certainly sounds like it,” Iain said, half smiling.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that he looked like a prince—she had thought so last night—but perhaps he wouldn’t like it, and, now that she came to look at him again, he didn’t look so like a prince as she had imagined. He was dressed differently, of course, but it wasn’t only the clothes—there was something different about the man himself. The glory of him had vanished, the brilliance of him was dimmed,; to-day he was just an ordinary young man—very handsome, of course, with those dark eyes of his, and the tanned skin, and the clear-cut line of nose and chin, but definitely not a prince.
Mrs. Hetherington Smith laughed. “Well, you don’t look fierce enough for a brigand,” she said.
Iain thought: this is awful. How am I going to tell her? It’s far more difficult than I thought it would be. She is nice, of course. He looked at her with a sort of desperation.
“You’ve come about something, perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “Something about the house—is it? We love it, you know. It’s so—so different from other houses. I’ll tell you rather a queer thing about this place—it makes me feel real.”
“Real?” he echoed.
She thought: what a fool I was to think he would understand! Nobody could, unless they knew what my life had been, and I’m not going to start telling the Story of my Life to a perfectly strange young man on an afternoon call. She said aloud, “Yes, real. London life is so artificial.” That’ll put him off, she thought.
Iain said thoughtfully: “people are usually real when they’re in their own niche. I’m real when I’m here. If I go away from here I’m not myself—I haven’t explained it well—what I mean is this: if I go to London and meet people there, I’m a Highland gentleman in London—an actor on a stage—but when I am here in my own place I am MacAslan.”
He is like a prince, she thought, and he does understand. If I don’t want him to understand too much I shall have to be careful. “It can’t be that with me, can it?” she said lightly.
“It might be,” he replied thoughtfully. “If you haven’t found your own niche in London.”
This was all very well, but he was no nearer telling her about the bracelet than he had been at the beginning. How on earth shall I tell her? he thought, battling desperately with himself—I can’t tell her. The thing’s impossible.
Mrs. Hetherington Smith had been watching him. She said at last, “You’ve come to see me about something, haven’t you?” She thought: the poor soul had better get it off his chest, whatever it is. Perhaps he wants the money in advance, or something. Arthur will have to give it to him! I’ll make Arthur do it.
“Yes, I’ve come to see you about this,” said Iain. He took the bracelet out of his pocket and laid it down on the table.
Mrs. Hetherington Smith took it up and looked at it. “Fancy that, now!” she said calmly. “Aren’t I lucky to get it back?”
“You recognise it, of course,” Iain said.
“Oh, yes, it’s mine all right. Arthur gave it to me for Christmas. I didn’t say anything to Arthur about losing it. He gets so upset, and I hoped it might turn up. I’m rather apt to be careless about things.”
Iain said: “you didn’t lose it, Mrs. Hetherington Smith. It was—it was taken out of your drawer.”
She nodded. “I know,” she said. “I remembered I had left it lying loose in the drawer—I ought to have locked the drawer, but I was in a hurry, so I just popped it in. It was last night when I was dressing for the dance, I took it out, thinking I’d wear it, and then I thought I’d stick to diamonds. You can’t ever go wrong with diamonds—”
Iain scarcely heard what she was saying. He was waiting for her to stop talking so that he could explain what had happened, but she went on and on—he had to interrupt her at last.
“I want to apologise,” he said. “I want to explain. It was my mother who took it out of your drawer. My mother is not—not normal. She had a great shock, and, since then, her brain has been—her brain has been affected. She came up here last night when her maid was asleep. She—she came into the house and found her way to her own room. She found the bracelet in the drawer where she keeps her own little treasures—and she took it. She didn’t know—she didn’t mean any harm—she doesn’t understand—she doesn’t mean any harm—”
“Oh, poor soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Hetherington Smith.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this should have happened,” continued Iain wretchedly. “It’s—I can’t tell you—her maid was asleep, you see—”
“How dreadfully sad!” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “Of course it’s quite easy to understand. She found it in her own drawer—and she thought it was pretty—”
“Yes,” agreed Iain. It seemed queer that Mrs. Hetherington Smith was not more horrified. She was a kind woman, of course—he had known that before—but even a kind woman might well be annoyed and upset at having a valuable bracelet stolen out of her drawer by her landlord’s mother. He had expected her to be angry—she had a right to be angry—he had expected her to suggest that a woman with kleptomania ought to be locked up, or at least kept under proper control; but Mrs. Hetherington Smith said none of these obvious things.
Iain waited patiently for the storm to break. He was quite prepared to abase himself, to accept all the blame. It was even possible that she might call in the police—possible but not probable.
“Poor soul!” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith again. She turned the bracelet over in her hand and looked at it thoughtfully. “I wonder, now,” she said. “D’you think the poor soul would like to keep it? It seems such a shame to take it away from her, doesn’t it?”
Iain gazed at her in amazement. He said at last: “you can’t be serious, Mrs. Hetherington Smith—this is no joke to me.”
“No, of course it’s not a joke to you—nor to me either—it must be dreadfully sad for you—dreadfully sad. I feel so sorry,” she said, raising her eyes from the bracelet and looking at him kindly. “It was because I felt so sorry that I felt I would like to give it to her.”
“Thank you,” he said in a strained voice. “But I couldn’t take it, you know.”
“Well, perhaps not,” she replied doubtfully. “But it seems a pity, because I would like to give it to her—and I expect she would like to have it.”
“I think you are a most extraordinary woman!” Iain exclaimed, and then quite suddenly he began to laugh. It was partly the reaction from strain—the relief of getting the dreadful thing told—and partly because he suddenly saw the humour of it. He tried to stifle his laughter, but it was no use. It rose like a tide, and overwhelmed him, he laughed and laughed. Mrs. Hetherington Smith laughed too.
At last Iain managed to control himself. “I’m sorry,” he said shakily; “but it is funny, you know. I’ve been worrying so awfully about what you would say—”
“What could I have said?” asked his hostess, wiping her eyes.
Iain did not answer that; he merely said, “You are a most extraordinary woman.”
“Perhaps I am,” she agreed. “I’ve had a funny kind of life, you know. But, of course, you don’t know, and I’m not going to tell you,” she added hastily.
“Why should you?” Iain said, slightly at a loss.
She smiled at him in her kind way. “Now we’re friends,” she said, “don’t you think you might let me give your mother the bracelet?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“It’s your pride,” she told him rather sadly. “Sir Julius says that you Highlanders are as proud as the devil—and I’m afraid he’s right.”
“It’s not only my own pride,” Iain said. “It’s a sort of hereditary obligation—rather a burden in these difficult times.”
“I see what you mean—in a way,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “I see you’ve got something to live up to. That great-great-grandfather who was a brigand—though why he should stand in the way of me giving your mother a little present—but I do see what you mean—”
“I’m glad you see.”
“It must be rather nice,” continued Mrs. Hetherington Smith, pursuing her own line of thought. “It must be rather nice to have lots of ancestors. Perhaps, if I had a picture of a great-great-grandfather who was a brigand, it would make me feel more real. I might feel I had a place of my own in the world instead of being outside things—neither one thing nor the other.”
Iain said nothing. He realised that she was not really speaking to him, she was merely uttering her own thoughts. She was scarcely aware that she was uttering them aloud. She thought of Mrs. Hogg as she spoke—I’m not of her world either, she thought (silently this time). I’m a kind of ghost—homeless. Even here, although I feel more real, I don’t really belong. I don’t suppose I shall ever feel at home anywhere, now. It’s too late. But anyhow I’ve got Arthur back again, and I can’t be entirely homeless as long as I’ve got Arthur. . . .
She said at last. “Well, now we know where we are. You’ll stay and have tea with me, won’t you?—Just to show there’s no ill feeling.”
“Ill feeling!” exclaimed Iain. “I don’t know how to thank you—I can’t ever thank you properly for your kindness. It’s beyond words, beyond anything I could have imagined.”
“Then you’ll stay to tea,” she said prosaically, getting up and ringing the bell. “The men won’t be back—they’re shooting with Lord Beldale to-day—and Greta has gone out with a Mr. Middleton. I don’t know who he is, but she seems to know him. To tell you the truth I’m thankful she has found a friend; there isn’t much for Greta to do here. Sometimes I’ve felt rather sorry I asked her to come. Linda and I would have been much happier by ourselves. Greta has to be doing things all the time or she gets into mischief—you know what I mean—so if she takes up with this Middleton man it will be all to the good and she won’t want to go out with the guns. Sometimes it’s a little awkward, you know.”
“Yes,” said Iain. He knew these women who were always wanting to go out with the guns.
“Do you know this man Middleton?” enquired his hostess.
“I’ve met him,” Iain told her. “He’s staying at the local inn.”
“What is he like?”
“Tall and fair and broad-shouldered—”
“But what is he like inside?”
Iain laughed. “That’s more difficult,” he said. “He’s rather amusing in a way—full of his own importance—rather bold—”
Mrs. Hetherington Smith nodded. “That’s the kind of man Greta likes,” she said. “I asked you about him because there was a kind of mystery—the man won’t come to lunch; he wouldn’t come to the dance; he won’t shoot—queer, isn’t it?”
“Very,” said Iain. “I thought he wanted shooting.”
“Well, he doesn’t. Greta says she has known him for years, but she said it funnily—if you know what I mean—either it wasn’t true, or else there’s something fishy about him. What should you think?”
“I couldn’t possibly tell you—I don’t know anything about him,” said Iain helplessly. He didn’t really care whether or not there was a secret understanding between one of Mrs. Hetherington Smith’s guests and James Middleton.
“Here’s tea!” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “Put the table over near the window please, Frame.”
They sat down and had tea together. Mrs. Hetherington Smith wanted to know all sorts of things about Ardfalloch. Iain found himself talking eagerly, telling her about the history of the place and about the old castle on the island. She was an excellent listener. The afternoon sunshine streamed in through the open window and showed up the shabbiness of the carpet and the faded cretonnes. Iain noticed it and sighed, the walls needed re-papering too.
“I love this room,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith, following his eyes.
“I was thinking how shabby it was,” Iain told her ruefully.
“I like this kind of shabbiness—everything has faded together—like people growing old together. You would spoil it if you tried to alter it. I think a room like this is very restful. Our house is all too new (I don’t mean it’s modern, I hate that modern furniture made of steel tubes and things, it reminds me of a dentist’s chair. I don’t know why it does, because dentists’ chairs are not a bit like that really). Our furniture is very nice, but I think I shall feel happier when it has got a little shabby, if you know what I mean!”
“Yes,” said Iain vaguely, and then he plucked up courage and added, “I wonder if Linda—if Mrs. Medworth is in.”
Mrs. Hetherington Smith smiled benignly. “Linda has gone down to the boat-house with Richard,” she told him. “They were going to have a picnic in the woods. You’re sure to meet them if you walk down towards the boat-house—why don’t you?”
“Perhaps I will,” said Iain, with assumed carelessness.
“I think you should,” his hostess told him, and then she laughed. “You needn’t pretend to me,” she said, shaking her head at him. “I could see last night that there was something in the wind—I’m not so blind as all that—and Sir Julius saw it too—he was furious—”
Iain blushed. “Linda and I—” he said confusedly . . .
“It’s all right,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “It’s quite all right and natural. I thought when I saw you dancing together it was beautifully right. Linda is lovely, inside and out—she’ll be free soon—”
“I know,” said Iain. He got up and stood there looking down at her—she really was a dear, so kind and comfortable.
“Sir Julius is old,” continued Mrs. Hetherington Smith ruthlessly, “old and—and dull. He wouldn’t have had a chance, anyhow. Don’t worry about Sir Julius.”
“I’m not worrying about him.”
“What are you worrying about, then?”
“Linda is—afraid,” said Iain slowly. “She’s afraid of Medworth—afraid something will go wrong. And I—I’m afraid of shadows. It would be too wonderful, you see, too good to be true.”
She looked up at him and thought: he is nice—almost good enough for Linda. No man could be quite good enough. It’s nice to feel they wouldn’t have met if it hadn’t been for me. How lovely it will be for Linda living here in this beautiful place—she’ll be happy here, she’s just the right person. If it had been Greta it would have been a disaster—Greta would never settle down here, miles from everywhere. What a good thing he has fallen in love with the right one—men are so silly sometimes. “You shouldn’t be afraid,” she said aloud. “Everything will come right. Ardfalloch is a lucky place—it’s brought me luck anyhow.” It was Arthur she was thinking of—Ardfalloch had brought Arthur back to her arms; had weaned him from Business—that exigeant mistress of his. He might return to his mistress when they returned to London—that was possible, of course—but, meanwhile, Arthur was her very own, and, even if he was only temporarily hers, it was something. It showed that his heart, which she had feared was dead, was still alive and warm and beating. “Yes,” she said, “Ardfalloch has brought me luck and I’m sure it will bring Linda luck too.”
“I should like to think so,” said Iain gravely.
Mrs. Hetherington Smith’s mind travelled back to the first time she had met Linda at M. Gaston’s mannequin parade. We’ve come a long way since then, she thought. Fancy, if I hadn’t had the courage to speak to her! None of this would have happened; Linda wouldn’t have come here, and I would never have seen Richard—the darling thing—and this young man would never have met her—how queer it is! She said aloud, “Off you go, Mr. MacAslan—I know you’re longing to find her. I won’t ring the bell for you to be shown out, because it would be silly when it’s your own house—and we’re friends, now, aren’t we?”
“I should think we are friends,” he said fervently.
Iain left her and went out to find Linda. The day had clouded over and dark clouds were gathering over the hills. He could smell rain coming and he was not altogether sorry, for the country needed rain; but Linda and Richard would have to hurry home, or they would get wet.
He had not gone far when he saw Linda. She was standing near the boat-house talking to a boy with red hair—one of Alec MacNeil’s brood by the look of him. Linda looked up and saw Iain coming and came to meet him. He saw that she had a piece of paper in her hand. He saw, too, as he hurried to meet her, that she looked ghastly—her face was as white as a sheet, her hands were shaking.
“Linda!” he exclaimed. “My dear, what is the matter? Where’s Richard?” It’s Richard, he thought, something frightful has happened to the child.
“Richard is down at the boat-house,” she said tonelessly.
“Are you—are you ill, Linda?” he asked her.
She put the piece of paper into his hand. “Read it,” she said. “That boy has just brought it—just given it to me.”
Iain took the crumpled paper and smoothed it out. He read.
DEAR LINDA,—
I must see you. I have something to say to you. It is to your own interest to hear what I have to say. You’ll regret it if you refuse. Tell the red-haired boy when and where I can see you.
JACK.
Iain read it twice and then he looked at Linda. “Medworth!” he exclaimed. “So it was he—”
“Oh, Iain, what am I to do?”
“You had better let me see him for you,” Iain said, trying to speak calmly.
“No,” she said. “No, I must see him myself—there’s something—I must see what he wants—what he means to do. Anything is better than this ghastly uncertainty.”
“What can he have to say to you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, still in that queer expressionless voice. “I don’t know—but I feel—I feel it’s something horrible.”
Iain felt the same—the tone of the letter was threatening—but it was no use tormenting themselves with vain speculations. The only thing to be done was to see Medworth, and if Linda felt she must see him herself she must do so.
“You had better arrange to meet him at my cottage,” Iain said. “We can be undisturbed there—if you really feel you must see him yourself—”
“I must,” she said firmly. “Yes, your cottage will be the best place. Oh, Iain, I am sorry I have brought all this trouble upon you!”
Iain paid no attention to her outburst—the only way to help her was to be strictly business-like. He made her write on the back of the note that she would see Medworth at the cottage at three o’clock the following afternoon. Then he folded the note and gave it to the red-haired boy.
“Where is the gentleman living?” Iain asked.
“He is living at MacTaggart’s,” the boy replied. “He did be giving me a sixpence to be taking the letter to the lady.”
“Here is another sixpence for you,” Iain said. “Take the answer straight back to the gentleman.”
The boy thanked him and ran off, well pleased with his afternoon’s work.