Richard was in the MacNeils’ cottage, sitting on the creepy-stool by the fire talking to Morag. He liked talking to Morag, and he liked watching her at work—sometimes she let him help her. On this particular afternoon she was busy making oatcakes. Donald was fond of oatcakes and there had to be a good supply always ready.
Richard thought the little cottage was a fascinating place. He liked the whitewashed walls, and he liked the way the beams bulged behind the flaking plaster. There were beams in the roof too, high up amongst the shadows—dark cobwebby-looking beams that supported the sagging roof. Darkness up above and brightness down below, thought Richard. The little stove gleamed brightly, the fire glowed red, it winked and twinkled in the brass lids that hung on the wall, and the pewter jugs on the dresser, and the handle of the door that led into the tiny bedroom. Over the stove there hung a text in a carved wooden frame: “Is e Dia mo Bhuachaill.” Morag had told him how to say it, and what it meant in English. “The Lord is my Shepherd.” Richard said it over to himself softly, it gave him a nice safe feeling. . . .
It was beginning to get a little dark inside the cottage, for the day was clouding over; the window was small, and two big trees near the door helped to obscure the light.
“It’s cosy, isn’t it?” Richard said. “I like when it just begins to get dark, don’t you, Morag? Bright things look brighter, and dark things look darker—why do they?”
“I could not be telling you that, Richard,” Morag replied thoughtfully. She was busy with her oatcake mixture, oatcakes are tricky things to make. Unless the proportions are just right they are apt to be too brittle, or too soft. Morag made them constantly, but they always worried her a little. Richard’s eyes dwelt upon her, he liked being with Morag. There were no children at Ardfalloch for him to play with, and Morag was the nearest approach to a child that he had found. She was personally interested in all he said, and personal interest turns an adult into a companion. He did not realise this consciously, of course, he only knew that he liked talking to Morag; they talked together frankly and seriously as contemporaries talk; they had fun together, and Morag enjoyed the fun as much as Richard. She did not try to amuse him or entertain him, she became a child with him—they were equals, and perfectly comfortable in each other’s society. Another good thing about Morag was her stories—other people could sometimes be induced to tell stories, or read them out of books, but Morag’s stories were true. Morag believed in fairies—she said she didn’t, but she did really—Richard believed in fairies too. How could you not believe in fairies when they were all around you? Richard knew that there were fairies at Ardfalloch; he had not actually seen them, yet, but he had felt their presence, had felt, when he went through the woods by himself, that the fairies were there, all round him, peeping at him. He was quite sure when he came to a little clearing in the woods and found it empty of life but very still, very full of sunlight, he was quite sure that a moment ago there had been fairies here—or Little People, as Morag called them—they had heard him coming and they had vanished.
Richard was not frightened of them—not a bit frightened—in fact, he felt their presence was a sort of protection. He was sure they would not harm him. It was loud things that frightened Richard—loud noises and angry voices and big rough men with strong hands. Above all, one big, cruel, loud-voiced man. Richard trembled a little as he thought of that man—the thought of that man had come upon him unawares. He shut his eyes and squeezed the thought of that man out of his mind—he would not think about that man—he would not. If you didn’t think of things they didn’t exist—that man didn’t exist. Already Richard had discovered the way to lock things out of his mind—or rather he thought he had. He thought he was locking that man out of his mind, but really and truly he was locking up the little cupboard in his mind where that man lived. Richard turned the key in the lock with an effort that left him quite weak and faint, and opened his eyes. The kitchen was full of soft cosy firelight, Morag was busy kneading her dough, everything was warm, and safe, and comfortable, and very quiet—nobody could come here except nice people. . . .
“Are your oatcakes coming out well?” Richard enquired politely—he was aware of the thrawn nature of oatcakes, it was one of the many things he had learnt from Morag.
“The mixture is a wee thing wet,” said Morag. Richard rose at once and went to the cupboard where the big barrel of oatmeal was kept. He put in his hand and took out a handful of meal and brought it to her. Morag smiled down at him, he was so sweet, so serious, so anxious to be helpful.
“Tapadh leat! a laochain,” she said, in her soft clear voice.
“What does that mean, Morag?”
“It means, thank you, my wee laddie.”
“I think it sounds nicer in your language,” said Richard thoughtfully.
“Och, and so it does,” agreed Morag. “It is a fine language, the Gaelic, when the heart is speaking.”
This was a little beyond Richard’s comprehension, so he did not reply. He sprinkled the meal over the mixture and watched with interest while Morag mixed it in and kneaded it—what a fascinating thing it was, so doughy and cloggy. It assumed queer shapes under Morag’s pummelling, it clung stickily to her fingers.
“Look now. Richard,” Morag said, “I will give you a little piece and you can be making an oatcake yourself.”
“Oh, Morag!” he said eagerly. “May I really?”
She fetched another board, and floured it and divided off a piece of the dough for him. Meanwhile Richard rolled up the sleeves of his jersey and got himself an oblong wooden stool to stand on. He had helped Morag before, helped to stir puddings, and, once, to decorate a pie, but he had never helped to make oatcakes before—oatcakes were difficult. His small face was quite pink with excitement as he started to knead, watching Morag and copying her every movement like an assiduous little ape. The dough was plastic under his fingers, he rolled it out and smoothed it, and then squeezed it up again.
“Look, Morag!” he said. “I’ve made a rabbit—see its long ears.”
“It is very good,” said Morag gravely. “It is very like a rabbit. We will bake it now.”
“Oh, Morag, can you have oatcake rabbits?”
She laughed. “I have never seen one before,” she admitted. “But there is no reason at all why we should not have one. We must squash it flat or it will not cook nicely, but it will still be a rabbit.” She ran the rolling pin lightly over the rabbit, it came out rather long and thin, but it was still indubitably a rabbit. Richard lifted it carefully and put it on to the girdle with Morag’s more conventional three-cornered pieces. Then he went back to his stool near the stove.
Morag took up her knitting and sat down in the big chair. She kept one eye on the girdle as she worked—it was very quiet. Richard listened to the clicking of her needles in the quietness, it was a soothing sound.
He said at last, “The fire is twinkling among your neegles, Morag. I like it. I like your kitchen. I like everything in your house.”
“So do I,” Morag agreed, looking round the little room lovingly. “It is a very nice wee house.”
“When I’m grown up I’ll have a little house just like this,” continued Richard dreamily. “It’s much more fun than a big house, much cosier and sort of—sort of safer—”
“Och, but you will not!” Morag said. “You will be a gentleman when you are grown up, and a gentleman does not live in a wee house like this.”
“Then I won’t be a gentleman,” said Richard firmly.
“Och, but you will be a gentleman,” Morag told him gravely. “You cannot help yourself. You will be a gentleman, and you will have a fine wife, and a big house and servants to wait on you, and you will be shooting and fishing like gentlemen do. You will be too grand for Morag then—”
“But I won’t be like that a bit,” he told her earnestly. “Mummy and I are very poor, you know. We are going to live in a tiny little house together, and I’m going to make money for her when I’m grown up.”
Morag smiled her ghostly flitting smile, she did not think that Richard’s life would be like that. Everybody in Ardfalloch was sure that MacAslan would marry Mrs. Medworth—the thing had been discussed in every cottage in the glen. MacAslan had saved her life; they had been wrecked on the island together; and they had danced together at the ball for all the world to see. Alec and Gregor had seen them and had reported it to all and sundry. Everybody was interested—vitally interested in MacAslan’s doings, and everybody was glad that he had found a lady that pleased him at last—it was high time there was an heir at Ardfalloch House.—She was a nice lady, too—so they all agreed—there was a dignity about her, and yet she was not proud and stuck-up, she had a kind smile for everybody—so she had.
Morag thought of all this as she smiled her enigmatic smile, but she said nothing—it was not for her to put ideas into Richard’s head. She thought how nice it would be to have Richard at the Big House, he would grow big and strong in the fine air. He would come and see her sometimes, and she was glad to think of that, for she loved Richard very dearly. You could not help loving Richard, he was so sweet and serious, and so pretty. It would be nice to have a little son like that, thought Morag. She had thought so the very first time she saw Richard; and now she thought it again, even more fervently, for she knew Richard now. She sighed a little—she and Donald had been married for two years and there was no sign of a little son.
“Why are you sighing, Morag?” Richard enquired.
She replied quite simply, “I was thinking I would like to be having a little son, chust like you.”
“Yes,” he agreed, nodding gravely. “It would be nice for you, Morag. It would be company for you when Donald was out. Of course it would be a long time before he was big enough to help you like me. Babies aren’t much good, just at first.”
“He would grow.”
“Yes, of course,” said Richard. “Why don’t you ask God to send you a baby?”
“I have asked Him, Richard.”
“I’ll ask too,” said Richard. “I’ll ask Him to-night when I say my prayers.”
“That will be very kind of you,” Morag said.
There was a little silence after that; the fire glowed redly, and they heard the rain begin to patter gently on the roof.
“Morag,” said Richard suddenly, “tell me more about the Little People.”
“I have told you too much already,” Morag said. “It is not true, Richard, there are no Little People in your world.”
“Not in London, of course,” agreed Richard. “But there are here. I nearly saw them this morning in the woods—”
He broke off suddenly, for there were footsteps outside on the little path, and, a moment later, a knock on the door. Morag rose and went to open the door. She found MacAslan waiting on the step.
“Is Richard still here?” he asked.
“Yes, he is still here, MacAslan,” replied Morag, smiling. “He has been helping me—”
Iain took off his cap and went in. He saw Richard sitting on the little stool by the fire, there was a peaceful happy expression on his small face.
“I’ve come to take you home, Richard,” Iain said. “Mummy has gone on—”
Richard looked up and smiled. “Now?” he asked, rather reluctantly.
“Would MacAslan not wait till the rain is past?” Morag suggested.
“It’s only a shower,” Iain said. “I think we had better go.” He knew that Linda would worry if they did not go at once, and she was worried and anxious enough already, but he had a feeling that he was an intruder in Morag’s kitchen, he was interrupting something. . . .
It was a queer feeling, and it passed as quickly as it had come. In a few moments Richard had found his cap and his jacket, and they were walking back to Ardfalloch House together through the sweetly perfumed dampness of the woods.
* * * * *
When Iain got back to the cottage he found Donald waiting for him in the sitting-room. He was standing by the window, and Iain had a sudden impression of Donald’s enormous stature. He seemed to dwarf the room. He turned as Iain came in and Iain saw that he was disturbed in some way, but he was too deeply sunk in his own grave troubles to spare more than a passing thought for Donald’s unusual mien. He flung himself into a chair without speaking and gazed at the fire. There was no need to pretend to Donald—they understood each other too well. It was one of the good things about Donald that there was no need to explain one’s mood. If Donald did not understand one’s mood, he at least respected it.
Iain was so utterly wretched, so sore and angry that he wanted to be alone, but Donald’s company did not irk him—to be with Donald was just like being alone, it was almost better.
“There is something the matter, MacAslan,” said Donald at last.
Iain laughed bitterly. “There certainly is,” he replied. “Everything is the matter—”
“Is there anything I can be doing to help?” Donald enquired anxiously.
“No, there is nothing. I can’t even tell you about it.”
“Are you sure of that? There is nothing I would not do for MacAslan—nothing at all.”
“There is nothing to be done.”
“That is a pity, then,” said Donald.
There was a little silence between them, and then Iain began to speak. He spoke at random with unusual bitterness; he spoke because he had come to such a pass that he could not remain silent.
“It’s a strange world, Donald. You and I have been born in strange times. We have been born too late. If we had lived long ago we would have been free to follow our inclinations. It’s nonsense to talk of freedom nowadays—we are bound. Civilization has bound us with invisible bonds—”
He stopped suddenly and glanced at Donald. Donald must not guess the nature of his trouble—he had promised Linda—but Donald could not guess. Donald had no clue to what had happened, no means of knowing, and the thing was far too complicated for Donald to understand. It was perfectly safe to let himself go, to talk in this vague wild way; perfectly safe, and what an incredible relief! Iain felt as if the pent-up rage and bitterness was pouring out of him as he spoke.
“I have shared in your troubles many times, MacAslan,” said Donald a trifle wistfully.
“Nobody can share this,” replied Iain quickly. “Nobody at all. I have given my word.”
“That is a pity.”
“Nobody can help me,” Iain continued with something like despair in his voice as the magnitude of the disaster which had befallen him and Linda came clearly before his mind. “Nobody can help. I can’t help myself. I see the trouble coming and I cannot avert it. I am bound. I must sit down and wait for the trouble to come, and that is a hard thing to do. Oh, Donald, this modern world is impossible for a natural man to live in. I was born with the instincts of my forefathers—their feelings and desires are in my blood. I belong to a bygone age. I would to God I had lived in the days when a man took what he wanted by force and held it, when a man swept his enemies from his path like so many flies—”
“They must have been good days,” Donald agreed. “But even now—”
“You don’t understand,” Iain told him. “All is changed now, and, even if it were not changed, I am bound—I have allowed myself to be bound so that I may not even rid the world of a wild beast.”
That was the thought that was embittering him now. He had allowed himself to be bound. He had allowed Linda to bind him with promises so that he must not touch a hair of Medworth’s head—so that Medworth must go free. Medworth—the mere thought of the man almost choked him with rage. His face grew dark with anger, and his hands were clenched upon the arms of the chair until the knuckles shone white. If he saw the man now, even his sacred promises to Linda would not hold him back. What right had Linda to tie his hands and render him impotent to deal with his enemy?
“A man is not a man nowadays,” he cried with passionate bitterness. “Or at least he may not behave like one. He must bow his head to injustice, he must keep the law—even when he knows it to be false and unjust. Men fight with their tongues now, with lies and deceit. In the old days life was free and simple. A man followed his conscience and was answerable to God alone. He could right his own wrongs by his own power. A blow in the open is better than a lying whisper in the dark. Oh, it must have been good to be a man in those days!”
“Is there nothing I can do for MacAslan?” The grave words fell with strange significance into the little silence which had followed Iain’s impassioned speech.
Iain looked up—he had almost forgotten that Donald was there, so quiet had he been.
“There is nothing,” Iain said. “Nothing at all that you can do—or anybody else. I have spoken wild words, Donald—you must forget them. Nobody must know of this trouble.”
“Nobody shall know,” replied Donald firmly. “It is not likely that I should speak of MacAslan’s secrets to another person.”
Iain was content with the assurance. He knew that Donald was a safe repository for secrets, and, after all, what had he said? He had merely inveighed against the times he lived in and had voiced a futile—and somewhat childish—wish that he had been born in a manlier age. He sighed, and stirred in his chair, and his hands dropped slackly at his sides. He was suddenly very tired—more tired than he had ever been in his life.
“I must be going now,” Donald said quietly. “There are things I must be doing, MacAslan.”
“Did you come to see me about anything special?” Iain asked in a flat voice.
“It is no matter,” Donald assured him. “I will not be troubling you about the small things—”
“Come to-morrow,” said Iain. He felt quite incapable of coping with anything more to-night—even with the small details of the estate—his mind felt heavy and blank.
“We are shooting the south moors to-morrow,” Donald told him, “but I will come in the evening, if that will be suiting MacAslan.”
Iain nodded. He watched Donald cross the room to the door.
“Donald!” he said suddenly. “Donald, you understand—don’t you—I would have told you about this trouble if I could have done so—if I hadn’t been bound by a promise. You are not hurt—”
Donald looked back at him gravely. “I understand, MacAslan, and I am not hurt. There is no question of that at all. It is only that I would serve MacAslan in the trouble—”
He waited a moment, looking at the limp figure in the chair with questioning eyes, and then—as Iain neither moved nor spoke—he went out and shut the door behind him.