Part 11

Marcus said he hardly knew her, and felt this restraint on his part to be magnanimous.

Mrs. Scott smiled. “It’s so nice not to have to know relations on the other side, isn’t it? Sometimes they expect to be kissed—oh, I mean, women expect women relations on the other side—”

Marcus hastened to say he quite understood.

Mrs. Scott went on. “I was so sorry to miss your niece when I called. You can imagine how busy one is when one first comes back here. There are all the dear old people to see. I admired your niece so much that night—I was homesick for the breeze on the moor—for the views of hills in the distance—for—well, just for this dear country of mine and your niece seemed to open the door to its soft west wind.”

Marcus was very happy.

“I really want to tell you Ralph St. Jermyn arrives to-morrow. You know why I expect you to be interested? I have not forgotten how interested he seemed that night. Does she care, do you think?”

“I cannot tell whether my niece cares for any one or not—there are several.”

“Of course there must be, but Ralph is so—”

“Yes, I know, but she must do as she wishes—”

“Of course—I only thought—perhaps, hoped—I was very sleepy that night. I forget much of what happened.”

Marcus was relieved to hear it.

“You were very kind to me, I remember. I am so insignificant in a ballroom, I generally go to sleep: but people are very kind; some one always tells me when it’s time to wake up—but here I count and I like it. I am thankful to be noticed by any one in London, but here people are bound to notice me,”—and the little woman laughed. “I stand out. The biggest gillie runs to do my bidding, and I love them all—gillies, women, children; lairds too—all of them; and my one hope is that my Sheila may meet some good man soon and marry him at once, so that I may never have to go to London again. Will you tell your niece how kind she was the other day at the bazaar? But she ran away too soon. I am afraid these things bore young people, although my party were very long-suffering—I am a fearful ogre, I fear.”

Marcus turned and looked at her: a little speck of kind humanity she seemed in a vast sea of heather. At her feet, heather; behind her, heather; before her, the rushing river; above her, the blue sky; encircling her on all sides, hills, hills, hills.

“It’s good to be alive—it’s a good world,” she said, but Marcus was not so sure that it was. His days were spent without Diana, and his evenings with Pease and Watkins; while Hastings talked to Diana about her father. It was quite impossible, he knew, that there should be so much to say about any one man, and now to add to it all another man was coming who would also talk to Diana—of many things.

XVI

_When a man lights a fire for a poor little bird, It shows that those beautiful words he has heard, That never a sparrow can fall to the ground But a wound in the heart of his Maker be found._

When Ralph St. Jermyn had arrived at the Scotts’ there were assembled, within reasonable distance, what Aunt Elsie would have called all Diana’s admirers, and Marcus, having expressed a wish to see them all together, so that he might judge of them, Diana set about to make plans so that he might have the opportunity he sought.

Her mind being full of islands, having heard much of one from Miles Hastings, she bethought herself of a bird-island that lay out to sea at some distance from the end of the Loch, and on that island she proposed Uncle Marcus and the other men should spend some time together. Marcus was perfectly willing. He was interested in sea-birds and loved the sea; moreover, he was always anxious to do anything Diana asked him to do, in the hope, perhaps, that Aunt Elsie would have proved in like circumstances less amenable. There was always that incentive to an extreme amiability.

Uncle Marcus said he would ask St. Jermyn to join them and stay the night; but Diana must understand it was late in the season for young birds to be hatched. It was very unlikely there would be any. Diana didn’t mind that—a bird was a bird, no matter its age. She had a good deal to say to Miles Hastings on the subject of islands. She dwelt on them particularly at those times when he wanted to talk of other things—emphasizing rather persistently, he thought, the fact that whereas one man on an island was as helpless as a new-born babe, another was useful, resourceful, and undefeated. He said he understood: Uncle Marcus would be rather useless, St. Jermyn more so. “But you,” said Diana, “would make soup out of birds’ nests?”

He questioned it, but she persisted and went so far as to predict that he would serve it up in the half of a cocoanut shell, to which he readily agreed, such things being usually found on the islands of Scotland.

“Wait and see,” she said.

He was waiting as it was, and growing daily more and more hopeless; just as surely as Diana was growing more and more delightful, and, of course, more and more beautiful. Any girl may do that, is bound to do it, in the eyes at least of the man who loves her. With Mr. Maitland, Hastings felt he made no progress. He was polite, as a host is almost in duty bound to be, but he never talked about Diana as Hastings would have liked him to talk: never left them alone together, as Hastings would have liked to be left. He very often, on the contrary, prevented them being alone and Diana unfortunately did not seem to notice it. Hastings wondered in what way he might propitiate his host. He might save him from drowning, but it was hardly likely Mr. Maitland would place himself in that particular danger, thereby affording Hastings the opportunity he so earnestly sought. He might save Diana from drowning, but even to benefit himself he would not let her risk that peril by water.

The island, on which Diana proposed Uncle Marcus and the young men should be stranded for a while, rose straight from the sea: a barren rock. It would take three quarters of an hour to get there in the motor launch, and given a fine day it should prove a delightful expedition—“For those who like it,” said Watkins mournfully.

Diana undertook to make all the arrangements. She and John discussed the matter at length, and John would have been seen—if any one had looked—to shake his head every now and then during the discussion, and to raise a protesting hand; but protest as he would, Diana triumphed and her word was law—just as her will was his pleasure, which John was most careful to say when it was most evident her will was _not_ his pleasure.

Uncle Marcus had suggested taking lunch with them, but Diana objected. She said they would get frightfully tired of the island, and as soon as they had seen what birds there might be just out of the shell, and what birds there might be not quite out of the shell, they would long to go home. Again Diana had her way.

They landed on the island: Diana climbing up ahead of them all and calling first to one, then to another to come and look here—and there. She pointed out evidence of original sin as presented by the sight of a little bird still attached to its shell, who was ready to fight for the rocky inheritance that was his by at least the right of priority. The men were interested. Everything in the nature of uncultivated land, be it rock or otherwise, suggested interesting problems to St. Jermyn, and at his fingers’ ends he had statistics as to how many herrings were eaten per day per gull. That opened up the “Fisheries” question, an important one.

Marcus was perfectly ready to discuss any question with St. Jermyn; but he wanted first of all to take a photograph of a particular gull, who at all events up to this moment had not deprived the poor man of a single herring. “Just wait,” he said, “one moment!”

Marcus found St. Jermyn very interesting: and exactly the kind of man he would like Diana to marry if she must marry, but he did not see the necessity. Hastings, too, was, of course, very attractive, for even to Marcus a certain length of limb and an amazing amount of virility in a young man were attractive. As to many middle-aged men youth strongly appealed to him, and it was only because of Diana that he made the smallest attempt to withstand Hastings. Having only just discovered her, as it were, he did not see why he should give her up to the first man who happened to fall in love with her.

When all the men were deeply engaged with the birds on the island, Diana took the opportunity to slip away, back to the landing-place where John awaited her orders. “Now, John,” she said; and John drew from his capacious pockets various things, among them a flask, a bottle, and a parcel. “Just inside the cave, John, there!” Diana pointed to the cave, and John climbed up the rock and put the things inside the cave. Diana followed him, and at the mouth of the cave she built a cairn of stones, and under the top stone she placed a slip of paper; then telling John to be quick she left the place as quickly as she had come and sliding down the rock called to him to slide softly: but John was heavier than Diana and slid less gracefully, and little stones came rattling down with him.

“They’ll no be hearin’ them,” said John.

Diana dropped into the boat where Tooke was biding his time, and hers. She told him to slip off quietly, and he assured her that what noise the boat would make would be drowned by the sound of the wind which was rising. John screwed up his eyes, looked out to sea, and predicted a “storrrm.” Diana was afraid they might not escape unseen, and she looked anxiously to the quickly receding island; but John said the gentlemen would be so busy in taking the little birds that they would not be looking.

“Not taking them, John; that would be horribly cruel!”

“Just their photograph-ees, miss,” said John.

He went on to say he had been one day fishing on the loch with a gentleman, and as they had passed an island on the loch they had seen three wee birds just out of the shell, and when they came back five hours later and passed the island the wee birds had swum out to meet them. “And, indeed, they did and the gentleman took them.”

“Not the birds, John,” protested Diana again for the sake of his reassurance, “just their photograph-ees,” and Diana thought of Uncle Marcus, who was also just taking photograph-ees of little birds, and her eyes danced and she saw nothing of the storm that was coming.

She got home and ate a most excellent luncheon cooked in Mrs. Oven’s best manner, and having drunk her coffee sat down to write a letter, and the letter she wrote was this:

DEAREST AUNT ELSIE,—I am all alone. It’s really rather nice. I think it’s a little tiring being so much with men. They are so exacting, don’t you think so? However, to-day they have left me alone and I don’t feel deserted or in the least unhappy, but I should love to see you, if only for a minute. I don’t know why, but I feel I should like to have some one to laugh with. You are such a splendid laugher. Uncle Marcus has gone on a kind of a scientific expedition. He wants very much to take what John calls photograph-ees of sea-birds on their nests, and he has taken all the men with him.

I suppose there is no better way of judging of a man’s character than to be stranded with him on a desert island. I can imagine that, if by any chance, Uncle Marcus and party were stranded there, Mr. Watkins would read his poetry to him. Wouldn’t the Marky man love it? Mr. Pease? What would he do? Tell him stories of his life as a child?—his lonely childhood? Mr. St. Jermyn, I imagine, would leave him severely alone; would go to the farthest part of the island and would gently curse in an unparliamentary manner. What do you think, my aunt? And Captain Hastings, what would he do? I think and believe he would cook a delicious dinner and feed Uncle Marcus, give him soup in cocoanut shells and seaweed fritters, and fried eggs—gulls’ eggs. We shall see—should see, I mean.

Uncle Marcus is frightfully pleased with life. Of course, the shooting is not what he expected and the river is low, but he is very much softened by his stay in the Highlands, and yesterday he hoped you were quite well: and he wondered if you minded living in a relaxing part of the world; which, by the way, you don’t do. But I didn’t say so because it seems to make him more of a happy Christian to think you do. Pillar is delightful here. He shot a grey-hen the other day, a very bad sin, and when he was reprimanded, he expressed contrition, but added: “It was very encouraging, sir.” I suppose it is when you don’t shoot much. Uncle Marcus forgets that a man, though poor and lowly, may be a sportsman. I want him to give the gillies a day on the moor; and I want Uncle Marcus and all my young men to act as gillies. The boat will be going to fetch Uncle Marcus in a minute, so I must stop. I hope you aren’t very lonely. I wish you were here!

Your loving DIANA

Then she walked to the window and looked out. It was raining, not heavily; but a fine, driving mist blotted out the landscape. The island would be rather a horrible place now—rather horrible! She became grave; she no longer wanted Aunt Elsie because she was a splendid laugher, but rather because she was one to quiet fears, to make things look brighter than they really were. Could any aunt in the world do that now? No glimmer of light pierced the grey pall that hung over the Lodge of Glenbossie.

Diana went to the door and called John, and out of the mist stepped John, and Sandy with him. Beads of moisture stood all over their rough tweed coats and they looked as serious as they looked moist. They said: “What aboot the gentlemen, now?” and Diana asked, “What about them?”

And Sandy looked to John and John shook his head and was thinking the sea would be too rough: there would be no fetching them now. And Sandy nodded. John was right there.

“Not to-day?” asked Diana.

John doubted it: Sandy doubted it. Diana began to doubt it.

The moor was no longer visible. The birch wood was blotted out.

“Tooke must try, Sandy—John! He must! Make him!”

“Aye,” said the two men, and like Shetland ponies they turned their backs to the storm.

“What did we leave on the island? Enough whiskey for them all?”

John shook his head.

“Not enough?” asked Diana incredulously. “There was a whole flask.”

“And there are five gentlemen to it,” said John, and he shook his head.

“But five men couldn’t drink a flask of whiskey in one day, it’s such disgusting stuff!” said Diana.

And John looked to Sandy and Sandy to John. It took a good joke to make Sandy laugh—he laughed the noo!

“We left a lobster—and a tin of sardines, didn’t we, John?” said Diana anxiously.

John would not be saying that much whatever.

“And a match?”

“A match, yes.” John admitted that.

“What else?”

He said they had thought that enough, for the matter of an hour or two.

“Some tobacco, John?”

“Yes, some tobacco.”

One match, some tobacco, a tin of sardines, a lobster, a flask of whiskey, a bottle of water, and two empty cocoanut shells and—five men.

* * * * *

Marcus Maitland peering into his camera hoped he hadn’t taken two photographs on one film, and Hastings was quite certain he had not. Why that certain assurance should have been his was simply evidence that it had been his duty in life to assure his elders and betters that whatever their excellencies had done, they had done well and that nothing they did could be wrong. “Take another,” he suggested, “to make sure.” And Marcus took another. As he wound up the film he wondered where his niece was. Hastings, of course, was wondering, too, and hoping: “Not on the other side of the island with St. Jermyn.” “I don’t know, sir,” he said; “shall I go and find her?”

At the same moment Mr. Watkins came along. He wanted, he said, to show Miss Carston something really most interesting he had found. Every one had something most interesting to show Miss Carston, but she was not to be found. Marcus suggested they should all look for her, she couldn’t be far off. The island was small—but she herself was not to be found, though all the men sought her.

Uncle Marcus thought she must be in the boat and went to see, but he could find no boat. It was, therefore, quite evident she had gone fishing. They must wait till she came back; she must be back soon. They waited.

A sea-bird island is not a very pleasant place to be on for any length of time: moreover, there was a storm getting up.

“Let us call for help!” said Pease. “Let us shout!”

Watkins yodled. Ever since he had come north he had been awaiting his chance to do it. He did it again and again.

“Don’t do that,” said Marcus; “I can’t hear.”

Watkins, piqued, said there was nothing to hear.

“Listen!” entreated Marcus.

They listened. There was the screaming of birds disturbed: the chippering of chicks alarmed; but no sound of Diana’s voice, or anything like it.

“It looks stormy,” said Marcus, turning up the collar of his coat.

“A bit choppy,” admitted Hastings.

“The mist rolls up—List to the sound of guns—buns—duns—puns—runs—” said Watkins; then he added wistfully, “It’s curious that there is no rhyme to month.”

“Who wants one?” asked Pease.

“It’s not a question of wanting one, my dear Pease; there is not one to be had. If I stay here a month I cannot say so in a poem without great difficulty, and probably—”

“There’s bunth, of course,” said Hastings, “but perhaps he doesn’t count.” He lit a cigarette.

“Never heard of such a word.”

“No? He—or it if you prefer it—is a jolly little beast, usually to be found in the tropics under a leaf, and is something between a marmoset and a beetle.” Hastings threw away the match with which he had lighted his cigarette and Marcus picked it up; he hated matches thrown about.

“A what?” asked Watkins, his pocket-book ready and pencil poised.

“It’s no time for joking, Hastings,” said Marcus. “A storm in this part of the world can get up in a moment: we’re in for one now, unless I’m very much mistaken and we may be here for hours. What can have happened?”

“We are stranded on a desert island, that’s quite clear,” said Hastings, and he remembered Diana’s words. What had she said about desert islands? She had rather harped on the subject. Was she playing a practical joke? It looked like it. If she had planned a ridiculous game he would play it with her. If she had meant to be funny he would laugh with her. He would enter into the spirit of any joke she chose to perpetrate—be it good, bad, or indifferent; and after all an island is an island, and a man is a boy, and what man is there, who is as much a boy as he ought to be, who can be on an island and not light a fire? or be in a wood and not look for birds’ nests? Being very much of a man he was very much of a boy. Diana had spoken in fun of desert islands. Did she realize how deeply implanted in the heart of every real man is the longing for the primordial life? Not for long, perhaps, but to experience it, for once? Hastings had dreamed all his life of a desert island. He had cooked, he had built, he had slept, on a desert island. He had lain awake under the stars above it, slept, lulled by the wind that rocked it. He had risen with the sun that rose behind it, and had bathed in the noonday heat that scorched it. Did Diana know the lure of those dreams? He set out to explore and at the mouth of the cave he came upon the cairn of her building. He took the paper from under the top stone and he read of the historical one match, with which she dared him to light a fire! It required, she said, the very particular skill of the experienced explorer to light a fire with the last match. “I am sure you can do it,” she wrote. Further she said she knew exactly how a desert island should be furnished—there should, by rights, of course, be a chest of drawers in the cave. She knew how it should be stocked: with what cunning the stores should be hidden; they should stand upon a rock in full view—but she realized how little time there was to spare, how soon Uncle Marcus would tire of a desert island; so she had placed all he should need in a box, and in that box he would find two halves of a cocoanut shell, in which to make soup, and other things, such as whiskey, that should help to keep Uncle Marcus warm and happy for a little while—and sardines that should sustain him. Hastings wished Diana had thought of a funnier joke, but he had vowed he would be amused. He would light the fire; that at least would be good fun, and he would stick faithfully to the one match. He would tell her he had made soup and boiled eggs. He would get Uncle Marcus to swear he had swallowed them; he—Miles—should not be the loser in the end: the joke should be his ... until such time as it should find its way home again to her!

He went out of the cave to gather driftwood. The storm had risen, he was caught by the scudding rain and whipped by the wind. He wished she would come. In a moment the rain was running down his neck and oozing over the tops of his shoes. The joke was beginning to pall, but he said to himself, and truly, that if it had been any one else’s it would have palled long before. He was going back to the cave when he saw at his feet a little bird that looked about to die. “Poor little beggar!” he said. “It’s a poor joke, isn’t it?” And lifting it up he examined it, promising to do what he could to save its funny little life. “You would, would you?” he asked, as the little bird pecked at his finger. “Wait a bit, my little friend, until you are sitting by a warm fire with a speck of whiskey inside you—eh? Come along!”

The joke was not such a bad one after all. A fire has been lighted for worse things than for the warming of a little half-dead bird. “You’re an ugly little beggar—yes, you are!” he said. “Now be quiet while I light a fire with one match—one match, old man, is all that stands between you and death—yes, death!”

To the little bird it must have been an enormous giant that placed him so tenderly in a safe place, under the shadow of a great rock. The little bird watched with interest the arranging of that fire: gasped when the one match nearly went out: blinked when the flame fostered in the hollow of a gigantic hand flared up straight and strong—and yellow, the colour of its mother’s eyes—a colour warm, comforting, and kind. The giant put the flame to the driftwood; it caught here, went out there, blazed up here; the little bird squeaked. “Wait a bit, sonny—it’ll be all right. It’s no joke dying when you’re so young, is it? I had measles myself long ago—here—draw up to the fire, closer—that’s right—now for a little whiskey. Like it, old man? No, no more! True Scotsman that you are—later on, perhaps! Now go to sleep. I’ll go and see what the others are doing—squawk if you’re frightened—I shan’t be far off.”

It wasn’t such a bad joke after all. Bother the rain!

Meanwhile Marcus had taken all the photographs he could take and began to find Diana’s joke—if joke it were—a poor one—and a stupid one. He made no vow to be amused by it—no uncle would. Watkins, anxious to help, said the only thing he could do to while away the time was to recite and he cleared his throat.

“If you would shout instead, I should be very much obliged,” said Marcus; “some one might hear you.”

Shouting was not at all the same thing to Watkins because it was a thing he did with great difficulty. However, he must try and he should be very glad if some one should chance to hear him because his landlady never did, and she always put the blame on his voice. He asked St. Jermyn to shout too, and St. Jermyn shouted.

“You should be a fine singer,” said Watkins, clearing his throat again.

“Think so?” asked St. Jermyn, indifferent to praise.

“_I_ do—indeed I do—don’t you?”

“Yes, _I_ do, of course.”

“You? Oh, I see you are joking.”

“I never felt less like joking—d’you know what a storm here can mean?”