He had fixed on Dalhaven in advance, as a convenient centre, but when he arrived and circled the town seeking an inn, he could find nothing that looked suitable. The low, windswept houses, built of red sandstone, cowered about the fishing harbour with an inhospitable air, while the inhabitants, confronted with a stranger, proved dourly uncommunicative. Eventually, however, he found a friendly native and was directed with strong recommendations to the Marine Hotel, which stood above the golf course two miles beyond the town. This he discovered to be altogether superior, an establishment of the first class, where he was quietly welcomed by the manageress and shown to an excellent front room.
When he had washed he made inquiry as to the exact route, and after a short drive inland through winding country roads lined with hawthorn trees came to the village of Markinch, which as from an inner voice, he knew suddenly to be his true and final objective.
This conviction calmed his nerves, as he drove slowly down the single deserted street. Whitewashed cottages stood on either side, climbing nasturtiums still flowering against their walls. Not a soul in sight, only an old collie half asleep, one eye open, by the kerb. There was a general store and post office combined, then came a smithy, an oldfashioned shop with bottle-glass window panes and the sign: Millinery above, then across the way what looked like a small dispensary with the notice outside: Welfare Centre. In which of these should he make his inquiry? Perhaps the store and post office, although this would, unfortunately, bring notice of his arrival into the public domain. At the end of the street he was about to turn when some distance ahead he saw the village church and the adjoining manse. A thought struck him, induced by the recollection of a remark of Donaldson’s, and by the desire also for privacy and discretion. He continued towards the church, which was of Scots baronial design with a square tower instead of a steeple, parked the car opposite, then advanced towards the manse, a small but decent greystone dwelling, and pulled the brass handle of the bell.
After a considerable interval the door was opened, and by the minister himself, a small sallow man with extremely short legs and an oversized head topped by a bush of grey hair. His old black suit and the frayed edge of his clerical collar gave him a disheartened appearance, confirmed by the cast of his features. A pen in one hand and a heavily corrected manuscript in the other suggested that he had been disturbed in the preparation of his sermon, but his manner was civil enough.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“If I may trouble you, I am seeking a lady by the name of Urquhart.” Now the new name came more easily to Moray; at first it had wounded him to think of her as other than Mary Douglas. “I understand she lives in your parish.”
“Ah, you must mean our excellent district nurse.” The little man’s expression cleared, showed willingness to assist. “She lives above the welfare centre you’ve just gone by. She is a very busy young person but if she’s not at home you will find her in the dispensary from five until six.”
“I’m much obliged to you,” Moray said, well satisfied. “You are obviously speaking of my friend’s daughter. I presume that her mother lives with her?”
“Her mother?” The minister paused, studying the other. “You are a stranger in these parts?”
“I’ve been away for many years.”
“Then you’d no idea how ill she had been.”
“Ill?”
The minister made a gesture of affirmation.
“I fear I must prepare you for sad news. I buried Kathy’s mother in our churchyard just nine months ago.”
The words, spoken with professional condolence, were reinforced by the church bell which now, like a passing knell, struck the hour with a harsh cracked note. There could be, there was, no mistake . . . it was the finish of his seeking, the end. Not disappointment alone but actual shock must have shown in Moray’s face, painful shock, that drove the blood from his heart and forced him to lean against the lintel of the door.
“My dear sir . . . come in and sit down for a minute. Here in the lobby.” Taking Moray’s arm he led him to a chair in the hall. “I see it has affected you deeply.”
“I had hoped so much to see her,” Moray muttered. “A very dear friend.”
“And a truly worthy woman, my dear sir, among the chosen of my flock. Don’t grieve, you will meet her in the hereafter.”
The afflicted man had not much confidence at that moment in the promise of the hereafter. She was gone, carrying with her to the grave the memory of his unfaithfulness. To the end, he had remained for her despicable, a festering wound in her memory. And now he could never redeem himself, never break the hateful complex which perpetually threatened his peace of mind, must continue to bear the burden of his guilt. Bowed with sorrow, disappointment, and a welling self-pity, he heard the parson run on, extolling the dead woman.
“Her daughter, too,” the other continued, “has the same high standards, a most devoted girl. But now, if you’re more composed, perhaps my wife could offer you a cup of tea.”
Moray straightened and, though still not master of himself, had the wisdom to decline.
“Thank you, no.”
“Then I feel sure you would like me to show you where she lies.”
They went to the graveyard behind the church. The grave, marked by a simple Celtic cross, was indicated, and the minister, lingering a moment, between sympathy and curiosity, said:
“You are of our persuasion, I trust. If so I hope we may see you at divine service on Sunday. The Word is a great healer. Are you residing in the neighbourhood?”
“At the Marine,” Moray mumbled.
“Ah, an excellent hotel—Miss Carmichael, the manageress, is a good friend of ours.” The credentials of the stranger thus established, he introduced himself with an almost pathetic eagerness to be of service. “My name is Fotheringay—Matthew Knox Fotheringay, B.A. of Edinburgh, at your disposal, sir, should you require me further.”
With a bow, he moved discreetly away. Alone, Moray still gazed down upon the green sward of which a long rectangle, the turf annealed yet still slightly elevated, presented a sad, significant outline. There lay that sweet body which in youth he had caressed. And in the form of sweet youth he now visualised her—as on that day upon the moor, while the lark sang above the heather, and the stream rippled over its fretted, pebbled bed. Clearly he saw her, fresh and glowing, with her trim figure, her red-brown hair and peat-dark eyes, with youth, youth pulsing through her, alive. Overcome, he supported himself against the granite monument and closed his smarting eyes.
How long he remained bent and motionless he never knew. A slight sound, a footstep on the gravel path, disturbed him. He turned, raised his head; then almost collapsed. There, risen from the grave, Mary Douglas stood before him, Mary, exactly as he knew her, as he had dreamed of her a moment ago, the fearful, ghostly illusion heightened by the spray of white flowers clasped to her breast. He tried to cry out, but he could make no sound. Dizzily, with swimming head, he realised that it was Mary’s daughter, the mortal image of her mother.