“I did feel rather queer.” With an effort he forced a smile. “It’s fearfully warm in there.”
“Then we shall go at once,” she said decisively.
He made as if to protest, then dropped it. Outside, Arturo stood talking with a group of chauffeurs. They drove off. She wished to take him directly to his villa but, less from politeness than from a desperate need to be alone, he insisted on leaving her at the Seeburg.
“Come in for a drink,” she suggested, as they arrived. “A real one.” And when he refused, saving that he should rest, she added solicitously: “Do take care, my friend. If I may, I will telephone you tomorrow.”
At the villa he lay down for an hour, trying to reason with himself. He must not allow a chance word, a mere coincidence, to wreck the serenity he had so carefully built up. Yet it was no chance word, it was a word that had lain hauntingly, tormentingly in the depths of memory for many years. He must fight it, beat it down again into the darkness of the subconscious. He could not do it, could not seal his mind against the buffeting of his thoughts. At dinner he made only a pretence of eating; his depression filled the house, affecting even the servants, who saw in this unusual mood something reflecting upon themselves.
After the meal he went into the drawing-room, stood by the window opening on the terrace. He saw that a storm was about to break, one of those swift, dazzling exhibitions when, shouting to Arturo to put on a Berlioz record, he would watch and listen with a sense of sheer exhilaration. Now, however, he stood mood viewing the great mass of umbered cloud which had been gathering, unperceived, drifting above the Riesenberg. The air was deadly still, sultry with silence, the light unnatural; a brooding ochre. And now there came a sighing, faint, as from a distance. The leaves trembled and on the flat surface of the lake a ripple passed. Slowly the sky darkened to dull impenetrable lead, masking the mountain, and all at once from the unseen a fork of blue flashed out, followed by the first crashing detonation. Then came the wind, sudden, searing, a circular wind that cut like a whiplash. Under it, with a shudder, the trees bent and grovelled, scattering leaves like chaff. At the garden end the tall twin poplars scourged the earth. The lake, churned into spume, writhed like a mad thing, waves lashed the little pier, the yellow flag swung up. Lightning now played incessantly, the thunder echoing and re-echoing amongst the hidden peaks. And then the rain, large, solitary, speculative drops, not soothing rain, but rain warning; ominous of what at last struck from above, straight sheets of hissing water, a flooding from the sky—the eventual deluge.
Abruptly he turned from the window and went upstairs to his bedroom, more agitated than ever. In the medicine cupboard in his bathroom he found the bottle of phenobarbitone. He had imagined he would never need it again. He took four tablets. Even so he knew he would not sleep. When he had undressed, he threw himself upon the bed and closed his eyes. Outside the rain still lashed the terrace, the waves still broke upon the shore, but it was her name that kept sounding, sounding in his ears . . . Mary . . . Mary Douglas . . . Mary . . . Douglas . . . bringing him back through the years, to Craigdoran and the days of his youth.
Part Two
Chapter One
If Bryce’s ancient motor-cycle had not broken down they would never have met. But as though fated, on that dusty April Saturday afternoon, when he swung back from a spin round the Doran Hills, the driving belt of the near-derelict machine disintegrated, a flying fragment whipping sharp across his right knee. He skidded to a stop, got off stiffly and inspected the damage to his leg, which was less than he had feared, then looked about him. No promise of assistance in the surrounding unpopulated, bracken-covered hills, the wild rush of the river Doran, the wide stretch of moorland threaded by this lonely road and the narrow single-track railway. Even the small station known as Craigdoran Halt, which he had just passed, seemed deserted.
“Damn,” he exclaimed—it couldn’t have been more awkward. Ardfillan, the nearest town, must be at least seven miles away; he would have to try the Halt.
Turning, he pushed and limped uphill to the solitary platform, drew the heavy bike back on its stand. The little station was embellished with a border of whitewashed stones, its proud sign “Gateway to the West Highlands” showered with trailing honeysuckle, a hawthorn hedge shedding blossoms on the track, but he was in no mood to admire. Not a soul in sight, the waiting-room locked, the booking-office closed as for eternity. He was on the point of giving up when in the frosted glass ornamental window stencilled with the words “Refreshment Room” he caught signs of life: on the inner window-sill a black cat was contentedly washing its face. He pushed on the door, it opened, and he went in.
Unlike the usual station buffet, this was unexpectedly well-ordered and arranged. Four round marble-topped tables occupied the scrubbed boards, there were coloured views of the Highlands upon the walls and, at the far end, a polished mahogany counter behind which hung an oval mirror advertising Brown and Polson’s self-raising flour. Before the mirror a young woman was standing with her back towards him, surprised in the act of putting on her hat. Mutually arrested, immobile as waxwork figures, they gazed at each other in the glass.
“When is the next train for Winton?” He broke the silence, addressing her reflection in a tone which failed to conceal his annoyance.
“The last train’s gone. There’s nothing now till the Sunday-breaker.” She turned and faced him, adding mildly: “Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“Where’s the porter then?”
“Oh, Dougal’s away home this good half hour. Did you not meet him on the road?”
“No . . . I didn’t . . .”. He suddenly felt stupidly faint and leaned sideways to support himself against a table, a movement which brought his injured leg into view.
“You’ve hurt yourself!” she exclaimed, coming forward quickly. “Here now, sit down and let me see it.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, rather dizzily, finding his way to a chair. “Superficial laceration of the popliteal area. The motor-cycle . . .”
“I thought I heard a bit of a bang. It’s a nasty gash, too. Why didn’t you speak up at once?”
She was hurrying to get hot water, and presently, kneeling, she had bathed and cleaned the wound and bound it neatly with strips of torn-up napkin.
“There!” On a note of accomplishment she rose. “If only I had a needle and thread I could stitch up your trouser leg. Never mind, you’ll get it done when you’re home. What you could do with now is a good cup of tea.”
“No . . . really . . .”, he protested. “I’ve been a complete nuisance. . . . You’ve done more than enough for me.”
But she was already busy with the taps of the metal urn on the counter. He had undoubtedly had a shake, and the hot strong tea made him feel better. Watching him with interested curiosity she sat down. Immediately the cat jumped into her lap and began to purr. She stroked it gently.
“Lucky Darkie and me weren’t away. There’s few enough folks around Craigdoran this early in the year.”
“Or at any other time?” He half smiled.
“No,” she corrected him seriously. “When the fishing and shooting are on we have a wheen of fine customers. That’s why my father keeps this place on. Our bakery is in Ardfillan. If you like we could give you a lift there. He always fetches me at the weekend.” She paused thoughtfully. “Of course, there’s your bike. Is it badly smashed?”
“Not too badly. But I’ll have to leave it here. If they’d put it on the Winton train it would be a big help. You see, it’s not mine. It belongs to a fellow at the hospital.”