Family Gathering Page 19

  “Well?” said Helen.

  “If you did,” said Jeremy, “you’d get yourself out without the slightest fuss or difficulty. You’d talk the thing over to yourself quietly and—click!”—Jeremy snapped his fingers—“a decision, just like that. It’s wonderful. That’s the sort of girl to make love to. A girl with a strong head.”

  “Do you usually,” asked Helen, “make love to girls when they’re engaged?”

  “Never,” said Jeremy. “I’m just telling you how risky it is, in the ordinary way. But you must see that I’m in rather an unusual position. I’m suddenly presented with a new sister—the prettiest sister anybody ever saw. She comes to live in my house. I see her every day, and hour by hour I get opportunities of finding out just how lovely she is. I carry her into her sitting-room in my arms every morning and carry her back to her bed at night. I sit in her bedroom and talk to her—it’s all so intimate and—and brotherly. Nobody can blame me if I enjoy it very much and say things which I wouldn’t normally say to girls who’re engaged to somebody else. And as I said, that’s the nicest part of it all—I can say them to you without the slightest fear of your taking them too seriously. Isn’t that wonderful? Tell me,” he invited, “about this fiancé.”

  “I won’t,” said Helen.

  “There isn’t much to tell,” said Jeremy. “I mean, I know most of it already. He’s docile and he’s content with very little. He stays where you tell him to and he writes to you every day and you hardly write to him at all. He—”

  “How—” began Helen.

  “You forget—I clear the post box in the hall every night,” said Jeremy. “Scarcely ever a letter—it’s pretty hard on the poor fellow.”

  “I’d like,” said Helen, “to talk about something else. And,” she added, “I’d like you to mind your own business.”

  “I can’t help seeing things that are under my nose,” said Jeremy. “I wish Lucille had a tenth of your poise—she wouldn’t be in the muddle she’s in now.”

  “Mother says,” said Helen, “that Duncan’s going to do something.”

  “He’s a nice chap, and I wish him luck,” said Jeremy, “but I can’t quite see what he can do.”

  “Wouldn’t you try to do something,” asked Helen, “if your—if the girl you loved got into a—a jam?”

  “Me?” said Jeremy in surprise. “My gosh, no. In the first place, my girl wouldn’t get herself into a jam and if she did—”

  Helen rolled her handkerchief into a neat bundle, knotted it absently and pulled it into the shape of a little rabbit. She stared at the little ears and spoke slowly.

  “And if she did?” she asked. “What would you do?”

  “Do? Nothing,” said Jeremy. “Nothing at all.”

  “That would be nice and—and helpful, wouldn’t it?” said Helen.

  “It would be sound sense,” said Jeremy. “Any girl who can talk, can tell a fellow she made a mistake. The trouble with Lucille is simply that she’s got into the way of letting things slide because she prefers it that way. Her only active part in the entire proceedings has been to say ‘Yes, Duncan’ and ‘Yes, Philip’ and—once again—‘Yes, Duncan’. She’s different. But a girl like—like you, shall we say?—who doesn’t hesitate to hand out straight talk, who likes straight thinking, who uses her head and doesn’t let her emotions run away with her— well, she’s another cup of tea altogether. She’s got it all in hand. You don’t have to get her out of anything because she’s so clever that she can do it all by herself.”

  There was a long silence. Helen played with her little rabbit and Jeremy watched her. After a while, she raised her head and met the familiar cool, baffling look in his eyes.

  “Do you really mean,” she said slowly, “that if ever I—if ever I got into a—a—a jam—”

  Jeremy’s laugh—low, attractive, amused and mocking, reached her ears.

  “Darling Helen,” he said, “the idea’s absurd. We weren’t talking about anybody who organized everything as wonderfully as you do. How,” he inquired, “could you ever get into a jam?”

  There was no further conversation. Jeremy shut his eyes and appeared to be asleep, and Helen, from her nest of cushions, watched him and wished that she could get behind his calm, almost bland front.

  They had brought no tea with them. The time passed and soon Lucille and Duncan returned, their manner quiet and absent. All four, indeed, seemed to be deep in thought—even Jeremy appeared to be pondering some problem of his own. He tucked Helen into her place silently and, stowing the lunch basket at the back, climbed into his place and started the engine.

  “We’ll go back the sea way,” he said to Helen. “It’s longer, but you’ll get some new views.”

  He turned the car and drove slowly through the woodland track, coming out presently into the open. As he approached the main road, there was a little cry of distress from Lucille and a yelp from Duncan.

  “What’s gone wrong?” asked Jeremy.

  “Dead fish or something,” said Duncan. “Stop a minute and I’ll get hold of it.”

  “Dead fish? That must be Alexander’s,” said Jeremy. “He fished a couple of specimens out of the stream. Incidentally,” he added, “where is Alexander?”

  Alexander was not in the car. After a moment’s consideration, it was decided that he must still be in the wood.

  “Well, it’s your turn to go back,” said Jeremy to Duncan. “I fetched him for you the other day—now it’s your go.”

  “We don’t have to go back,” pointed out Duncan. “This is the same stream, isn’t it?”

  “What stream?—oh! you mean the one he was following?” said Jeremy. “Well, yes, that’s quite sound —if he keeps on, he’ll be bound to hit this spot.”

  He switched off the engine and the party settled down to await Alexander’s coming. After some time Jeremy turned and looked at Helen.

  “I can’t make out,” he said, “why you weren’t yelping about Alexander today—last time he got uncoupled, you read me off whole pages of the possible ends he’d come to. And today you just sit there. It’s interesting”, he mused. “Either you agree with what I said about letting him roam—which I’m sure you don’t—or you’ve come to the conclusion that it isn’t your business. And that,” he went on with a puzzled frown, “doesn’t sound like you, somehow. So the only other conclusion I’m led to is that you just plumb forgot the poor little fellow. Did you?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?” asked Helen.

  “Yes, it matters,” said Jeremy. “It matters a whole lot. It’s out of character, you see, and it doesn’t seem natural to see you just doing nothing about this. Aren’t you going to organize a search or something?”

  “He’s teasing you, Helen,” said Lucille gently. “He’s always teasing people.”

  “I was just wondering,” said Duncan, “which way Alexander was heading when he went off with his boat. We might be sitting waiting at the wrong end of the wood.”

  “He came this way,” said Lucille. “Don’t you remember passing him near that fallen tree?”

  “No,” said Duncan, “I don’t.”

  He was not, indeed, in a mood to notice very much. He had felt increasingly unhappy as the day wore on, and he found himself unable to realize that the next morning would bring Philip Bellamy. His thoughts were gloomy and despairing, and it was with relief that he heard Jeremy’s call to the approaching Alexander.

  “Hey there!—Here we are, Alexander. You’re late, you know—scramble in and we’ll all go home to tea.”

  Alexander scrambled in with a little difficulty. He had a great deal to carry—his boat, several small fish of the kind Duncan had found in the car, a long branch and several birds’ feathers. Jeremy glanced at the fish dubiously.

  “If they’re travelling,” he said, “they’d better have a compartment of their own. Get out one of the mugs, Lu, and I’ll put some water in it and the fish can be happy.”

  Alexander was happy, too, as Jeremy p
ut a little water from the stream into a large mug and placed the fish inside.

  “Don’t splash it all over the car,” he cautioned. “You’re pretty wet already. All aboard? Now we’ve got to go home.”

  Lucille sat back in her corner and stared out of the window, her cheeks pale. Duncan, after a glance at her, took one of her hands in his. It was clear that neither of them had any desire whatsoever to go home.

  Chapter 17

  The day of the party dawned and Duncan had done nothing. His face was thinner and a little drawn and his eyes had a look which Natalie could not bear to meet. He was treated by everybody with the utmost kindness but he had no place in the household and he knew that his presence was an increasing embarrassment.

  After a night spent, for the most part, in pacing about his room, he faced the morning bleakly. Philip Bellamy was back; he would arrive this morning and claim Lucille, and Duncan could see no way whatsoever of preventing him.

  He dressed quickly and, going downstairs, drank two cups of coffee and left the house before any of the others were down. He walked fast and aimlessly, oblivious alike to the beauty of the scene and the light rain falling steadily on his face. His mind was fixed on the misery of his position and he was trying to bring himself, for the first time, to admit that he might lose Lucille.

  It was fantastic, but it was true. They loved each other and all that held them apart was a thread—the mere thread of Lucille’s engagement to another man. Threads like that, thought Duncan miserably, were snapped every day. Girls got engaged to one fellow after another—got married, if it came to that, to one fellow after another, and found the thread breaking at a touch whenever they wanted it to.

  Well, that was all right for other girls. Lucille was different—and he was glad that she was. Her grandmother and grandfather could not help—they had been decently neutral and he was grateful to them, but they could hardly be expected to take things out of Lucille’s hands until she asked them to.

  Jeremy was keeping out, and Duncan was satisfied. He didn’t want Jeremy to do anything he himself couldn’t do.

  Then where, Duncan asked himself, did that bring him? Nowhere. He could go away and write letters to Lucille’s father, telling him the truth and asking him to forbid Lucille’s marriage. Natalie had assured him that Captain Rome would kick the whole thing to pieces even at the church door. But it was a poor way for a man to win his bride.

  The other way was to eliminate Philip Bellamy. And a century ago, thought Duncan bitterly, the thing would have been easy. He could have smacked him right across the face and called him out. He would have met him in a wood at dawn and shot daylight through him—or pushed a sword into him and out the other side. Those, by God, were the days—when men who weren’t wanted could be put out of commission without the slightest trouble to anybody, and very few questions asked.

  But now? He could half kill the fellow with his fists, but where did that get anybody? The Romes had been kind to him and he could not do anything that would involve them in a messy law suit. Knocking Bellamy cold would be a fine thing, but it would lead nowhere.

  How magnificently, remembered Duncan, his ancestors would have managed this thing! He stood still and gazed round him longingly. Where, oh where, were the glories of the Macdonalds? Who could hear the cries of the kilted hordes as they swung into battle, the shouts of the victorious clan? In his veins ran blood which was as warm, as fierce and as lusty as that which had flowed in his glorious forebears. But the sound of the war pipes was stilled; the clan was scattered and the proud standards lowered. But—but…

  “But, all the same,” said Duncan Macdonald aloud, “it’s damn funny—I could have sworn—”

  It was absurd, and he must pull himself together. It showed how deep he had been in his dreams. He—

  But, dammit—

  It was. Dreams or no dreams, there it was again. He could hear the sound clearly. It was eerie—so eerie, that Duncan felt his scalp pricking. But, though he stood on a hill in Devonshire, many miles from his native heather, he knew he was not mistaken.

  He could hear the sound of bagpipes.

  He stared intently in every direction. The sound came from the east—there was nothing to be seen except a farmhouse or two, but the town of Hunnytor lay in that direction. The pipers, if they were real, would be in the town.

  Without further delay, Duncan set off down the hill and made his way to Hunnytor. As he drew nearer, the sound of bagpipes became ever more distinct, and soon, reaching the outskirts of the town, he saw that he was not, as he had feared, suffering from hallucinations. Others beside himself were hurrying to get a sight of those who were shattering the peace of the countryside. Duncan went up a little street, came out into the central square of the town and stopped in amazement.

  Scotland had come to Hunnytor.

  There were four pipers—gallant figures in full dress, kilts swinging and ribbons blowing gaily in the breeze.

  They stood at the four corners of the square and between them were a dozen or more kilted figures standing round a young man who wore a sports jacket and flannel trousers.

  Duncan frowned in bewilderment. That face—he knew that fellow. By Jehosophat! he knew him all right. He—

  His face clearing, he gave a yell that almost drowned the sound of the bagpipes, and advanced towards the group. The young man in the centre watched him for a few moments with an incredulous expression and then, with a shout almost as loud as Duncan’s, moved to meet him.

  “In the name of all that’s holy,” said Duncan, wringing his hand, “what brought you here?”

  The newcomer grinned.

  “I’m no stranger here,” he said. “But what are you - ? Oh! I remember,” he went on, slapping Duncan resoundingly on the shoulder. “I heard a lot of rumours—you’ve got a beautiful fiancé in these parts, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Duncan. “What are you doing here? It was damn uncanny, as a matter of fact,” he went on without pause. “I was standing on a hill feeling as miserable as hell and wishing the Macdonalds of old could show up and then—out of the blue—the pipes tuned up and I came down here to run into a Macdonald—damn strange, isn’t it? And a cousin, at that. What’re you doing here, Alastair?—Highland Games or something?”

  “Rugger,” said his cousin. “They don’t look it at the moment because we’ve had an all-night journey, but those are a pretty good bunch of toughs—we’re playing a local team tomorrow.”

  “You mean,” said Duncan in astonishment, “that you’ve come all the way from Scotland to—”

  “Play an international,” said Alastair. “What’s wrong with that? I’m all for internationals. They don’t know enough about Scotland down here—that’s why I rather went to extremes—we had a bit of trouble getting all the kilts together at short notice, but here we are.”

  “But why here, of all places?” asked Duncan in bewilderment.

  “Because I used to be the games master of that prep, school a mile out of here,” said Alastair, “and I used to coach the local talent too. When I went away I promised I’d bring a team down and show ’em how rugger ought to be played. This is the second time—I brought a team down last year.”

  “Did you win?”

  “Well, don’t let’s go into that,” said Alastair. “How’s your love affair?”

  “As bad as your rugger,” said Duncan. “I’m in trouble.”

  “What—honest?” asked his cousin sympathetically.

  “It’s honest, but it’s trouble,” said Duncan. “When do you go back home?”

  “Tomorrow night,” said Alastair. “Bit of a rush, but most of these boys have jobs and can’t get off for longer than that. Come and meet ’em,” he invited. “They’re a good lot.”

  There was no reply and Alastair, looking at Duncan curiously, found him staring at the team with an odd, almost absent expression.

  “Come on,” repeated Alastair.

  For answer, Duncan reached out
and took his cousin’s arm in a fierce and painful grip.

  “Look,” he said, his gaze deep and intent. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “All right, all right,” said Alastair, trying to wriggle free of the clamping fingers. “Let me go, will you, and then have as many ideas as you like. Let go, I said! Damn it,” he grumbled, rubbing his sore arm, “you’ve bally well bored holes in me. What’s gone wrong?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” repeated Duncan. “And you’ve got to help me.”

  “Help you? How?” inquired Alastair.

  In a torrent of words, Duncan told him, and his cousin stared at him blankly.

  “You’re mad,” he said briefly, as Duncan came to an end. “You’re stark, staring mad.”

  “I’m not mad, and you’ve got to do it,” said Duncan.

  “Rot,” snorted Alastair. “Go and find some other crackpots—we’ve come down here to play a match, not to get ourselves run in by the local police.”

  “I tell you, there’s no policeman—only a friendly one,” said Duncan. “It’ll all be over in ten minutes. All I want is the—the team.”

  “Well, you can’t have it,” said Alastair. “Maybe the idea was good in fourteen sixty-six or thereabouts, but it’s out of date. You can’t—”

  “You mean,” interrupted Duncan, “that you won’t do it?”

  “You’re absolutely right,” said his cousin. “I won’t do it.”

  Duncan looked at him with contempt.

  “You—you call yourself a Macdonald,” he said bitterly.

  “I do. But that doesn’t mean,” pointed out Alastair, “that I have to take a girl off some fellow I’ve never heard of and—”

  “But the fellow, you fool,” cried Duncan desperately, “is a Campbell!”

  Alastair stared at him with his mouth open.

  “Is a what?” he said at last.

  “A Campbell! A Campbell!” cried Duncan in a voice that was like a trumpet call. “He’s—”

  “That isn’t what you called him before,” said Alastair. “You said his name was—”