THE LAND OF ALWAYS AFTERNOON
By the afternoon of the second day Stair was finding himself unfit for
human society, because he had not been able to shave since he left the
prison. Of course he had brought nothing with him. There was no time.
His hand went unconsciously every other minute to his scrubby chin. In
truth, his Norse blondness did not allow it to show as much as he
supposed. But that did not detract from the pervading sensation of
disgustful grubbiness.
Patsy's eyes missed nothing, and very soon she surprised him by opening
the door of a little tower chamber on the ground floor, sparsely but
quite sufficiently furnished.
"I should feel very much safer," she said, "if you were to sleep within
the house. You will find shaving materials in the corner!"
Stair could not thank her, but then neither did his accursed pride rise
up in rebellion. She closed the door and left him alone. The water in
the jug was hot. In a case marked "A. F." were razors and other
necessities. Evidently Patsy had done some plundering, and had not come
to him altogether without a dowry, though she had managed to do without
the paternal benediction.
It was wonderful to feel clean again, to get the stubble off his cheeks,
and to plash the cool water over his head and about his ears. When he
had finished he felt measurably nearer to Patsy. He found laid out also
clean shirts and neckcloths. Two complete suits of clothes were folded
in an open chest of drawers. Patsy had evidently looted to some purpose.
Stair's first instinct was not to put on any of these things till he had
been assured that they were there with the consent of Adam Ferris. But
he realized that he had already used the razors, and besides it would be
idiotic, in his present awkward position, to strain at any gnats after
swallowing such a camel as the marriage on the Colvend shore.
Besides, he had the sense to see that any obstinacy would terribly
offend Patsy. She had evidently thought much about the matter, and
whether her father knew or did not know was secondary to the great need
in Stair's heart of making Patsy happy. He did not, however, realize how
long had been her thoughts on the subject, or that the suits of clothes
which he supposed to have been lifted from her father's drawers, had
been talked over by Patsy and Kennedy McClure in the garden at Hanover
Lodge, ordered at a first-class London tailor's, with such approximate
indications as size, height, and general proportionateness of body could
supply. Patsy had paid for them out of her own money, and it was for the
sake of the Princess, who was curious about parcels, that the case of
shaving utensils had been lettered in gold with the initials of Adam
Ferris.
An hour later, Stair came forth like a bridegroom from his chamber.
Patsy, who had been on the watch, called out "Oh!" And if she had
permitted her heart to guide her actions, she would have clung about his
neck. He looked so noble. But all that she said was just, "I am proud of
you, Stair--very proud!"
And, rightly considered, that was a great deal for Patsy to say.
* * * * *
That day was a memorable one for Stair Garland. Patsy was charming and
gay as she alone knew how to be. Having scanned the sea horizon with the
Dollond glass to make sure that the firth was absolutely free from
ships, they gave themselves up to the delights of the sunshine and
summer air. Now they dipped into little coves, among dainty shells and
glistening sand-breadths, where they sat down cross-legged and played at
"jecks" or "jacks"--one pebble in the air and lift five. Five in the air
and lift one--with all sorts of intricate devices and variations, such
as catching the tossed stones on the back of the hand, collecting them
with a sudden side swoop, and so forth till Patsy was tired. Her nimble
fingers left Stair's stiffer members far behind.
But it was different when a white stone was poised on the top of a rock,
for Stair could send it rolling down nine times out of ten before Patsy
had never so much as touched the target. Again on sheltered stretches
Stair could send a smooth, flat stone skipping from one side to the
other of the still bay, which Patsy declared was no sort of sport
because hers, though every bit as well thrown as Stair's, invariably
plumped to the bottom with a little farewell "cloop" as soon as they
encountered the water. "You get all the best stones!" Patsy cried at
last, vexed at her lack of success. Whereupon Stair handed over his
ammunition to her, which "clooped" and sank as before.
"Then you _do_ something to them--you must!" said Patsy, and with this
luminous reasoning she turned and set off back to the old Rathan tower
to get a book. Thereafter they read. That is, Patsy spun white cobwebs
with her needle and Stair read to her--Shakespeare it was, and the play
"The Tempest."
She did not know--she could never have guessed that Stair could read
like that. She often stopped him to ask the meaning of a passage, and
never did she ask in vain. Sometimes, indeed, she could have two or
three interpretations to choose from, for in the Bothy Stair had gone
over the play with Theobald's notes, comparing them with Pope's and
Johnson's.
Patsy's heart was in a strange topsy-turvy state all that day. Sometimes
she would forget herself and "cosy up" against Stair as she used to
snuggle close to her Uncle Julian. Then something in the strong, clear
voice, the square unyieldingness of shoulders, the body massive and
forceful, caused her to draw hastily away. She thought that Stair had
not noticed, but his whole heart and body became tremulous to the brief
caress, and when she recalled her favour, it was like the sun hiding his
face and the air growing chilled as before snow.
Still Stair managed to keep his face as steady as his voice, and ended
by growing so interested in the play that he forgot Patsy altogether.
Being infinitely more subtle than he, Patsy knew and resented this, and
it was only her cheek rubbing softly to and fro against his shoulder
that made him gasp and fail in the middle of a great harangue.
At which Patsy smiled well-contented. She did not know what she wanted,
exactly, but of this she was certain, that whatever it might be, she
wanted it very badly.
The most curious thing was that occasionally she felt very angry with
Stair, without being able to give a reason for her anger. The feeling
passed in a flash and she saw what she called the "monumental Stair"
again erected on a pedestal and knew that she had been cross with him
because she wished him a little less "monumental." She did not blame
herself in the least nor recall that Stair was only keeping his pledged
and plighted word.
"I can't slap him as I used to do Louis Raincy. He is too big and too
solemn. He would think it part of the treatment and only set his lips
the firmer. But oh! (clenching her fists) how I wish I could!"
And indeed it might have helped matters.
The day sped on. Dinner was an outdoor meal. Stair carried it from the
back door of the tower down to a little hidden cove where sea-pinks and
prickly blue holly grew right down to the edge of the sand. Patsy served
and they talked merrily. Though a famous "runner" of all manner of
Hollands and Bordeaux, Stair tasted nothing except the water from the
spring which he had himself drawn up clear and cold from the well in the
courtyard--the well that had been made by the father of Patrick Heron,
long before the time of the Raiders from the Hills.
Afterwards they stretched themselves out and chatted, making each
other's acquaintance, and deepening their mutual experiences. Patsy
could now unseal her treasured tales. She spoke of Eitel the Prince, and
Stair first blushed crimson and then went pale with desire to wring that
well-nigh regal neck. He could forgive a great deal to the Princess,
however, because she was acting as she thought best for Julian Wemyss's
niece. And of course Patsy did deserve the best. Yet she had chosen the
greatest detrimental of them all. However, he was a good watch-dog, and
would guard her well.
Louis Raincy he had less patience with. Why should any man slight Patsy,
make love to another woman, and then come whining to be forgiven and
taken back into favour? And this same Louis Raincy had been with them at
the White Loch and had taken Patsy safe to his grandfather's at Castle
Raincy, the most sensible act of his life.
But after all Stair found much cause to be content. He possessed, if not
all he hoped for--at least he had Patsy, all to himself, and that by her
own choosing and good will. What signified a few conditions to the
bargain? He never could have dared to ask her, and she had asked him.
Therefore she had a right to dictate her terms. He would not again
behave like a sulky fool, as he had done on the first night of their
coming to the Isle. He knew better now.
He watched Patsy's quiet untroubled breathing, the slow droop and quick
recover of her eyelash as she grew a little drowsy. She pulled herself
up and dug her elbow into the sand so that her head might be supported.
Her eyes drooped again, but this time the eyelashes did not rise. The
arm bent into an adorable curve, and the head, heavy with sleep, finally
deposited itself on Stair's shoulder. With infinite delicate precautions
he drew a cloak over her and settled himself to watch the colour rise in
the cheek which he could see. He marked the crescent-shaped shadow of
the long, upturned eyelash, the lips exquisitely formed, but not too
small to be expressionless like your rosebud-mouthed women. She was his,
as the French say, "_en droit, mais pas encore en jouissance!_"
Still, nobody else could have her. That was the first and greatest
consideration, and with that firm in his mind Stair kept himself steady
till the sun was descending low in the sky of the west, and the
clamorous birds began to flock back to the island--sand-pipers peeping
in the hollows about the sheep-fold, gulls and guillemots squabbling on
the cliffs, and tarns restlessly dashing and swooping. For the tide was
coming up fast and would soon be at the full.
Then he saw something far out but coming nearer that made his heart leap
to his throat. He waited to make sure before awakening Patsy. But after
five minutes there could be no mistake. He must tell her.
"Dear," he said, and trembled at the word, lest she should have heard
it, "I am sorry to wake you, but there is a man swimming towards the
island!"
* * * * *
Patsy awoke, and in a moment was on her feet. Whether she had heard the
word or not, certain it was that she had grasped the meaning of the
sentence.
"Quick, Stair," she said, "get your gun!"
"The man is swimming," said Stair. "I think, instead, I had better get a
dry suit of clothes. He cannot be very dangerous. I have my sheath-knife
if--but there is no fear. I can handle him!"
"Run no risks, Stair. I have ventured my all upon you! You are
very ... necessary to me!"
Ah, if he had only known that the word in her heart which she did not
let her lips speak was not "necessary" but "precious"!
They went down together to the long spit of rock against which the
swimmer was being driven. Stair looked at the black head on the surface
of the water and realized that there might be trouble for both of them
in the immediate future. He ordered Patsy to stand back.
"Why should I?" said Patsy, surprised at his tone.
"Because I tell you to!" said Stair Garland sharply, "there--on the top
of the rock. Crouch down! Do not move till I give you leave." Then he
began to wade out, and as he went she saw him assure himself that his
sheath-knife moved sweetly in its scabbard with the click of
easy-fitting steel.
"Eben McClure!" he cried, as in the long reach of the overhand stroke
the man's face was turned towards him, "what are you doing here?"
Stair helped him out of the water. The man could hardly gasp at first,
but in a moment words returned to him.
"The lost dog," he said hoarsely, "follows the only man who is kind to
it."
And he would have fallen on the rock spit, if Stair had not caught him
in his arms, and carried him to the little cove.