She went and got her cloak. Bill was waiting for her below in the hall.
They passed out through a side door of the Castle, across the putting
green, along a little sidepath to a wicket. Just beyond the wicket was
the lake. And by its marge was moored a sort of coracle.
The moon was so much their friend that they had no difficulty in
finding this skiff. Getting aboard, however, was not quite such a
simple business. She was but a cockleshell of a craft which had to be
nicely trimmed to accommodate two. But Mame, sure-footed as a cat,
instinctively disposed herself in the right spot. Bill untied the boat
and took the oars and then began their odyssey.
In the centre of the lake, which although deep in places was not very
wide, was a tiny isle. There was room for Miranda and Ferdinand upon
it, for a few birds and a few rushes and a few trees and for not much
else. But in the moonlight it shone with the pale magic of faëry.
Here, sure, was the local habitation of romance. The lure of that
shadow-and-tide-haunted spot was irresistible. Bill began to witch the
night with oarmanship; and in five minutes or less the coracle had
touched at Prospero’s enchanted island.
As they floated gently through the veil of the trees, while the water
lapped musically and one startled bird rose eerily with a loud whir,
Mame had the happy illusion that she was a classic heroine. This is how
those romantic janes must have felt in old days when those poetic guys
wrote sonnets to their eyebrows.
Plying the oars with uncommon skill this guy appeared too much of a
man to be a poetry addict. He was a regular fellow of the twentieth
century; a practical modern with all the latest improvements. There was
nothing highfalutin about him. Yet even he, as seen by the light of
that wonderful moon, had rather the air of a venturer in strange places.
“Say, listen, bo, this seems pretty good to me.” Hardly more than
a whisper those half comic words, yet full of feeling, full of
comradeship, full of whimsicality. Bill chuckled softly. The charming
minx had expressed his own idea of the subject. Yes, it was pretty
good. There was magic in the water, in the trees, in the very air and
texture of this wonderful night. He had never lived such moments. This
highland country with the power of the moon upon it sort of carried one
beyond oneself.
What a topping little girl! So different from the others. Not that they
were not good and jolly in their way. In the sight of Bill all girls
were good and jolly; but some, of course, had more vim and sparkle,
more originality, more zip. Yes, a good girl. The way that old moon
picked out the curve of her chin and the way the blue-green water was
reflected in her rather queer but alluring eyes gave one a corking
feeling of living the big, glad life.
Bill’s ambition, at that moment, was to take her in his arms and kiss
her. But an unwary movement must overturn them sure. He must wait until
he could beach the skiff and dispose of the oars.
Coasting around they entered a small shallow cove, where the tree-laden
banks came down gently to the water’s edge. This was the spot. Bill ran
the boat on to a tiny strand. Yet by occult means the dark purpose in
the mind of Ferdinand was already communicated to the heart of Miranda.
Just as he was about to lay aside his oars, she rose like a bird and
flew ashore. It was now a case of come and find me. Heedless of her
slippers she sprang up a dry grassy knoll with Bill in quick pursuit.
She flitted behind a tree and then another and then another. The
pursuit was hot but she was agile. Through heather and ferns she flew.
As she passed from tree to tree, a moonlit wraith in her white cloak,
she was like a naiad, an incarnation of elfin laughter and mirth.
Bill was a good trier, but this woodland sprite took a lot of catching.
He was one of those hefty fellows whom nature had not designed for
mobility. Something better, however, than mere speed was his. He was a
stayer. Even if not fleet of foot he took a lot of shaking off once he
had hit the trail.
She darted like a squirrel from tree to tree. But Bill the relentless
was always there. Presently she would tire, but no tiring for him this
side the rising of the sun. Already she was slowing down. Yard by yard
he was gaining. There was only one tree between them now. There was
less than a tree; there was less than half a tree.
Now, you nymph! She was as slender in his arms as a young willow.
But her motions were very wild and quick. The bright red life was
tingling in every electric inch of her. It was wonderful what force and
liveliness she had. This was a girl. A sweet little mouth. She fought a
bit, she kicked him on the shin, but it was not the sort of kick that
meant anything.
Blown and tossed, yet hooting with a laughter that shocked the island’s
other inhabitants, they came presently to earth on the dry bank above
the pellucid water. But Ferdinand held Miranda close. Not a chance for
her to slip from his arms and elude him again.
The witch seemed to have no especial desire for more feats of the kind.
That strong and manly arm was far too good to have around one. And
there was such a slender hope of getting free. One half-hearted attempt
was the sum of all her struggles.
What was that plopping in the water? A fish? Some funny old bird? Was
that a coney? What a moon it was! How weird and yet how grand it made
the Castle look. To think that pile of stones had stood just so in the
time of Robert the Bruce.
Had Bill read any of the romances of old man Scott?
Yes, he seemed to remember having read Robinson Crusoe. That was mainly
about an island, wasn’t it? Then there was Don Quixote. Those were the
only works he had read of Sir Walter Scott. Personally he always felt
that real life was so much better than simply reading about it....
She had a most kissable mouth.
“Tell me, Puss, do you think you could stick me for always?”
The Simplicitas question seemed to jump so abruptly upon her that Mame
was caught unawares.
It was not that she hadn’t seen it coming. Sooner or later it was bound
to arise. But she hadn’t expected the boob to take off quite so soon.
Here he was fairly plopping into her pocket, without giving her a
chance of making adequate preparation to receive him.
Even at Cowbarn, Iowa, where the roughneck abounds, Bill’s form would
have been rated a trifle crude. The question had been half invited,
yet certainly she would like to have had a little more in the way of
notice. Still there it was. No parrying, no parleying, no evading.
Excited she was, but she must pull her fool self together; she must
bring her wits into play. This was a matter for now.
Never had she felt so near complete happiness. A big moment. The
romance of the circumstances made her feel a wee bit delirious; the
pressure of life in her veins was terrific. A spell was in the trees
and the mountains; on the heather; on the keep of Dunkeldie; on the
moon-haunted lake. Magic had got into her blood.
She must take a pull on herself, she must look around. This was a
powerful question. There were many implications. But why bother her
head about them, even if at this moment she was capable of doing so,
which beyond a doubt she was not.
“Sorry to rush my fences like this.” The voice, deep and level, was
very close to her ear. “But we are just made for one another. And I
mean to have you.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, honey.” That was the answer she meant to
give. Had she not been carried so completely away by the enchantments
of that old and wicked moon, it would have been given beyond a doubt.
But just now she was not able to do as she liked; that was to say,
being half off your balance simply reft you of the power of doing what
you didn’t like. It would go to her heart to throw away this golden
chance. Empire over oneself would be needed for that. Besides, the
trees of the island whispered to her, Mame Durrance, what a fool puss
you’ll sure be if you do.