Chambers Robert William
In Secret
"Because, even if I were different, you wouldn't wish me to."
"Why?"
"Because you and I are doomed to a rather intimate comradeship—a companionship far beyond conventions, Yellow-hair. That is what is ahead of us. And you will have enough to weary you without having another item to add to it."
"What item?" At that she became very silent and badly scared. What demon was prompting her to such provocation? Her own effrontery amazed and frightened her, but her words seemed to speak themselves independently of her own volition.
"Yellow-hair," he said, "I think you have guessed all I might have dared say to you were I not on eternal probation."
"Probation?"
"Before a bitterly strict judge."
"Who?"
"Myself, Yellow-hair."
"Oh, Kay! You ARE a boy—nothing more than a boy—"
"Are you in love with me?"
"No," she said, astonished. "I don't think so. What an amazing thing to say to a girl!"
"I thought I'd scare you," he remarked grimly.
"You didn't. I—I was scarcely prepared—such a nonsensical thing to say! Why—why I might as well ask you if you are in—in—"
"In love with you? You wish to know, Yellow-hair?"
"No, I don't," she replied hastily. "This is—stupid. I don't understand how we came to discuss such—such—" But she did know and she bit her lip and gazed across Isla Water in silent exasperation.
What mischief was this that hid in the Scottish sunshine, whispering in every heather-scented breeze—laughing at her from every little wave on Isla Water?—counselling her to this new and delicate audacity, imbuing her with a secret gaiety of heart, and her very soul fluttering with a delicious laughter—an odd, perverse, illogical laughter, alternately tremulous and triumphant!
Was she in love, then, with this man? She remembered his unconscious head on her knees in the limousine, and the snow clinging to his bright hair—
She remembered the telephone, and the call to the hospital—and the message. … And the white night and bitter dawn. … Love? No, not as she supposed it to be; merely the solicitude and friendship of a woman who once found something hurt by the war and who fought to protect what was hers by right of discovery. That was not love. … Perhaps there may have been a touch of the maternal passion about her feeling for this man. … Nothing else—nothing more than that, and the eternal indefinable charity for all boys which is inherent in all womanhood—the consciousness of the enchantment that a boy has for all women. … Nothing more. … Except that—perhaps she had wondered whether he liked her—as much as she liked him…. Or if, possibly, in his regard for her there were some slight depths between shallows—a gratitude that is a trifle warmer than the conventional virtue—
When at length she ventured to turn her head and look at him he seemed to be asleep, lying there in the transformed shadow of the lawn umbrella.
Something about the motionless relaxation of this man annoyed her. "Kay?"
He turned his head squarely toward her, and 'o her exasperation she blushed.
"Did I wake you? I'm sorry," she said coldly.
"You didn't. I was awake."
"Oh! I meant to say that I think I'll stroll out. Don't come if you feel lazy."
He swung himself up to a sitting posture.
"I'm quite ready," he said. … "You'll always find me ready, Yellow-hair—always waiting."
"Waiting? For what?"
"For your commands."
"You very nice boy!" she said gaily, springing to her feet. Then, the subtle demon of the sunlight prompting her: "You know, Kay, you don't ever have to wait. Because I'm always ready to listen to any pro—any suggestions—from you."
The man looked into the girl's eyes:
"You would care to hear what I might have to tell you?"
"I always care to hear what you say. Whatever you say interests me."
"Would it interest you to know I am—in love?"
"Yes. … With wh—whom are—" But her breath failed her.
"With you. … You knew it, Yellow-hair. … Does it interest you to know it?"
"Yes." But the exhilaration of the moment was interfering with her breath again and she only stood there with the flushed and audacious little smile stamped on her lips forcing her eyes to meet his curious, troubled, intent gaze.
"You did know it?" he repeated.
"No."
"You suspected it."
"I wanted to know what you—thought about me, Kay."
"You know now."
"Yes … but it doesn't seem real. … And I haven't anything to say to you. I'm sorry—"
"I understand, Yellow-hair."
"—Except-thank you. And-and I am interested. … You're such a boy…. I like you so much, Kay…. And I AM interested in what you said to me."
"That means a lot for you to say, doesn't it?"
"I don't know. … It's partly what we have been through together, I suppose; partly this lovely country, and the sun. Something is enchanting me. … And you are very nice to look at, Kay." His smile was grave, a little detached and weary.
"I did not suppose you could ever really care for such a man as I am," he remarked without the slightest bitterness or appeal in his voice. "But I'm glad you let me tell you how it is with me. … It always was that way, Yellow-hair, from the first moment you came into the hospital. I fell in love then."
"Oh, you couldn't have—"
"Nevertheless, and after all I said and did to the contrary. … I don't think any woman remains entirely displeased when a man tells her he is in love with her. If he does love her he ought to tell her, I think. It always means that much tribute to her power. … And none is indifferent to power, Yellow-hair."
"No. … I am not indifferent. I like what you said to me. It seems unreal, though—but enchanting—part of this day's enchantment. … Shall we start, Kay?"
"Certainly."
They went out together through the garden door into the open moor, swinging along in rhythmic stride, side by side, smiling faintly as dreamers smile when something imperceptible to the waking world invades their vision.
Again the brown grouse whirred from the whinns; again the subtle fragrance of the moor sweetened her throat with its clean aroma; again the haunting complaint of the lapwings came across acres of bog and furze; and, high in the afternoon sky, an invisible curlew sadly and monotonously repeated its name through the vast blue vault of space.
On the edge of evening with all the west ablaze they came out once more on Isla Water and looked across the glimmering flood at the old house in the hollow, every distant window-pane a-glitter.
Like that immemorial and dragon-guarded jewel of the East the sun, cradled in flaky gold, hung a hand's breadth above the horizon, and all the world had turned to a hazy plum-bloom tint threaded with pale fire.
On Isla Water the yellow trout had not yet begun to jump; evening still lingered beyond the world's curved ruin; but the wild duck were coming in from the sea in twos and threes and sheering down into distant reaches of Isla Water.
Then, into the divine stillness of the universe came the unspeakable twang of a banjo; and a fat voice, slightly hoarse:
"Rocks on the mountain,
Fishes in the sea,
A red-headed girl
Raised hell with me.
She come from Chicago, R.F.D.
An' she ain't done a thing to a guy like me!"
The business was so grotesquely outrageous, so utterly and disgustingly hopeless in its surprise and untimelines, that McKay's sharp laugh rang out under the sky.
There they were, the same trespassers of the morning, squatted on the heather at the base of Isla Craig—a vast heap of rocks—their machine drawn up in the tall green brakes beside the road.
The flashy, fat man, Macniff, had the banjo. The girl sat between him and the thin man, Skelton.
"Ah, there, old scout!" called out Macniff, flourishing one hand toward McKay. "Lovely evening, ain't it? Won't you and the wife join us?"
There was absolutely nothing to reply to such an invitation. Miss Erith continued to gaze out steadily across Isla Water; McKay, deeply sensitive to the ludicrous, smiled under the grotesque provocation, his eyes mischievously fixed on Miss Erith. After a long while: "They've spoiled it," she said lightly. "Shall we go on, Kay? I can't endure that banjo."
They walked on, McKay grinning. The picnickers were getting up from the crushed heather; Macniff with his banjo came toward them on his incredibly thick legs, blocking their path.
"Say, sport," he began, "won't you and the lady join us?" But McKay cut him short:
"Do you know you are impudent?" he said very quietly. "Step out of the way there."
"The hell you say!" and McKay's patience ended at the same instant. And something happened very quickly, for the man only staggered under the smashing blow and the other man's arm flew up and his pistol blazed in the gathering dusk, shattering the cairngorm on McKay's shoulder. The young woman fired from where she sat on the grass and the soft hat was jerked from Miss Erith's head. At the same moment McKay clutched her arm and jerked her violently behind a jutting elbow of Isla Rock. When she recovered her balance she saw he held two pistols.
"Boche?" she gasped incredulously.
"Yes. Keep your head down. Crouch among the ferns behind me!"
There was a ruddy streak of fire from the pistol in his right hand; shots answered, the bullets smacking the rock or whining above it.
"Yellow-hair?"
"Yes, Kay."
"You are not scared, are you?"
"Yes; but I'm all right."
He said with quiet bitterness: "It's too late to say what a fool I am. Their camouflage took me in; that's all—"
He fired again; a rattling volley came storming among the rocks.
"We're all right here," he said tersely. But in his heart he was terrified, for he had only the cartridges in his clips.
Presently he motioned her to bend over very low. Then, taking her hand, he guided her along an ascending gulley, knee-deep in fern and brake and brier, to a sort of little rocky pulpit.
The lake lay behind them, lapping the pulpit's base. There was a man in a boat out there. McKay fired at him and he plied both oars and fled out of range.
"Lie down," he whispered to Miss Erith. The girl mutely obeyed.
Now, crouched up there in the deepening dusk, his pistol extended, resting on the rock in front of him, his keen eyes searched restlessly; his ears were strained for the minutest stirring on the moor in front of him; and his embittered mind was at work alternately cursing his own stupidity and searching for some chance for this young girl whom his own incredible carelessness had probably done to death.
Presently, between him and Isla Water, a shadow moved. He fired; and around them the darkness spat flame from a dozen different angles.
"Damnation!" he whispered to himself, realising now what the sunlit moors had hidden—a dozen men all bent on murder.
Once a voice hailed him from the thick darkness promising immunity if he surrendered. He hesitated. Who but he should know the Boche? Still he answered back: "If you let this woman go you can do what you like to me!" And knew while he was saying it that it was useless—that there was no truth, no honour in the Boche, only infamy and murder. A hoarse voice promised what he asked; but Miss Erith caught McKay's arm.
"No!"
"If I dared believe them—"
"No, Kay!"
He shrugged: "I'd be very glad to pay the price—only they can't be trusted. They can't be trusted, Yellow-hair."
Somebody shouted from the impenetrable shadows:
"Come out of that now, McKay! If you don't we'll go in and cut her throat before we do for you!"
He remained silent, quite motionless, watching the darkness.
Suddenly his pistol flashed redly, rapidly; a heavy, soft bulk went tumbling down the rocks; another reeled there, silhouetted against Isla Water, then lurched forward, striking the earth with his face. And now from every angle slanting lines of blood-red fire streaked the night; Isla Craig rang and echoed with pelting lead.
"Next!" called out McKay with his ugly careless laugh. "Two down. No use to set 'em up again! Let dead wood lie. It's the law!"
"Can they hear the shooting at the house?" whispered Miss Erith.
"Too far. A shot on the moors carries only a little way."
"Could they see the pistol flashes, Kay?"
"They'd take them for fireflies or witch lights dancing on the bogs."
After a long and immobile silence he dropped to his knees, remained so listening, then crept across the Pulpit's ferny floor. Of a sudden he sprang up and fired full into a man's face; and struck the distorted visage with doubled fist, hurling it below, crashing down through the bracken.
After a stunned interval Miss Erith saw him wiping that hand on the herbage.
"Kay?"
"Yes, Yellow-hair."
"Can you see your wrist-watch?"
"Yes. It's after midnight."
The girl prayed silently for dawn. The man, grim, alert, awaited events, clutching his partly emptied pistols. He had not yet told her that they were partly empty. He did not know whether to tell her. After a while he made up his mind.
"Yellow-hair?"
"Yes, dear Kay."
His lips went dry; he found difficulty in speaking: "I've—I've undone you. I've bitten the hand that saved me, your slim white hand, I'm afraid. I'm afraid I've destroyed you, Yellow-hair."
"How, Kay?"
"My pistols are half empty. … Unless dawn comes quick—"
Again one of his pistols flashed its crimson streak across the blackness and a man began scrambling and thrashing and screaming down there in the whinns. For a little while Miss Erith crouched beside McKay in silence. Then he felt her light touch on his arm:
"I've been thinking.",
"Aye. So have I."
"Is there a chance to drop into the lake?"
He had not thought so. He had figured it out in every possible way. But there seemed little chance to swim that icy water—none at all—with that man in the boat yonder, and detection always imminent if they left the Pulpit. McKay shook his head slightly:
"He'd row us down and gralloch us like swimming deer."
"But if one goes alone?"
"Oh, Yellow-hair! Yellow-hair! If you only could!"
"I can."
"Swim it?"
"Yes."
"It's cold water. Few can swim Isla Water. It's a long swim from Isla Craig to the house."
"I can do it, I think."
After a terrible silence he said: "Yes, best try it, Yellow-hair…. I had meant to keep the last cartridge for you…"
"Dear Kay," she breathed close to his cheek.
Presently he was obliged to fire again, but remained uncertain as to his luck in the raging storm of lead that followed.
"I guess you better go, Yellow-hair," he whispered. "My guns are about all in."
"Try to hold them off. I'll come back. Of course you understand I'm not going for myself, Kay, I'm going for ammunition."
"What!"
"What did you suppose?" she asked curtly.
At that he blazed up: "If you can win through Isla Water you stay on the other side and telephone Glenark! Do you hear? I'm all right. It's—it's none of your business how I end this—"
"Kay?"
"What?"
"Turn your back. I'm undressing."
He heard her stripping, kneeling in the ferns behind him,—heard the rip of delicate fabric and the rustle of silk-lined garments falling.
Presently she said: "Can I be noticed if I slip down through the bushes to the water?"
"O God," he whispered, "be careful, Yellow-hair. … No, the man in the boat is keeping his distance. He'll never see you. Don't splash when you take the water. Swim like an otter, under, until you're well out. … You're young and sturdy, slim as you are. You'll get through if the chill of Isla doesn't paralyse you. But you've got to do it, Yellow-hair; you've GOT to do it."
"Yes. Hold them off, Kay. I'll be back. Hold them off, dear Kay. Will you?"
"I'll try, Yellow-hair…. Good luck! Don't try to come back!"
"Good luck," she whispered close to his ear; and, for a second he felt her slim young hands on his shoulders—lightly—the very ghost of contact. That was all. He waited a hundred years. Then another. Then, his weapons levelled, listening, he cast a quick glance backward. At the foot of the Pulpit a dark ripple lapped the rock. Nothing there now; nothing in Isla Water save far in the stars' lustre the shadowy boat lying motionless.
Toward dawn they tried to rush the Pulpit. He used a heavy fragment of rock on the first man up, and as his quarry went smashing earthward, a fierce whine burst from the others: "Shot out! All together now!" But his pistol spoke again and they recoiled, growling, disheartened, cursing the false hope that had re-nerved them.
It was his last shot, however. He had a heavy clasp-knife such as salmon-anglers carry. He laid his empty pistols on the rocky ledge. Very patiently he felt for frost-loosened masses of rock, detached them one by one and noiselessly piled them along the ledge.
"It's odd," he thought to himself: "I'm going to be killed and I don't care. If Isla got HER, then I'll see her very soon now, God willing. But if she wins out—why it is going to be longer waiting…. And I've put my mark on the Boche—not as often as I wished—but I've marked some of them for what they've done to me—and to the world—"
A sound caught his ear. He waited, listening. Had it been a fighting chance in Isla Water he'd have taken it. But the man in the boat!—and to have one's throat cut—like a deer! No! He'd kill all he could first; he'd die fighting, not fleeing.
He looked at his wrist-watch. Miss Erith had been gone two hours.
That meant that her slender body lay deep, deep in icy Isla.
Now, listening intently, he heard the bracken stirring and something scraping the gorse below. They were coming; they were among the rocks! He straightened up and hurled a great slab of rock down through darkness; heard them scrambling upward still; seized slab after slab and smashed them downward at the flashes as the red flare of their pistols lit up his figure against the sky.
Then, as he hurled the last slab and clutched his short, broad knife, a gasping breath fell on his cheek and a wet and icy little hand thrust a box of clips into his. And there and then The McKay almost died, for it was as if the "Cold Hand of Isla" had touched him. And he stared ahead to see his own wraith.
"Quick!" she panted. "We can hold them, Kay!"
"Yellow-hair! By God! You bet we can!" he cried with a terrible burst of laughter; and ripped the clips from the box and snapped them in with lightning speed.
Then his pistols vomited vermilion, clearing the rock of vermin; and when two fresh clips were snapped in, the man stood on the Pulpit's edge, mad for blood, his fierce young eyes searching the blackness about him.
"You dirty rats!" he cried, "come back! Are you leaving your dead in the bracken then?"
There were distant sounds on the moor; nothing stirred nearer.
"Are you coming back?" he shouted, "or must I go after you?"
Suddenly in the night their motor roared. At the same moment, far across the lake, he saw the headlights of other motors glide over Isla Bridge like low-flying stars.
"Yellow-hair!"
There was no sound behind him. He turned.
The fainting girl lay amid her drenched yellow hair in the ferns, partly covered by the clothing which she had drawn over her with her last conscious effort.
It is a long way across Isla Water. And twice across is longer. And "The Cold Hand of Isla" summons the chief of Clan Morhguinn when his time has come to look upon his own wraith face to face. But The Cold Hand of Isla had touched this girl in vain—MOLADH MAIRI!!
"Yellow-hair! Yellow-hair!" he whispered. The roar of rushing motors from Glenark filled his ears. He picked up one of her little hands and chafed it. Then she opened her golden eyes, looked up at him, and a flood of rose dyed her body from brow to ankle.
"It—it is a long way across Isla Water," she stammered. "I'm very tired—Kay!"
"You below there!" shouted McKay. "Are there constables among you?"
"Aye, sir!" came the loud response amid the roar of running engines.
"Then there'll be whiskey and blankets, I'm thinkin'!" cried McKay.
"Aye, blankets for the dead if there be any!"
"Kick 'em into the whinns and bring what ye bring for the living!" said McKay in a loud, joyous voice. "And if you've petrol and speed take the Banff road and be on your way, for the Boche are crawling to cover, and it's fine running the night! Get on there, ye Glenark beagles! And leave a car behind for me and mine!"
A constable, shining his lantern, came clumping up the Pulpit. McKay snatched the heavy blankets and with one mighty movement swept the girl into them.
Half-conscious she coughed and gasped at the whiskey, then lay very still as McKay lifted her in his arms and strode out under the paling stars of Isla.
