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W HEN Ralph St. Jermyn had arrived at the Scotts’ there were
assembled, within reasonable distance, what Aunt Elsie would
have called all Diana’s admirers, and Marcus, having expressed a
wish to see them all together, so that he might judge of them, Diana
set about to make plans so that he might have the opportunity he
sought.
Her mind being full of islands, having heard much of one from
Miles Hastings, she bethought herself of a bird-island that lay out to
sea at some distance from the end of the Loch, and on that island
she proposed Uncle Marcus and the other men should spend some
time together. Marcus was perfectly willing. He was interested in
sea-birds and loved the sea; moreover, he was always anxious to do
anything Diana asked him to do, in the hope, perhaps, that Aunt
Elsie would have proved in like circumstances less amenable. There
was always that incentive to an extreme amiability.
Uncle Marcus said he would ask St. Jermyn to join them and stay
the night; but Diana must understand it was late in the season for
young birds to be hatched. It was very unlikely there would be any.
Diana didn’t mind that—a bird was a bird, no matter its age. She had
a good deal to say to Miles Hastings on the subject of islands. She
dwelt on them particularly at those times when he wanted to talk of
other things—emphasizing rather persistently, he thought, the fact
that whereas one man on an island was as helpless as a new-born
babe, another was useful, resourceful, and undefeated. He said he
understood: Uncle Marcus would be rather useless, St. Jermyn more
so. “But you,” said Diana, “would make soup out of birds’ nests?”
He questioned it, but she persisted and went so far as to predict
that he would serve it up in the half of a cocoanut shell, to which he
readily agreed, such things being usually found on the islands of
Scotland.
“Wait and see,” she said.
He was waiting as it was, and growing daily more and more
hopeless; just as surely as Diana was growing more and more
delightful, and, of course, more and more beautiful. Any girl may do
that, is bound to do it, in the eyes at least of the man who loves her.
With Mr. Maitland, Hastings felt he made no progress. He was polite,
as a host is almost in duty bound to be, but he never talked about
Diana as Hastings would have liked him to talk: never left them
alone together, as Hastings would have liked to be left. He very
often, on the contrary, prevented them being alone and Diana
unfortunately did not seem to notice it. Hastings wondered in what
way he might propitiate his host. He might save him from drowning,
but it was hardly likely Mr. Maitland would place himself in that
particular danger, thereby affording Hastings the opportunity he so
earnestly sought. He might save Diana from drowning, but even to
benefit himself he would not let her risk that peril by water.
The island, on which Diana proposed Uncle Marcus and the young
men should be stranded for a while, rose straight from the sea: a
barren rock. It would take three quarters of an hour to get there in
the motor launch, and given a fine day it should prove a delightful
expedition—“For those who like it,” said Watkins mournfully.
Diana undertook to make all the arrangements. She and John
discussed the matter at length, and John would have been seen—if
any one had looked—to shake his head every now and then during
the discussion, and to raise a protesting hand; but protest as he
would, Diana triumphed and her word was law—just as her will was
his pleasure, which John was most careful to say when it was most
evident her will was not his pleasure.
Uncle Marcus had suggested taking lunch with them, but Diana
objected. She said they would get frightfully tired of the island, and
as soon as they had seen what birds there might be just out of the
shell, and what birds there might be not quite out of the shell, they
would long to go home. Again Diana had her way.
They landed on the island: Diana climbing up ahead of them all
and calling first to one, then to another to come and look here—and
there. She pointed out evidence of original sin as presented by the
sight of a little bird still attached to its shell, who was ready to fight
for the rocky inheritance that was his by at least the right of priority.
The men were interested. Everything in the nature of uncultivated
land, be it rock or otherwise, suggested interesting problems to St.
Jermyn, and at his fingers’ ends he had statistics as to how many
herrings were eaten per day per gull. That opened up the “Fisheries”
question, an important one.
Marcus was perfectly ready to discuss any question with St.
Jermyn; but he wanted first of all to take a photograph of a
particular gull, who at all events up to this moment had not deprived
the poor man of a single herring. “Just wait,” he said, “one
moment!”
Marcus found St. Jermyn very interesting: and exactly the kind of
man he would like Diana to marry if she must marry, but he did not
see the necessity. Hastings, too, was, of course, very attractive, for
even to Marcus a certain length of limb and an amazing amount of
virility in a young man were attractive. As to many middle-aged men
youth strongly appealed to him, and it was only because of Diana
that he made the smallest attempt to withstand Hastings. Having
only just discovered her, as it were, he did not see why he should
give her up to the first man who happened to fall in love with her.
When all the men were deeply engaged with the birds on the
island, Diana took the opportunity to slip away, back to the landing-
place where John awaited her orders. “Now, John,” she said; and
John drew from his capacious pockets various things, among them a
flask, a bottle, and a parcel. “Just inside the cave, John, there!”
Diana pointed to the cave, and John climbed up the rock and put the
things inside the cave. Diana followed him, and at the mouth of the
cave she built a cairn of stones, and under the top stone she placed
a slip of paper; then telling John to be quick she left the place as
quickly as she had come and sliding down the rock called to him to
slide softly: but John was heavier than Diana and slid less gracefully,
and little stones came rattling down with him.
“They’ll no be hearin’ them,” said John.
Diana dropped into the boat where Tooke was biding his time, and
hers. She told him to slip off quietly, and he assured her that what
noise the boat would make would be drowned by the sound of the
wind which was rising. John screwed up his eyes, looked out to sea,
and predicted a “storrrm.” Diana was afraid they might not escape
unseen, and she looked anxiously to the quickly receding island; but
John said the gentlemen would be so busy in taking the little birds
that they would not be looking.
“Not taking them, John; that would be horribly cruel!”
“Just their photograph-ees, miss,” said John.
He went on to say he had been one day fishing on the loch with a
gentleman, and as they had passed an island on the loch they had
seen three wee birds just out of the shell, and when they came back
five hours later and passed the island the wee birds had swum out
to meet them. “And, indeed, they did and the gentleman took them.”
“Not the birds, John,” protested Diana again for the sake of his
reassurance, “just their photograph-ees,” and Diana thought of Uncle
Marcus, who was also just taking photograph-ees of little birds, and
her eyes danced and she saw nothing of the storm that was coming.
She got home and ate a most excellent luncheon cooked in Mrs.
Oven’s best manner, and having drunk her coffee sat down to write
a letter, and the letter she wrote was this:
Dearest Aunt Elsie,—I am all alone. It’s really rather nice.
I think it’s a little tiring being so much with men. They are
so exacting, don’t you think so? However, to-day they
have left me alone and I don’t feel deserted or in the least
unhappy, but I should love to see you, if only for a
minute. I don’t know why, but I feel I should like to have
some one to laugh with. You are such a splendid laugher.
Uncle Marcus has gone on a kind of a scientific expedition.
He wants very much to take what John calls photograph-
ees of sea-birds on their nests, and he has taken all the
men with him.
I suppose there is no better way of judging of a man’s
character than to be stranded with him on a desert island.
I can imagine that, if by any chance, Uncle Marcus and
party were stranded there, Mr. Watkins would read his
poetry to him. Wouldn’t the Marky man love it? Mr. Pease?
What would he do? Tell him stories of his life as a child?—
his lonely childhood? Mr. St. Jermyn, I imagine, would
leave him severely alone; would go to the farthest part of
the island and would gently curse in an unparliamentary
manner. What do you think, my aunt? And Captain
Hastings, what would he do? I think and believe he would
cook a delicious dinner and feed Uncle Marcus, give him
soup in cocoanut shells and seaweed fritters, and fried
eggs—gulls’ eggs. We shall see—should see, I mean.
Uncle Marcus is frightfully pleased with life. Of course,
the shooting is not what he expected and the river is low,
but he is very much softened by his stay in the Highlands,
and yesterday he hoped you were quite well: and he
wondered if you minded living in a relaxing part of the
world; which, by the way, you don’t do. But I didn’t say so
because it seems to make him more of a happy Christian
to think you do. Pillar is delightful here. He shot a grey-
hen the other day, a very bad sin, and when he was
reprimanded, he expressed contrition, but added: “It was
very encouraging, sir.” I suppose it is when you don’t
shoot much. Uncle Marcus forgets that a man, though
poor and lowly, may be a sportsman. I want him to give
the gillies a day on the moor; and I want Uncle Marcus
and all my young men to act as gillies. The boat will be
going to fetch Uncle Marcus in a minute, so I must stop. I
hope you aren’t very lonely. I wish you were here!
Your loving
Diana
Then she walked to the window and looked out. It was raining,
not heavily; but a fine, driving mist blotted out the landscape. The
island would be rather a horrible place now—rather horrible! She
became grave; she no longer wanted Aunt Elsie because she was a
splendid laugher, but rather because she was one to quiet fears, to
make things look brighter than they really were. Could any aunt in
the world do that now? No glimmer of light pierced the grey pall that
hung over the Lodge of Glenbossie.
Diana went to the door and called John, and out of the mist
stepped John, and Sandy with him. Beads of moisture stood all over
their rough tweed coats and they looked as serious as they looked
moist. They said: “What aboot the gentlemen, now?” and Diana
asked, “What about them?”
And Sandy looked to John and John shook his head and was
thinking the sea would be too rough: there would be no fetching
them now. And Sandy nodded. John was right there.
“Not to-day?” asked Diana.
John doubted it: Sandy doubted it. Diana began to doubt it.
The moor was no longer visible. The birch wood was blotted out.
“Tooke must try, Sandy—John! He must! Make him!”
“Aye,” said the two men, and like Shetland ponies they turned
their backs to the storm.
“What did we leave on the island? Enough whiskey for them all?”
John shook his head.
“Not enough?” asked Diana incredulously. “There was a whole
flask.”
“And there are five gentlemen to it,” said John, and he shook his
head.
“But five men couldn’t drink a flask of whiskey in one day, it’s such
disgusting stuff!” said Diana.
And John looked to Sandy and Sandy to John. It took a good joke
to make Sandy laugh—he laughed the noo!
“We left a lobster—and a tin of sardines, didn’t we, John?” said
Diana anxiously.
John would not be saying that much whatever.
“And a match?”
“A match, yes.” John admitted that.
“What else?”
He said they had thought that enough, for the matter of an hour
or two.
“Some tobacco, John?”
“Yes, some tobacco.”
One match, some tobacco, a tin of sardines, a lobster, a flask of
whiskey, a bottle of water, and two empty cocoanut shells and—five
men.
Marcus Maitland peering into his camera hoped he hadn’t taken
two photographs on one film, and Hastings was quite certain he had
not. Why that certain assurance should have been his was simply
evidence that it had been his duty in life to assure his elders and
betters that whatever their excellencies had done, they had done
well and that nothing they did could be wrong. “Take another,” he
suggested, “to make sure.” And Marcus took another. As he wound
up the film he wondered where his niece was. Hastings, of course,
was wondering, too, and hoping: “Not on the other side of the island
with St. Jermyn.” “I don’t know, sir,” he said; “shall I go and find
her?”
At the same moment Mr. Watkins came along. He wanted, he said,
to show Miss Carston something really most interesting he had
found. Every one had something most interesting to show Miss
Carston, but she was not to be found. Marcus suggested they should
all look for her, she couldn’t be far off. The island was small—but she
herself was not to be found, though all the men sought her.
Uncle Marcus thought she must be in the boat and went to see,
but he could find no boat. It was, therefore, quite evident she had
gone fishing. They must wait till she came back; she must be back
soon. They waited.
A sea-bird island is not a very pleasant place to be on for any
length of time: moreover, there was a storm getting up.
“Let us call for help!” said Pease. “Let us shout!”
Watkins yodled. Ever since he had come north he had been
awaiting his chance to do it. He did it again and again.
“Don’t do that,” said Marcus; “I can’t hear.”
Watkins, piqued, said there was nothing to hear.
“Listen!” entreated Marcus.
They listened. There was the screaming of birds disturbed: the
chippering of chicks alarmed; but no sound of Diana’s voice, or
anything like it.
“It looks stormy,” said Marcus, turning up the collar of his coat.
“A bit choppy,” admitted Hastings.
“The mist rolls up—List to the sound of guns—buns—duns—puns
—runs—” said Watkins; then he added wistfully, “It’s curious that
there is no rhyme to month.”
“Who wants one?” asked Pease.
“It’s not a question of wanting one, my dear Pease; there is not
one to be had. If I stay here a month I cannot say so in a poem
without great difficulty, and probably—”
“There’s bunth, of course,” said Hastings, “but perhaps he doesn’t
count.” He lit a cigarette.
“Never heard of such a word.”
“No? He—or it if you prefer it—is a jolly little beast, usually to be
found in the tropics under a leaf, and is something between a
marmoset and a beetle.” Hastings threw away the match with which
he had lighted his cigarette and Marcus picked it up; he hated
matches thrown about.
“A what?” asked Watkins, his pocket-book ready and pencil poised.
“It’s no time for joking, Hastings,” said Marcus. “A storm in this
part of the world can get up in a moment: we’re in for one now,
unless I’m very much mistaken and we may be here for hours. What
can have happened?”
“We are stranded on a desert island, that’s quite clear,” said
Hastings, and he remembered Diana’s words. What had she said
about desert islands? She had rather harped on the subject. Was she
playing a practical joke? It looked like it. If she had planned a
ridiculous game he would play it with her. If she had meant to be
funny he would laugh with her. He would enter into the spirit of any
joke she chose to perpetrate—be it good, bad, or indifferent; and
after all an island is an island, and a man is a boy, and what man is
there, who is as much a boy as he ought to be, who can be on an
island and not light a fire? or be in a wood and not look for birds’
nests? Being very much of a man he was very much of a boy. Diana
had spoken in fun of desert islands. Did she realize how deeply
implanted in the heart of every real man is the longing for the
primordial life? Not for long, perhaps, but to experience it, for once?
Hastings had dreamed all his life of a desert island. He had cooked,
he had built, he had slept, on a desert island. He had lain awake
under the stars above it, slept, lulled by the wind that rocked it. He
had risen with the sun that rose behind it, and had bathed in the
noonday heat that scorched it. Did Diana know the lure of those
dreams? He set out to explore and at the mouth of the cave he
came upon the cairn of her building. He took the paper from under
the top stone and he read of the historical one match, with which
she dared him to light a fire! It required, she said, the very particular
skill of the experienced explorer to light a fire with the last match. “I
am sure you can do it,” she wrote. Further she said she knew exactly
how a desert island should be furnished—there should, by rights, of
course, be a chest of drawers in the cave. She knew how it should
be stocked: with what cunning the stores should be hidden; they
should stand upon a rock in full view—but she realized how little
time there was to spare, how soon Uncle Marcus would tire of a
desert island; so she had placed all he should need in a box, and in
that box he would find two halves of a cocoanut shell, in which to
make soup, and other things, such as whiskey, that should help to
keep Uncle Marcus warm and happy for a little while—and sardines
that should sustain him. Hastings wished Diana had thought of a
funnier joke, but he had vowed he would be amused. He would light
the fire; that at least would be good fun, and he would stick
faithfully to the one match. He would tell her he had made soup and
boiled eggs. He would get Uncle Marcus to swear he had swallowed
them; he—Miles—should not be the loser in the end: the joke should
be his ... until such time as it should find its way home again to her!
He went out of the cave to gather driftwood. The storm had risen,
he was caught by the scudding rain and whipped by the wind. He
wished she would come. In a moment the rain was running down his
neck and oozing over the tops of his shoes. The joke was beginning
to pall, but he said to himself, and truly, that if it had been any one
else’s it would have palled long before. He was going back to the
cave when he saw at his feet a little bird that looked about to die.
“Poor little beggar!” he said. “It’s a poor joke, isn’t it?” And lifting it
up he examined it, promising to do what he could to save its funny
little life. “You would, would you?” he asked, as the little bird pecked
at his finger. “Wait a bit, my little friend, until you are sitting by a
warm fire with a speck of whiskey inside you—eh? Come along!”
The joke was not such a bad one after all. A fire has been lighted
for worse things than for the warming of a little half-dead bird.
“You’re an ugly little beggar—yes, you are!” he said. “Now be quiet
while I light a fire with one match—one match, old man, is all that
stands between you and death—yes, death!”
To the little bird it must have been an enormous giant that placed
him so tenderly in a safe place, under the shadow of a great rock.
The little bird watched with interest the arranging of that fire:
gasped when the one match nearly went out: blinked when the
flame fostered in the hollow of a gigantic hand flared up straight and
strong—and yellow, the colour of its mother’s eyes—a colour warm,
comforting, and kind. The giant put the flame to the driftwood; it
caught here, went out there, blazed up here; the little bird
squeaked. “Wait a bit, sonny—it’ll be all right. It’s no joke dying
when you’re so young, is it? I had measles myself long ago—here—
draw up to the fire, closer—that’s right—now for a little whiskey. Like
it, old man? No, no more! True Scotsman that you are—later on,
perhaps! Now go to sleep. I’ll go and see what the others are doing
—squawk if you’re frightened—I shan’t be far off.”
It wasn’t such a bad joke after all. Bother the rain!
Meanwhile Marcus had taken all the photographs he could take
and began to find Diana’s joke—if joke it were—a poor one—and a
stupid one. He made no vow to be amused by it—no uncle would.
Watkins, anxious to help, said the only thing he could do to while
away the time was to recite and he cleared his throat.
“If you would shout instead, I should be very much obliged,” said
Marcus; “some one might hear you.”
Shouting was not at all the same thing to Watkins because it was
a thing he did with great difficulty. However, he must try and he
should be very glad if some one should chance to hear him because
his landlady never did, and she always put the blame on his voice.
He asked St. Jermyn to shout too, and St. Jermyn shouted.
“You should be a fine singer,” said Watkins, clearing his throat
again.
“Think so?” asked St. Jermyn, indifferent to praise.
“I do—indeed I do—don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, of course.”
“You? Oh, I see you are joking.”
“I never felt less like joking—d’you know what a storm here can
mean?”
“Not particularly here,” said Mr. Watkins.
“I thought not. Shout!”
Watkins shouted. Marcus stood in the fine drizzling rain peering
out to sea—and saw nothing.
Again St. Jermyn shouted.
“Be quiet!” said Watkins; his ears, attuned to the elements, he
said, were the first to hear an answering call. It was the hoot of a
steamer—at that moment of all sounds most blessed—even the
voice of Diana must have been less sweet.
“It’s a yacht,” said Marcus.
“The Scotts, I expect,” said Ralph St. Jermyn; “I told them if they
should be round here to look us up.” (What a comfortable thing it is
to have cousins who have yachts! and other things, most desirable.)
“They will find difficulty in getting a boat off—unless they can get
under the lee of the island,” he added.
Until that moment when Mrs. Scott held out two hands to Marcus
to greet him, he had never been able to excuse his want of
judgment in having allowed himself to call her beautiful. He had
always felt he had risked his reputation in so doing—his reputation
as a judge of beauty. Now as he took her hands in his he found her
of all women the most to be admired. There was something after all
that was better than beauty of line, there was charm of expression,
and she was, at this moment, perhaps, even beautiful: but he could
not see because she wore a sou’wester well pulled down over her
eyes, but he could imagine the kindness beaming from those eyes.
The smile on her lips he could see, so that if he did not stand
completely exonerated he at least must be largely excused—to a
cold, wet man all women may seem beautiful.
“You dear moist things,” she said, “how did you get stranded
here?”
A few minutes after they had left the island, and Marcus was
being ministered to by Mrs. Scott, Miles Hastings came in search of
him. He shouted; but there was no answer except the screeching of
birds as they flew up in their thousands at his approach. There was
no sign of man. Was this another joke?—this time a poor one—a
very poor one? It had not been Diana’s fault that the day had turned
out wet; but this was childish. He walked on and shouted again.
There was still no answer. The waves hurled themselves against the
rocks, making a noise like the booming of guns—old Watkins had
said that. It was quite evident that by some miraculous chance the
others had got off the island, and had forgotten him. He wondered
that St. Jermyn had forgotten him: perhaps he had not—that was
another way of looking at it!
There was nothing to be done so he went back to the cave, where
he found that the little bird, at all events, had not forgotten him.
“What shall we do?” he asked, and the little bird said nothing—how
should he know when he had lived so short a time—and knew
nothing as yet of the division of days? Breakfast, lunch, dinner, were
to him as one. He would have no divisions between them—if he had
the ordering of things.
There was one thing Hastings could always do, and that
anywhere, no matter where—think of Diana! He pulled up the collar
of his coat closer round his ears, sat down in the best shelter he
could find, picked up the little bird, told it to be good, and proceeded
to think of Diana. If she had forgotten him the situation was about
as bad as it could be, but he was convinced something must have
happened—a thousand things might have happened. The motor
launch might have gone wrong—if it had, then she might be in
danger. He sprang up to look. “All right, old chap, I won’t drop you.”
He looked first one way, then another, and in neither direction could
he see anything. A veil impenetrable hung between him and the
mainland. The storm raged—more and more furiously. He knew it
must spend itself in time, it was bound to. Diana at that moment
was wondering what he was doing?
She could never have guessed that he was greatly exercised over
the feeding of his young charge with bits of sardine—meant for
Marcus. That done he was going to think about her. That he would
think about her she might have guessed—but she could hardly have
guessed how tenderly he was going to do it.
XVII