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topped ruts was good going: the wide stretches of moor on either
side of him invited him to climb the hills to which they gently led:
the rocks scattered here and there in the heather challenged him to
guess how they had come there. Great boulders they were that no
man could move, certainly not the smallest giant in the world.
The curlew called to him: the gulls plainly enough told him to go
away—the sky was theirs—not his: the sea and all that therein was—
theirs, not his. A little child padded past him, too shy to answer his
greeting; but not too shy to smile hers. The burns gurgling down
from the hillside laughed at him—chuckled over jokes of their own,
which jokes were hidden either deep down in “pots,” or by the
heather that touched hands over the laughing waters.
Hastings knew what good jokes little trout can be, and if he had
been younger they might have kept him,—even from Diana,—but
now nothing could do that: everything bade him hurry, the golden-
rod at the side of the road waved to him: the blue and pink scabious
nodded: everything sympathized with him.
An old woman making hay, in a patch of a field, at the side of the
road, came down to the low stone wall and greeted him in her soft
native tongue; which greeting conveyed to him a wish for good luck
in his wooing. She understood! Her smiling, sunken eyes held
memories. It must have been years ago that she was wooed, yet
she had not forgotten! Who could forget, if it had been among these
hills, beside these burns, under this sky that he had loved? O
Scotland! No wonder Shan’t addressed her letters to Uncle Marcus
“Glenbossie, darlin’ Scotland.”
Arrived at the Lodge, Miles went up the pebbly path that led to
the door, rang the bell—and waited.
Pillar came to the wide-open door. “Good-morning,” said Captain
Hastings.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Pillar.
“I have an order—” Then he repented him of his wickedness and
said, “Would you allow me to see over the house?”
 “It is let, sir.”
“Let? What scoundrels they are—agents—letting me come all this
way—for how long is it let?”
“For two months, sir.”
“Ah, yes, of course, but I am in negotiations for taking it on a long
lease—ninety-nine years sort of thing.”
Pillar looked at him. Ninety-nine years! He didn’t believe there
were such things in Scotch leases—but perhaps it was hardly worth
discussing that—the quality of the visitor was such that Pillar judged
him to be a law unto himself.
“Would—whoever the house is let to—allow me, d’you think, to
see over it? I must do it now or never—I’ve come a long way from
—” And he mentioned that far-off island, the sound of whose name
was always in Diana’s heart if not forever on her lips. She was
passing through the hall, heard the name, and went out—and found
herself face to face with the young man who for months had prayed
for her every night. That, of course, she did not know. But she knew
he must know her father and mother.
“I was asking if you would be so kind as to allow me to see the
Lodge.” She was far more adorable than he had imagined and that
he had not deemed possible.
“Of course,” she answered; “do come in”—and he went in,
following his dream of dreams come true.
“This is the hall,” she said; “it’s small, but it’s quite big enough for
wet mackintoshes—and—”
“I like it,” said Hastings, looking at her.
“So do I—this is the dining-room.” She opened a door and
motioned him to go in. He went in and said it was delicious—still
looking at her.
“We shouldn’t think it so delicious in England, I suppose. I’ve
never sat on horsehair in England.”
 “Rather slippery, isn’t it?”
“This is what we call the living-room—” Opening another door;
“your wife would perhaps call it the drawing-room—you are
married?”
“No—but why should you say my wife would call it that?”
“Why shouldn’t she?”
“Because—why shouldn’t she call it what you do?”
“Don’t get stuffy about it—I didn’t mean to say anything against
your wife.”
“But you did—and it’s a thing no man should stand—you said she
would do what you wouldn’t do.”
“And why shouldn’t she?”
“Because I wouldn’t allow it—”
At that Diana laughed so much that Uncle Marcus came to see
what she was laughing at. Had she had a letter from Elsie?—
forgetting this was not post-time—and he saw to his great
amazement a long-legged, very nice-looking young man (the right
sort of young man) sitting quite close to Diana and laughing just as
much as Diana was laughing and apparently with as little reason.
“My dear Diana—” he said.
“Oh, here’s some one to see the house and we’re fighting about
his wife.”
“Wife?” A smile broke upon the lips of Marcus—thank goodness,
this man was married.
“And he hasn’t got one,” said Diana.
“Not got one?”
“Not yet,” said Hastings; “the fact of the matter is—I am just back
from abroad. Perhaps I should tell you at once that I am Miles
Hastings, one of Sir Eustace Carston’s A.D.C.’s—and—”
 Of course Marcus vowed it was the most extraordinary thing that
had ever happened! Of course, he must stay with them. His luggage
should be sent for. Marcus pulled the bell-rope and it came down.
Diana said it always did, and she went to call Pillar.
“It’s too amazing you should have come by chance,” said Marcus.
Hastings did not see why he should say he had gone to Mr.
Maitland’s house in London, and asked his address, because it was
such an easy thing to guess—Mr. Maitland should have guessed it.
Lady Carston naturally had not known the Scotch address, but she
had given him the London one. Neither did he feel bound to say that
Sir Eustace had shown no anxiety to give him even the London one.
He had wondered at it; now he was beginning to understand, for no
father possessed of a daughter like Diana would wish to encourage
any man.
Miles Hastings did not suppose, of course, for one moment, that
Sir Eustace had thought him rather more dangerous than most
young men, and was seeking to protect Diana against his
fascination. Nor could he have dared to imagine that Lady Carston
would have let the child take her chance, believing it might be a
happy chance. He was happy enough as it was.
The following day he was happier still. He and Diana were fishing
on the loch. Away in the distance, a speck on the face of the waters,
were Watkins and Pease in their boat, fishing too.
To be quite accurate, in Diana’s boat, John, gillie, was fishing,
while Donald, gillie, kept the boat drifting: and it must drift until
Miles Hastings, in the bow, had told Diana, likewise in the bow, all
there was to tell of that far-off island, from which he had come—to
see her.
He had said everything any girl would wish to hear said of her
father. He had said nearly all he had to say about her mother. He
was now deep in tropical undergrowth and vegetation. It was
wonderful the number of plants he remembered in their infinite
variety—tree ferns—trees, ferns, and flowers. Diana listened—she
had never before found ferns interesting.
Marcus waved from his boat, but no one saw him. So he went
home and sent Elsie two brace of grouse. It was a message he
wanted to send more than the grouse and he dipped his pen in
vinegar and wrote, “Diana is very happy surrounded with admirers.”
Elsie ate the grouse, sharing them with others, dipped her pen in
gall, and wrote back: “Of course she is. She always is, but this surely
is the one—what do you think?”
What did Marcus think? A thousand things, miserable things—
jealous things, unreasoning things, and, above all, he thought: “How
did she know? Had Diana confided in her and not in him?”
He took Elsie’s letter out on to the river’s side to read again, to
make certain of what lay behind her words.
While he was reading it he gave Sandy the rod, and Sandy was
grateful to the man who had written a letter (surely a woman it must
have been) that took three distinct readings to its proper digestion.
If a man were a true Christian—and all fishermen should be that, for
the earliest of all Christians were fishermen before anything else—he
would give the rod oftener to the gillie who stands beside him,
knowing himself to be by far the better fisherman of the two. For
hours he stands there with that certain knowledge biting into his
heart.
If Marcus had told Sandy all that lay in his heart, Sandy would
have been profoundly interested, no doubt, because he had had
cause, in his time, to think of women as interfering creatures—and
of small use in a world of God-fearing men. There were exceptions,
he would have allowed, and he would have instanced the one now
driving along the road behind them.
“Yon’s Mrs. Scott,” he said to Marcus.
“Where?” And Marcus’s eyes, following the direction of Sandy’s
finger, saw a lady driving two ponies in a low phaeton. She pulled up
the ponies and, getting out of the carriage, came over the heather
towards Marcus. Marcus again handed the rod to Sandy and went to
meet Mrs. Scott: Sandy would not have minded if Mr. Maitland had
gone to Heaven—just for a wee bittie, while he, Sandy, fished the
pool as it should be fished—on earth.
Mrs. Scott was a gentle, mild, little woman and she looked much
happier in the heather she loved than she had looked in the
ballroom, in London, she had not loved. And the tweed hat, pulled
down over her eyes, was infinitely more becoming to her than the
tiara had been.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“None. Sandy thinks I’m a poor fisherman.”
She smiled: Sandy possibly was right, but that shouldn’t count
against Mr. Maitland as a man.
It was then Mrs. Scott said how kind Marcus had been in
subscribing so generously to the cottage hospital, and Marcus said:
“Not at all.”
“I was so glad,” went on Mrs. Scott, “to see your niece at the Sale
—it was so good of her to come. I remember her so well at the
dance that night—you remember?”
Marcus remembered more than he wanted her to remember. Did
she remember that he had told her she was beautiful? It was a
thing, he feared, no plain woman would be likely to forget.
Mrs. Scott sat down, arranged the heather round her, dug the
heels of her square-toed brogues into its roots, and began:
“Now tell me about her! That night she seemed imprisoned
sunshine—is she in love?”
Marcus looked at her honest little brogues; then at her clear eyes,
but even they could not reassure him. “D’you know her aunt, on the
other side?” This to make sure.
 Mrs. Scott said she did not. “On the other side? Which side are
you? Her mother’s, of course, how stupid I am! Is the aunt very
charming?”
Marcus said he hardly knew her, and felt this restraint on his part
to be magnanimous.
Mrs. Scott smiled. “It’s so nice not to have to know relations on
the other side, isn’t it? Sometimes they expect to be kissed—oh, I
mean, women expect women relations on the other side—”
Marcus hastened to say he quite understood.
Mrs. Scott went on. “I was so sorry to miss your niece when I
called. You can imagine how busy one is when one first comes back
here. There are all the dear old people to see. I admired your niece
so much that night—I was homesick for the breeze on the moor—for
the views of hills in the distance—for—well, just for this dear country
of mine and your niece seemed to open the door to its soft west
wind.”
Marcus was very happy.
“I really want to tell you Ralph St. Jermyn arrives to-morrow. You
know why I expect you to be interested? I have not forgotten how
interested he seemed that night. Does she care, do you think?”
“I cannot tell whether my niece cares for any one or not—there
are several.”
“Of course there must be, but Ralph is so—”
“Yes, I know, but she must do as she wishes—”
“Of course—I only thought—perhaps, hoped—I was very sleepy
that night. I forget much of what happened.”
Marcus was relieved to hear it.
“You were very kind to me, I remember. I am so insignificant in a
ballroom, I generally go to sleep: but people are very kind; some
one always tells me when it’s time to wake up—but here I count and
I like it. I am thankful to be noticed by any one in London, but here
people are bound to notice me,”—and the little woman laughed. “I
stand out. The biggest gillie runs to do my bidding, and I love them
all—gillies, women, children; lairds too—all of them; and my one
hope is that my Sheila may meet some good man soon and marry
him at once, so that I may never have to go to London again. Will
you tell your niece how kind she was the other day at the bazaar?
But she ran away too soon. I am afraid these things bore young
people, although my party were very long-suffering—I am a fearful
ogre, I fear.”
Marcus turned and looked at her: a little speck of kind humanity
she seemed in a vast sea of heather. At her feet, heather; behind
her, heather; before her, the rushing river; above her, the blue sky;
encircling her on all sides, hills, hills, hills.
“It’s good to be alive—it’s a good world,” she said, but Marcus was
not so sure that it was. His days were spent without Diana, and his
evenings with Pease and Watkins; while Hastings talked to Diana
about her father. It was quite impossible, he knew, that there should
be so much to say about any one man, and now to add to it all
another man was coming who would also talk to Diana—of many
things.
 XVI

When a man lights a fire for a poor little bird,

It shows that those beautiful words he has heard,
That never a sparrow can fall to the ground
But a wound in the heart of his Maker be found.

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

It’s a good joke that keeps out the rain, stays

the wind, and makes the fire burn brightly.

D OWN on the shore of the loch Diana waited, buffeted by the

wind, drenched by the rain. Her hair loosened by the wind blew
into her eyes. She pushed it back impatiently: she was waiting for
the storm to clear. So soon as the clouds broke, and she saw light on
the horizon, and the waters were stilled, she would send the launch
for Uncle Marcus. That he must by this time be suffering from
congestion of the lungs, she was gloomily certain. There was now no
question as to which of the men she loved; she loved them all, in
the sense, at least, that there was not one of them she wouldn’t
marry to save him from drowning, or from pneumonia. Not one! She
had only meant to be funny and she had not been funny. A poor
joke was a crime in itself—nothing excused it. If it had been a good
joke they would all have forgiven her, but what with the rain and the
wind and the island—horrible at all times—she had sinned beyond
forgiveness. Oh, to be with Aunt Elsie—the peace of it—the perfect
peace! The memory of the sun-steeped garden, with the booming of
bees—so different from the booming of waves—of the scent of the
roses, was more than she could bear—and the deliciousness of
Shan’t became an aching memory.
Pillar was watching, too, clad in oilskins and wearing a sou’wester.
He made the agony still more acute, by carrying a rope. As Napoleon
is pictured standing wrapt in melancholy, so stood Pillar—awaiting
the worst.
Suddenly he stiffened and came towards her, as though, she
thought, he were in London, about to announce a visitor. “Mr. St.
Jermyn, miss,” he said. She had been right, he was a butler again
announcing a visitor, and never was visitor so welcome as this one.
“You!” she cried, as St. Jermyn came towards her across the sandy
bay and took her hands in his.
“I am abjectly sorry,” she said, and withdrew them gently,
explaining they were wet. Then she asked him if he had forgiven
her, which was a dangerous question to ask.
“Yes ... now,” he said, with a still more dangerous emphasis.
“Why now?” she asked—a foolish question to ask. She might have
guessed why.
“Don’t spoil it,” he said gently.
“I only meant it as a joke—leaving you on the island, I mean. And
then, when I got back and was going to send the launch to fetch
you, the storm had got up and the men said the sea was too rough.”
“Why did you leave us?”
“As a joke! I told you.” It was awful to have to go on explaining
that the idiotic thing she had done was a joke.
“For no other reason?”
“I was tired of so many men, that was all!”
“You couldn’t put up with one, I suppose, who is very humble and
doesn’t ask much?”
“No—at the moment I want you all—tell me, how did you get off
the island?”
“The Scotts picked us up. They were out fishing or had been
before the storm got up. There was a little difficulty in sending out
the boat for us, but they managed it—they got under the lee of the
island. Your uncle is anxious about you—he is afraid you are wet—
you are!” St. Jermyn put his hand on her arm.
She moved away. “Not really wet,” she said; “a little damp, but
what does it matter how wet I am now you are all back.”
 “We are not all back. Hastings is still on the island.”
The wind and rain had stung Diana’s cheeks to a vivid colour and
she wore a blue hood drawn over her hair and wore it as St. Jermyn
had thought only an Irishwoman could wear it. He found her
distractingly pretty.
“Still on the island? He must be frightfully wet,” she said.
“And very hungry,” he added.
“Oh—yes, perhaps—” Hunger she knew would not be the worst
thing he had to bear. “But some one must fetch him.”
“Yes, some one must fetch him. We forgot him, which is a thing I
should not have thought I could possibly have done, whatever the
others might do. The storm may clear off at any moment. They do in
these parts as suddenly as they come up.”
“But if it doesn’t clear up?”
St. Jermyn looked at her—then out to sea and back again to her.
“If you want him to be fetched I will fetch him—for you.”
“Why for me?”
“Because you want some one to go and I want to please you—is
that reason enough?”
“Do you mean that if I didn’t want him fetched you wouldn’t go?”
“I mean that. I would let some one else go.”
“Why not let some one else go now, then? A man on an island
must be fetched. Why should you make it a personal thing?”
“Because I want everything between you and me to be personal. I
want my chance, that’s all. You say a man on an island must be
fetched. Do you realize that for me to do it is an act of heroism?
Supposing it would suit me that Hastings should stay forever on the
island, what then? Suppose that in fetching him off the island I know
I destroy my one chance of happiness, and I still fetch him—for your
sake—what does that argue?”
 “I can’t argue—I hate it. He is cold and wet—he is cold and wet
because I behaved like an idiot—he must be fetched.”
“Many a time during the last few days I have wished to drown
him.”
Diana said she didn’t believe him, but he assured her it was true.
“Just as heartily as he has wished to drown me,” he added.
That Diana refused to believe.
“No? Well, then, his position is evidently more assured than I
imagined it, and he is a more fortunate man than I am—he can
afford to be magnanimous. Well, I am going to fetch him for your
sake—you can’t rob me of that nobility of character—I shall fetch
him in order to make you happy—just as I would do anything else in
the world to make you happy. It will make you happy—I should like
to be certain of that—before—”
Diana said of course it would make her happy that any one cold
and miserable should be made warm and happy, “But I don’t want
you to run any danger—that I wouldn’t face myself. I will come with
you.”
“Will you?” The thought of an hour—or as long as he liked to
make it—alone with Diana was a delirious thought—less delirious
was the thought of the return journey with Hastings in the boat.
Hastings with the glamour of martyrdom upon him would be
invulnerable. St. Jermyn said he wasn’t sure that Hastings would like
that, and Diana asked why? He would be glad to see her, she knew.
“Without me—yes, but with me? What do you think?”
“Why should he mind?” she asked; then added, “It will be safe for
you to go, though?”
If it were not would she mind? he asked her.
She answered, of course, why not? If she had proved herself
devoid of humour, it did not show she was heartless.
 “I wish I understood you—perhaps if I did I should be even less
happy than I am. It’s clearing, I’ll go; any message for him?”
She shook her head—then said: “My humble duty, perhaps—”
“I am glad you did not ask me to take him your love because I
should have kept half for myself—but if you would trust it all to me—
to give what I like of it to Hastings—”
Diana, interrupting him, said she was tired of jokes. So was he, he
vowed: he was in deadly earnest. “By the way—if in earnest I asked
you—‘Will you marry me?’ What should you say?”
“I should say—‘Is this a serious proposal?’”
“And if I said ‘Yes’—what should you say then?”
“I should say, it was too windy to hear—too wet to answer—too
cold to marry.”
“Too cold—that’s it! Isn’t it? Why are you so cold?”
“The wind—I can’t hear—I told you!”
“I am very serious—it’s no joke—”
Diana looked at him. “Are you really serious?” she asked.
He said he was very serious.
“Then I, too, am very serious. I should say I was very sorry, but I
couldn’t.”
“Would you say why?”
“I should say it had nothing to do with the weather—the wind or
the rain—but just to do with my heart.”
“You would mean that seriously?”
“I should mean it very seriously.”
“Then I shall not propose.”
“It would be a careless thing to do.”
 She went into the Lodge, very unhappy, very wet, and very much
perturbed. She had a bath, dressed for dinner, and went downstairs
to meet Uncle Marcus. Uncle Marcus was clean and dry and dressed
for dinner. And he was very serious. Not at all a nice Uncle Marcus:
but Diana was quick to see the justice of this. There was no reason
he should be nice.
“You were extremely foolish,” he said, “and Hastings is still on the
island.” He didn’t look up from the “Scotsman” he was reading.
Diana said Mr. St. Jermyn had gone to fetch him.
“Why St. Jermyn, when there are plenty of men about?”
“He went to please me,” said Diana, sitting down on the table—an
attitude of hers Uncle Marcus particularly disliked.
“Because he is in love with you he goes to fetch another man who
is also in love with you. You will find it difficult to choose between
them. You are under an obligation to one and you have—”
“Captain Hastings would never retaliate.”
“Don’t ask me to help you, that’s all.”
“Aunt Elsie will help me.”
Uncle Marcus put down the “Scotsman.” Diana had taken his
middle stump with a fast underhand ball—so he would have
described it.
“My dear child,” he said, “don’t do anything rash—it’s all perfectly
simple. What has happened to you has happened to most women—
girls—I expect—attractive girls, I mean. You are, I am sure, in no
way to blame....”
“Let me get on to the sofa, darling,” said Diana; “there, that’s
right, now go on.”
“What was I saying?” resumed Uncle Marcus. “You are in no way
to blame—”
 “I am kissing my hand to you hard,” said Diana, from the depths
of the sofa.
“Well, don’t interrupt me. I was saying, you are in no way to
blame. Men must take their chances. It happens that two men are in
love with you—two at least—both are excellent young men. It is
perhaps difficult for you to choose between them, for in your
inexperience you possibly hardly realize what it is you want—what
kind of life would most appeal to you—let me help you! St. Jermyn is
heir to large estates—he is going into Parliament. I am told he will
make a name. He speaks well—has something to say—and says it
clearly. Hastings, as A.D.C. to your father, has seen life from a
different point of view. He has walked too much, perhaps, on red
carpet—has seen the world too much, perhaps, from the
Government House point of view; but he has plenty of brains and is
no doubt older than he looks. His boyish manner makes him seem
younger than he is. He was telling me something of his prospects
last night when St. Jermyn interrupted us. It seems he will have a
certain amount if not very much—but as I have told you, I am
perfectly willing to help you to marry the man you really love. He
undoubtedly has high ideals and a great reverence for women—so,
for the matter of that, has St. Jermyn, very markedly so. Of course
—”
Uncle Marcus, touched by the depth of his own understanding,
turned to look at Diana—she was fast asleep.
And while she slept Hastings on the island was thinking of her. He
had first heard of her, loved to hear of her: he had fallen in love with
her because of the look in her mother’s eyes when she spoke of her,
because of the way her father smiled when he thought of her.
Lady Carston had never exactly described her—had never said
how extraordinarily beautiful her eyes were—had never said
anything about the colour of her hair—had never said that she
looked like a lovely boy (which, of course, she did)—had never really
said anything. It was the way she had said “My Diana” that had
been so wonderful—it was as if she had taken a child up in her arms
and kissed her—“My Diana!” “Mine, too,” said Hastings. The little gull
squawked at him—a belligerent little devil he was—“Yes, mine,” said
Hastings, “and in the days to come—don’t you forget it!”
No, Lady Carston hadn’t said much, considering all the things she
might have said. Then the photograph. He had found it lying about.
He had thought it a pity it should get lost—Hastings here felt in his
pocket—it was all right. Then he had seen her only a short time ago
for the first time—it seemed in some ways years ago—and she was
more than he had ever thought she could be—more adorable, more
beautiful. He had much to think about. He didn’t care how much it
rained—he would have been happier, of course, if St. Jermyn had
been on the island too: he had never so earnestly desired his
presence: but it was no good worrying. Back to Diana! He had much
to think about—how she looked at breakfast—at shooting-lunches—
walking—fishing! He could see her in tweeds—in chiffons—with her
hat on—without it. He could picture her—dared to picture her—a
solemn moment this (in the booming of the waves breaking on the
rocks he could hear church bells—in the wind the swelling of an
organ) in her wedding-dress! A rather wonderful sight—dear old
Marcus giving her away—no, Sir Eustace stepped forward here—
Lady Carston, too, looking splendid, of course—with the “Diana look”
in her eyes. Wait a bit, though—out of the mist came a small
woman, a little less beautiful than Lady Carston—perhaps because
as yet she lacked the “Diana look” in her eyes. She had another look
in her eyes, though—a more familiar look. She became clearer,
clearer than all the rest. Sir Eustace stepped back, then Lady
Carston made way—his mother remained—and Diana; and his
mother took Diana in her arms—and her eyes had the “Diana look”
after all. His mother! “Be quiet, my son,”—this to the little bird.
Back went his thoughts to the years when he had not known
Diana. Yet it must have been of Diana he and his mother had so
often talked. He remembered particularly one evening when they
had sat over the fire at home and she had spoken to him of things of
which she said she would not have spoken if he had had a father to
do it; and he remembered saying that no father could have said so