Smouldering Fire Read online

  D.E. Stevenson

  Smouldering Fire

  Iain stood for a few minutes on the little bridge that crossed the burn and looked at the house—he felt that he had betrayed it. No people save his own had ever lived in the house, and now he had sold it into slavery. For three months it would shelter strangers beneath its roof, for three months it would not belong to him.

  Despite his passionate love for Ardfalloch, Iain has been driven to let his home and estate to Mr Hetherington Smith, a wealthy London businessman, and his kindly wife (who was, truth be told, happier when they were poor).

  MacAslan stays on in a cottage by the loch, aided by his devoted keeper Donald and Donald’s wife Morag. But he finds himself irresistibly drawn to Linda Medworth and her young son, invited to Ardfalloch by Mrs Hetherington Smith. Lush Highland scenery and a ruined castle set the stage for a mystery, and tension builds to a shocking conclusion.

  Smouldering Fire was first published in the U.K. in 1935 and in the U.S. in 1938. Later reprints were all heavily abridged. For our reprint, Furrowed Middlebrow and Dean Street Press have followed the text of the first U.K. edition, and are proud to be producing the first complete, unabridged edition of the novel in eighty years.

  “A charming love story set in the romantic Scottish highlands, with plenty of local colour, a handsome hero, a lonely, lovely heroine and a curious mystery into the bargain.” Sunday Mercury

  “A tale in which those who love the Highlands will delight, for the minor characters are gloriously alive and the atmosphere is profoundly right.” Punch

  FM21

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page/About the Book

  Contents

  Introduction by Alexander McCall Smith

  Map

  Foreword

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part II

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Part III

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Part IV

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Part V

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  About the Author

  Titles by D.E. Stevenson

  Furrowed Middlebrow Titles

  Spring Magic – Title Page

  Spring Magic – Chapter I

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  BY ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH

  Dorothy Emily Stevenson is one of those authors who has been largely forgotten in the literary world. Not that she was ever particularly recognised in such circles: she was far too popular to be taken seriously by the critics – she was too comfortable, too easy to read. And yet, in spite of this condescension that is so often dispensed by the guardians of literary standards, Stevenson was bought by millions all over the world and is still appreciated by many readers who continue to read her work. Certainly her books are easy, in the sense that they are clearly written, they tell an intelligible tale, and do not seek to impress the reader. There is also a certain sameness to them. And yet they still have an appeal that has kept them in print. So these are not ephemeral romances of the sort that are instantly forgettable. Nor do they remotely approach the level achieved by that great story-teller of the era, Maugham. They are somewhere in the middle-rung territory below such books, but that is a perfectly good place to be, and a worthy one too. These novels still bring pleasure and remind us of a world, and of a country, that has changed out of all recognition. And as that world becomes more unhappy and divided, the attraction of authors such as Stevenson perhaps becomes stronger.

  Dorothy Stevenson was a Scottish author, although she is rarely mentioned in Scottish literary history. She was the bearer of a famous name: she was a member of the Stevenson family of lighthouse engineers who, over several generations, built almost all of Scotland’s lighthouses, including engineering marvels such as the Bell Rock Lighthouse. That makes her a member of the same family as Robert Louis Stevenson, author of classics such as Kidnapped, Treasure Island, and that perennial favourite, A Child’s Garden of Verses. She was born into this family in 1892 and had the typical upbringing of a member of the well-heeled Scottish professional class. She was keen to go to university, but there was little parental support for this ambition, and she made, instead, a conventional marriage to a member of the Peploe family. Her husband, an army officer, was a relative of Samuel Peploe, one of the greatest of Scotland twentieth-century painters and a major figure in the Scottish Colourist movement.

  Stevenson was a prolific writer, writing a book a year during the course of a career that lasted until 1969, when her final book was published. Her first success was Mrs Tim and the Regiment; this was soon followed by a series of light and humorous titles. Thereafter her popularity grew, as readers turned with delight to the reappearance of familiar characters and the following of a tried and tested formula. The books eluded the sort of classification that reviewers and scholars like to engage in. They are not simple romances; nor are they anything that would today be recognised as thrillers. They are in a category of their own: clearly-written straightforward tales that take the reader through a clear plot and reach a recognisable and unambiguous ending. The appeal that they have for the contemporary reader lies in the fact that there is no artifice in these books. They are not about dysfunctional people. They are not about psychopathology. There is no gore or sadism in them. The characters speak in sentences and do not resort to constant confrontational exchanges. In other words, these books are far from modern. But therein, perhaps, lies the charm to which Stevenson’s many readers are so quick to respond.

  One of the main features of Stevenson’s novels is their simplicity. That is a quality that is not rated in fiction today. Many writers now feel that in order to be noticed they must go out of their way to be clever – even to the extent of being opaque. Nothing should be portrayed as it seems to be; cynicism is all; sincerity is hopelessly naïve. In such a climate, direct stories that follow a fairly strict chronological pattern, that eschew obfuscation, and that place feasible and, in many cases, rather likeable characters centre-stage are not highly regarded. And yet that is exactly what Stevenson does, and that is what many readers still seem to want. Add humour to the equation and the mixture will find a ready audience.

  A particular feature of Stevenson’s oeuvre is the way in which characters that appear in one book may crop up in another context in a quite different title. Readers like this because in a way it reflects the way the world is; our lives are not linear narratives – they are meandering stories that take place in diverse settings and that are peopled by characters who drop in and out at various stages. Stevenson is one of those authors, then, who creates a whole world: her novels have that quality that family sagas have, and the story of families, their achievements and disappointments, their tragedies and triumphs, are perennially popular. Why? Because this is, in essence, the experience of most of us. For just about everyone, family life is exactly that: a saga.

  Yet they do not ignore the social and political turmoil
of the time in which they were written. Stevenson wrote eight novels during the Second World War, and these books certainly have something to say about life on the home front in that period. And that leads to a general conclusion about Stevenson’s work. These are not necessarily novels in which there is a great deal of drama, but for those who wish to spend time amongst characters leading fairly ordinary lives, these novels will provide considerable enjoyment. We don’t want too much excitement. Or, if we do opt for some excitement, we like to moderate it with periods of relative quiet. And then, at the end of these, if there is a happy ending, if lovers are reunited – as they tend to be in Stevenson’s fiction – then all the better. These are gentle books, very fitting for times of uncertainty and conflict. Some books can be prescribed for anxiety – these are in that category. And it is an honourable and important one.

  Alexander McCall Smith

  AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

  Ardfalloch is not a real place in the geographical sense of the word. There is no metalled road that leads to Ardfalloch—the best road to take is an easy chair before the fire on a wet afternoon. Somewhere in Scotland there is a sea-loch (ringed by purple mountains and dark green forests) where the brown seaweed is buoyed by millions of tiny bladders, and the storms come suddenly from the west and drive the still water into giant waves: but there is no island, with a ruined castle upon it, in the middle of this loch, and no salmon river flows turbulently into its clear depths. Somewhere in Scotland there is a square solid house with high windows and slender pillars at the door: but it boasts no wide domains, and the name of its owner is not MacAslan. So, in one sense, Ardfalloch is not real, and it is the same with the people who live in the glen; but you will find Janets and Donalds galore in the Lowlands and Highlands of Scotland, and there are MacAslans, too, who live on their estates, fishing and shooting, trying to improve the conditions of their people, trying to make ends meet and seldom succeeding.

  To me Ardfalloch is very real. The place and its people are more real to me than people I see every day. I could find my way about the glen blindfold. I know how green and clear the loch appears when the clouds are high, and how the little fish can be seen playing hide-and-seek in the water amongst the rocks and the undulating seaweed. I know the strange lurid light that bathes the island when the sun sets in the gap between the hills. I know Ballochgorm, the green pass between the mountains, and the little bothy that stands upon the moor just before the path rises steeply amongst the rocks. I know every turn in the path, beside the burn, where Iain and Linda walked, and the little waterfall with the lone oak-tree, whose leaves are always wet with spray. As Morag said of her story—

  “It is true for me, but it is not true for you . . . for you it is chust Morag’s story to pass the time away.”

  It is the same with the people in the glen—the people who were thrown together, fortuitously, and whose lives became tangled and intertwined. Donald and Morag, Iain and Linda and Margaret, I know them all, they are clearer to me than my friends. I have lived in Ardfalloch amongst these people for months, and now the time has come for me to leave them. Their troubles are over; their coil is unravelled; the path before them is clear. For some of them the future is happy and unclouded, for others it looks somewhat lonely and sad. That is the way of the world; everybody cannot be happy, and Ardfalloch is a little bit of the world: mirroring the world as the quiet loch mirrors the mountains and the trees upon their slopes.

  I am sweir to leave Ardfalloch—as Janet said.

  ARDFALLOCH IN MAY

  CHAPTER I

  DONALD

  Iain MacAslan pulled slowly across the loch. The sun had set, but a bright glow lingered in the gap between the mountains; and the single planet, at the edge of an indigo cloud, was nothing but a silver pin’s point in the sky. The mountains to westward were dark—outlined against the glow—and the loch was dark save for a bright patch near the island which reflected the sky’s grandeur in bold streaks.

  The small boat cut a silver streak in the dark waters—a bamboo rod was fixed to the thwarts close beside Iain’s hand, and the line sweeping through the water made a silver ripple. The surface of the loch was leaden-grey, but when Iain leaned over the side of the boat and looked down into its still depths it was green—dark and mysterious.

  After a little while Iain rested on his oars and pulled in the line. He had had no luck to-night, the mackerel were not taking. He pulled up the line, disentangled the spinners and unshipped the rod, laying it carefully in the bottom of the boat. It was no use to try any longer. As a matter of fact, Iain had not come out to fish—not really—the fishing was merely an excuse. He had felt too restless and disturbed to remain indoors—the May night had called him, had drawn him forth as a magnet draws iron. But the May night had not soothed his restlessness, nor stilled the disturbance in his soul.

  Iain raised his eyes and looked at the mountains . . . and the loch . . . and the smoky darkness of the forests. His eyes were fiery and yet sombre, they burned with passion . . .

  “Mine,” he said aloud.

  It was all his:—the loch, the mountains bare and rocky, or clothed with forest where the shy deer lived, the little island which lay like a dark cushion upon the smooth surface of the water—that most of all perhaps—all his. It was his land, the cradle of his race.

  The tiny boat rocked gently as he moved back to his seat and a few silvery ripples spread outwards. They died away and everything was still, quiet, peaceful. Iain was part of the stillness, his restlessness was within; it was too deep a feeling to be alleviated by movement. His stillness was akin to the stillness of the loch and the forests which surrounded the loch—a surface stillness hiding restlessness, hiding stealthy movement. There were stoats in the woods and wild-cats, and owls that flew noiselessly upon their bloody business, of which a little heap of fur or feathers upon the soft carpet of the woods was the only trace to be seen when morning came. . . .

  Iain’s mind moved this way and that, backwards and forwards like the uneasy pacings of a caged animal, his body was still as a statue, forgotten, abandoned, divorced from his spirit. . . .

  Suddenly his body came to life, he threw up his head and listened. There was a faint “chug-chug” in the distance—faint and intermittent as the trees caught the sound and held it—and presently he saw the glimmer of a light over towards Balnafin, and a small shabby motor-launch came crawling across the loch like a water-beetle. Iain did not move, even when the launch turned out of its course to approach him. He waited quietly until the launch was within a few yards and the engine had stopped.

  The launch rocked on the water and the small lamp sent an unsteady glimmer upon its leaden surface.

  “Good evening, Donald,” he said at last.

  “Good evening to you, MacAslan,” was the soft reply. “An d’fhuair sibh iasg?”

  “No fish, Donald.”

  The two boats rocked gently on the water which had been disturbed by the launch. It was darker now, only a pale primrose glow remained in the sky, fading into violet towards the meridian. The man called Donald peered anxiously through the gloom at the occupant of the little boat. When you have known a man since childhood, have grown up with him, shoulder to shoulder; when you have spent long days with him on loch and river, have followed him over moor and mountain, and crawled beside him on your belly through heather and bog, you know a man well, you know a man inside and out. And if you know a man inside out, it is not difficult to tell when something is wrong. These were Donald’s thoughts as he peered through the gloom. He hesitated a few moments with that innate delicacy of feeling which marks his race, and at last he said:

  “I was thinking you might like the evening paper, MacAslan. It wass Miss Finlay came back from Glasgow by the train and she gave it to me . . .”

  Iain smiled in the darkness. He had no desire to see a Glasgow evening paper, but he would not say so. He was too mindful of Donald’s feelings to refuse the gift. He knew that Donald had sensed his discomfort a
nd had offered the paper as a soothing balm, and as a soothing balm it must be accepted. The paper, tied in the middle with a piece of tarred twine, flew through the air and landed in the coble at Iain’s feet. He picked it up and smoothed it out carefully. It had come a long journey. It was queer, when you thought about it, how far the paper had come—it had been printed in Glasgow at noon, sold to Margaret in the street, had accompanied her in the train all the way to Balnafin, had been given by her to Donald, and now by Donald to himself. How far it had flown! And the other papers that had been printed with it—where had they flown? . . . So Margaret Finlay had come back from America! He wondered whether, if he had known she was back, he would have hesitated longer this afternoon. Would he have waited and talked it over with Margaret and her father before doing what he had done? But this was futile—he had done the thing now and he could not draw back.

  Donald’s great hands were cupped skilfully about a match, for there was a slight breeze wandering upon the loch—a breeze as fitful as a lost soul—gusts of flame and smoked poured from Donald’s pipe as the tobacco caught, and the red glare illuminated his strong, rugged features.

  “So Miss Finlay is back!” Iain said slowly.

  “She is back,” said Donald. “Mr. Finlay is coming back to-morrow. I wass to tell MacAslan they will be expecting him at Cluan.”

  “Ah!”

  There was a little silence. The water lapped gently against the sides of the boat. Donald wondered if it was any use to wait. Did MacAslan want him or did he not? Sometimes when people were troubled they liked to be alone . . . Donald had been up at five that morning and had done his day’s work before going to Balnafin with the eggs. He had met some friends at the inn and had had a few drinks—not many, for Donald was a temperate man, but just a few friendly drinks—he had done some shopping for Morag, visited the station to see the arrival of the train (a social occasion this, at Balnafin), had done some business with a man he knew, business connected with rabbit wire for his little garden, and had come back all the way down the loch in his old launch. It was near midnight now and Donald was used to early hours—he was tired, and Morag would be waiting. All this counted for naught if MacAslan wanted him, but did MacAslan want him? He glanced again at the still figure in the little boat. Only the outline of the figure was visible in the darkness—a hunched outline. MacAslan has forgotten me, said Donald to himself, his soul is not here any longer. It was strange, this withdrawal of MacAslan’s spirit, strange and yet familiar. It had happened before—yes—a hundred times when they were together, but Donald had not lost his awe of the phenomenon, had not overcome the feeling of strangeness, almost dread, with which it filled him. Sometimes it happened when they were sitting together by a damped fire, lighted by the side of the river to keep the midges at bay while they ate their sandwiches; sometimes when they were walking in the heather or resting on a rock after a hard climb; sometimes when they were rowing on the loch. MacAslan would be there one moment, and, the next moment, gone, only the outer shell of him remaining. Donald respected this withdrawal, it was a part of MacAslan, one of the things that made MacAslan different from other men. He never attempted to recall MacAslan’s spirit when it voyaged like this, he merely waited in silence until the spirit of MacAslan returned from whatever strange land it had visited. . . .