Ignoring her question he went on, pale now and breathing rather fast. “The medical superintendent has sole and complete charge of the hospital. He has full facilities for research in, the hospital laboratory. His salary is £500 per annum, plus the produce of the garden and a free house, that house over there, Mary, in which he is lawfully entitled to keep his own lawful wife.” His voice was cracking with excitement. “Mary . . . as from the 1st of January they’ve appointed a new medical superintendent. You’re . . . you’re looking at him now.”
Chapter Seven
He took the return journey slowly, making a wide detour at Overton that would bring them through the Carse of Louden, along the south shore of Loch Lomond, and up across the moors of Glen Fruin. This was a noted route, one of the prettiest in the West, but Mary saw nothing of it . . . nothing . . . nothing . . . not even the majestic crest of Ben Lomond, towering above the shimmering loch. Dumb with happiness, still stricken by all the thrilling wonder of the miracle he had worked for her, she closed her eyes and hugged him to her with all the grateful love of her overflowing heart.
And he was happy too—how could it be otherwise?—excited by the effect he had so carefully planned and so successfully produced. Yet to his credit, he had regained calm, he did not seek praise, his natural air of modesty remained unchanged. He was in love and had wished to impress less from a sense of self-importance than from the desire to make her suddenly rejoice. Unlike Walter, who, exacting the utmost in adulation, pressed the last drop of juice from every favourable situation, he disliked being fussed over—it offended his fastidious sense and made him uncomfortable. Besides, had he not still another surprise in store for her?
As they topped the long hill which led from the loch to Glen Fruin, he checked the machine and turned off the road into one of the grassy sheep tracks which criss-crossed the moor. Following the path for about a quarter of a mile he drew up at the river beside a bank, deep in heather and bracken, sheltered by a clump of silver birches. Beneath them the moor fell away in a great sweep of purple and gold. Now she could see the mountain and the loch, a shimmering landscape that seemed to her of heaven and which she interpreted in her own fashion.
“What a braw spot, Davie.”
“Braw enough for us to eat our grub.” He teased her. “All this chasing around should have given you an appetite.”
“I’m too carried away to eat.”
But when they seated themselves and spread out their lunch upon the checked tablecloth she had brought, he made her eat her share, the more so since, amplifying his instructions, she had packed a substantial lunch. Besides buns and sandwiches there were hard-boiled eggs, Clydeside tomatoes and a sausage roll, with a big bottle of that famous local “mineral”, Barr’s Iron Brew, to quench their thirst. She had even remembered to bring the wooden plug that knocked down the glass marble in the bottle-neck.
“Oh, Davie,” she murmured, between bites. “That bonnie wee house . . . I can’t get it out my head. Just wait till ye see how I’ll look after you there.”
“We have to furnish it,” he warned. “But we have time before January. Now we’re all settled I’ll take a locum or something over the next four months, which should give us enough cash for a start, anyway.”
“Dearest Davie. You think of everything.”
“There’s one thing I nearly forgot.” Offhandedly, he dived into his jacket pocket. “Here it is, lass. Better late than never.”
Watching her as she opened the little red box, he had never been so deeply moved. Completely still she looked at the ring which, like her, was simple yet beautiful. She did not praise the ring, she did not thank him for it, but, turning, she looked into his eyes just as she had done after that day at Gairsay, and in a trembling voice, that he was to remember all his life, she whispered: “Put it on for me, dear.” Then with a little sigh she reached out her arms towards him.
They lay together on the soft bracken under the hot afternoon sun. Bees were droning faintly amongst the heather flowers, a lark sang its way into the blue, the scent of thyme and the wild orchids filled the air. From far off came the whirr of a risen grouse, then again stillness, but for the quiet ripple of the stream. Her skirt had risen as she lay back and his hand fell upon her knee. Caressingly, he stroked it. Her lips were parted, slightly swollen from the sun, and almost purple against the soft pallor of her face. Her eyelids, masking her doe-soft eyes, had a fainter, bluish tinge. Warm in his arms, she trembled as his fingers, moving upwards, came to rest on the soft bare skin above her long stocking.
His heart was thudding against his side so hard, the sound of it made a rushing in his ears. Another gentle movement, and his hand would find what it sought. He longed for her, but was afraid. Then, close to him, she breathed:
“If you want . . . take me, dear.”
The sun passed behind a cloud, the bees ceased their hum, a circling curlew uttered its mournful cry. They lay still, until at last he whispered humbly:
“Did I hurt you, Mary?”
“Dearest Davie.” She burrowed her head into him. “It was the sweetest pain of all my life.”
When at last they stirred and gathered up the picnic things he drove off slowly, a trifle sad and sorry, touched by a rueful sense of regret. Had he not been premature, crushing so much joy into so short a time, snatching so early at the first fruits-of happiness? She was so young, so innocent. A fresh surge of tenderness swept over him: should he not have shown restraint and waited? Indeed, from the beginning, had he not rushed on too fast and heedlessly? No, a thousand times no: he banished the thought and lifted a hand from the controls to press once again the softness of her thigh.
“I’m all yours now, Davie.”
She snuggled against him, laughing softly in his ear. No mournful, injured wistfulness for her! She was renewed, confident, more than ever alive. Half turning, he saw that her eyes were firesh and dewy; he had never known her so radiant. She seemed to sense instinctively his vague depression, and gaily, tenderly, possessive as a mother, she lifted him up.
They had reached the summit above Ardfillan when suddenly the heavy cloud that obscured the sun broke upon them in a drenching shower. Hurriedly he slipped the gear lever into neutral and coasted rapidly down hill. He was at the shop in no time, but not before he was unpleasantly damp. Mary, behind him, had escaped the worst of the rain.
Upstairs she insisted that he change into a suit of her father’s, but he passed the matter off. He was not really wet he said, there was a good fire in the room, he would soon dry off. In the end they compromised: he put on the baker’s carpet slippers and an old tweed jacket Mary found in a cupboard.
Presently the shop was shut and Aunt Minnie appeared, followed a few minutes later by Douglas. The four sat down to the evening meal. Willie, it appeared, was away, spending the weekend at the Boys’ Brigade Camp at Whistlefield. At the outset, as the teacups were passed in silence, Moray was painfully embarrassed, asking himself if some intangible evidence of guilt, a lingering aura of those delirious moments of consummation on the moor, was not observable in Mary and himself. Mary’s cheeks were flushed, his own, he felt, were pale, and Aunt Minnie was directing oddly suspicious glances from one to the other. The baker, too, seemed unusually reserved and more than usually observant.
But when Mary ended the silence the general tension relaxed. Moray had promised to let her break the news of his appointment in her own way, and she did so with a brio and a sense of drama which far surpassed his own effort of the morning.
First she displayed her ring, which was admired—though grudgingly by the aunt, who remarked, aside: “I hope it’s paid for.”