Luke and Arne were obviously well known and well liked. How often did they come without her, then? And what had possessed them to bring her tonight? She sighed, leaned against the wall. The other women were eyeing her curiously, especially the rings on her wedding finger; Luke and Arne were the objects of much feminine admiration, herself the object of much feminine envy. I wonder what they'd say if I told them the big dark one, who is my husband, has seen me precisely twice in the last eight months, and never sees me with the idea of getting into a bed? Look at the pair of them, the conceited Highland fops! And neither of them Scottish at all, just playacting because they know they look sensational in kilts and they like to be the center of attention. You magnificent pair of frauds! You're too much in love with yourselves to want or need love from anyone else.
At midnight the women were relegated to standing around the walls; the pipers skirled into "Caber Feidh" and the serious dancing began. For the rest of her life, whenever she heard the sound of a piper Meggie was back in that shed. Even the swirl of a kilt could do it; there was that dreamlike merging of sound and sight, of life and brilliant vitality, which means a memory so piercing, so spellbinding, that it will never be lost. Down went the crossed swords on the floor; two menin Clan MacDonald of Sleat kilts raised their arms above their heads, hands flicked over like ballet dancers, and very gravely, as if at the end the swords would be plunged into their breasts, began to pick their delicate way through, between, among the blades.
A high shrill scream ripped above the airy wavering of the pipes, the tune became "All the Blue Bonnets over the Border," the sabers were scooped up, and every man in the room swung into the dance, arms linking and dissolving, kilts flaring. Reels, strathspeys, flings; they danced them all, feet on the board floor sending echoes among the rafters, buckles on shoes flashing, and every time the pattern changed someone would throw back his head, emit that shrill, ululating whoop, set off trains of cries from other exuberant throats. While the women watched, forgotten.
It was close to four in the morning when the ceilidh broke up; outside was not the astringent crispness of Blair Atholl or Skye but the torpor of a tropical night, a great heavy moon dragging itself along the spangled wastes of the heavens, and over it all the stinking miasma of mangroves. Yet as Arne drove them off in the wheezing old Ford, the last thing Meggie heard was the drifting dwindling lament "Flowers o" the Forest," bidding the revelers home. Home. Where was home?
"Well, did you enjoy that?" asked Luke.
"I would have enjoyed it more had I danced more," she answered. "What, at a ceilidh? Break it down, Meg! Only the men are supposed to dance, so we're actually pretty good to you women, letting you dance at all." "It seems to me only men do a lot of things, and especially if they're good things, enjoyable things."
"Well, excuse me!" said Luke stiffly. "Here was I thinking you might like a bit of a change, which was why I brought you. I didn't have to, you know! And if you're not grateful I won't bring you again."
"You probably don't have any intention of doing so, anyway," said Meggie. "It isn't good to admit me into your life. I learned a lot these past few hours, but I don't think it's what you intended to teach me. It's getting harder to fool me, Luke. In fact, I'm fed up with you, with the life I'm leading, with everything!"
"Ssssh!" he hissed, scandalized. "We're not alone!" "Then come alone!" she snapped. "When do I ever get the chance to see you alone for more than a few minutes?"
Arne pulled up at the bottom of the Himmelhoch hill, grinning at Luke sympathetically. "Go on, mate," he said. "Walk her up; I'll wait here for you. No hurry."
"I mean it, Luke!" Meggie said as soon as they were out of Arne's hearing. "The worm's turning, do you hear me? I know I promised to obey you, but you promised to love and cherish me, so we're both liars! I want to go home to Drogheda!"
He thought of her two thousand pounds a year and of its ceasing to be put in his name.
"Oh, Meg!" he said helplessly. "Look, sweetheart, it won't be forever, I promise! And this summer I'm going to take you to Sydney with me, word of an O'neill! Arne's aunt has a flat coming vacant in her house, and we can live there for three months, have a wonderful time! Bear with me another year or so in the cane, then we'll buy our property and settle down, eh?" The moon lit up his face; he looked sincere, upset, anxious, contrite. And very like Ralph de Bricassart.
Meggie relented, because she still wanted his babies. "All right," she said. "Another year. But I'm holding you to that promise of Sydney, Luke, so remember!"
Once a month Meggie wrote a dutiful letter to Fee, Bob and the boys, full of descriptions of North Queensland, carefully humorous, never hinting of any differences between her and Luke. That pride again. As far as Drogheda knew, the Muellers were friends of Luke's with whom she boarded because Luke traveled so much. Her genuine affection for the couple came through in every word she wrote about them, so no one on Drogheda worried. Except that it grieved them she never came home. Yet how could she tell them that she didn't have the money to visit without also telling them how miserable her marriage to Luke O'neill had become?
