Читать книгу The Collected Works of D. K. Broster - D. K. Broster - Страница 141

Twenty minutes after he had kissed Olivia Campbell Ian was standing in dismay before the little forge in the village, to find that the blacksmith had not yet recovered from the effects of his drunken bout of the previous day, that the mare had not in consequence been reshod, but that her shoes, most unfortunately, had been removed in readiness by the smith’s boy, and could not be put on again. So he could not ride her away with the old shoes, as he had intended. There was no other saddle horse in Kilrain, nor could he get home on foot. The smith’s wife, saddened and apologetic, was, however, sure that by sundown her man would have sufficiently recovered. If the gentleman would have a little more patience. . . .

The gentleman flung away distracted. If he stayed he was lost. With that honey of Olivia’s kiss still on his lips, the touch of her tingling in his veins, nothing but flight would save him. If he went near her again now all his defences would go down with a crash, and he saw himself imploring her to marry him out of hand, by a mere Scots marriage before witnesses, anything. . . . There was no hope for him but to leave this sweet and fatal place at once. Yet because of this ridiculous and vulgar contretemps of a drunken blacksmith he was pinned here.

Patience! as if he would not have given his right hand to stay! Was Fate plotting against him to drive him into dishonour? For Olivia Campbell could not be indifferent to him, or she would never have allowed him, as she had, that moment by the stream which made his head turn when he thought of it. Now, if he asked her to be his wife, would it, in her eyes, be out of the question? He knew that it would not.

There was nothing to do but to go striding away up into the hills, too far away to run the risk of coming upon Olivia, till such time as that sun which had seen her lay her head against his heart should put an end, behind the shoulder of Meall na Creige, to this wretched and ecstatic day.

He did walk, for hours, in the peace of the high hills, but still the sun rode the heavens, though by Ian’s watch it was time to turn. And at last he came once more in sight of Kilrain. The smoke of evening was beginning to rise from the thatched roofs as he descended, steering his course at random. By now he was very tired, for he had scarcely slept the night before, and emotion, joined to fasting (since he had not dined that day) can exhaust even a vigorous young man of six and twenty. And with fatigue a sort of trance came upon him, and he recognised without surprise that his returning steps had somehow led him into the little copse of the morning. It seemed appropriate. That surely was the very spot where he had stood with her when the wonder of the world had happened to him—yes, there were the stepping-stones.

“Olivia,” said the burn, hurrying gently along. “Olivia . . . O . . . liv . . . i . . . a . . .”

Ian threw himself down for a moment, to listen to that cool and gliding music.

Strange! He must actually have fallen asleep! Yes, he did remember, now, changing his posture and stretching himself out under an oak tree for a few minutes’ rest. But by the change in the light it must have been much more than a few minutes’ sleep. It had been long enough to hold a dream, also, one of those particularly vivid and sudden dreams which come with daylight slumber and partake of day’s reality. Ian lay still a moment recalling it, for it was sweet.

He had dreamt that Olivia was standing there, looking at him, and he had tried to speak to her, to ask her for some memento, since he had none. But the chains of sleep held him fast, and he could not utter the words; he could not even open his eyes; yet he knew that she was there. Nevertheless, being in his dream the King of Lochlann’s daughter out of the old tales as well as Olivia Campbell, she gave him as a token that grey, mottled skin of the seal, her other self, the possession of which enabled her at will to go back to the sea from whence she came. And the gift meant that she renounced her right—for him.

Ian lay still a moment longer, smiling rather bitterly. Of what odd elements were dreams compounded! It was time to relinquish them, to face reality, and to ride away. With a heavy sigh he raised himself on to his right elbow . . . and remained there motionless, the blood rushing into his face. Between the fingers and the palm of that open right hand lay a freshly plucked sprig of bog-myrtle—bog-myrtle, the only too familiar badge of Clan Campbell.

* * * * *

A little later, between sunset and moonrise, Ian checked his mare for a last look at Kilrain before the drop of the road should hide it from his view. Like to like—the sprig of gall was in the folds of Olivia’s letter over his heart. He stayed a moment, wrenched with longing; then tugged the mare round again and rode on down the slope.