Читать книгу The Collected Works of D. K. Broster - D. K. Broster - Страница 55

The sky was clear with morning, and even decked for the sun’s coming with a few rosy feathers of cloud, at once brighter and tenderer than those he leaves behind at evening. But the hollows of the hills were yet cold and drowsy after the night; the mountain grasses, tawny and speckled like the hairs on a deerhide, stood motionless; the rust of the bracken shone with moisture. And the tiny ruined croft up the braeside, behind the old thorn which had so long guarded it from ill, seemed to slumber even more soundly than the fern and the grasses. For the little habitation was dead; half the moss-grown thatch had fallen in, and the young rowan-tree which now leant smotheringly over the roof could thrust its bright berries within if it chose.

None the less there was life inside that abandoned shell of a building, but life which, like that outside, was scarcely yet stirring. In the half of the croft which still kept its thatch a man was lying on his back, lightly asleep; from time to time he moved a trifle, and once he opened his eyes wide and then, passing a hand over them, stared up at the sky between the rowan boughs with a little frown, as of one who is not over pleased to see daylight. Then he drew the cloak which covered him a little farther up, turned on his side, and thrusting a hand into the heap of dried bracken beneath his head, closed them again. The face on that makeshift pillow was that of a man in the middle forties, handsome and kindly, and not at first sight the face of one whom adventure or dubious dealings would have led to seek shelter in so comfortless a bedchamber, and whose apparent reluctance to leave it suggested that he had not, perhaps, enjoyed even that shelter very long.

Presently, however, the sleeper opened his eyes again, raised his head as if listening, then laid it back in the fern and remained very still. Somewhere in the branches of the mountain ash above him a robin broke into its loud, sweet autumn song. But when it ceased a slow and rather dragging footfall could be heard, though dully, coming up the hill-side, and pausing at last outside the crazy half-shut door which was all that hid the present inmate of the ruin from the outer world. The latter, however, continued to lie without moving; perhaps he hoped thus to escape notice.

A pause, then the broken door, catching in the weeds of the threshold, was pushed open. A tall man, his stature exaggerated by the little entry to proportions almost gigantic, stood there against the flushed sky, breathing rather fast. With one hand he leant upon the jamb, with the other he wiped the sweat from his forehead. As he stood, the light behind him, his face was not clearly discernible, nor could he, coming suddenly into this half-dark place, make out more of the man in the corner than that there was a man there.

He peered forward. “Thank God that I have found you,” he said in Gaelic. “Give me a sign, and I will tell you why I have come.”

The man under the cloak raised himself on an elbow. “I give you the sign of the Blackbird,” he said in the same tongue. It was the old Jacobite cant name for James Edward Stuart. “And what do you give me, honest man?”

“I have no password,” answered the newcomer, entering. “But in exchange for the blackbird,” he gave a rather weary little laugh—“I give you the grouse, since it’s that fowl you must emulate for a while, Lochdornie. You must lie close, and not come into Lochaber as yet; I am come in all haste to warn you of that.”

An exclamation interrupted him. The man in the corner was sitting up, throwing off the cloak which had served him for a blanket.

“ ’Tis not Lochdornie—Lochdornie’s in Knoidart. You have warned the wrong man, my dear Ewen!” He was on his feet now, smiling and holding out his hands in welcome.

“What! it’s you, Archie!” exclaimed Ewen in surprise so great that he involuntarily recoiled for an instant. Then he seized the outstretched hands with alacrity. “I did not know. . . . I thought it was Lochdornie I was seeking!”

“Are you disappointed, then, at the exchange?” asked Doctor Cameron with a half-quizzical smile. “Even if you are, Eoghain mhóir, I am delighted to see you!

“Disappointed—of course not! only puzzled,” answered Ewen, looking at him, indeed, with a light of pleasure on his tired face. “Had I known it was you I should have come less un—have made even more haste,” he substituted. “Then is Lochdornie here too?”

“No, he is in Knoidart, where I was to have gone. I don’t know why we laid our first plans that way, for at the last moment we thought better of it, and changed places. Hence it comes that I am for Lochaber, instead of him. But what were you saying about a grouse and a warning? From whom are you bringing me a warning?”

“From my young brother-in-law, Hector Grant. He’s of your regiment.” For Doctor Cameron was major in Lord Ogilvie’s regiment in the French service wherein Hector also held a commission.

“He is, but I had no notion that he was in Scotland.”

“But he knows that you and Lochdornie are; and seems, unluckily, to have carried that piece of news about him in some letter which——”

“Sit down before you tell me, dear lad,” said his cousin, interrupting, “for you look uncommon weary. ’Tis true I have no seat to offer you——”

“Yon fern will serve well enough,” said Ewen, going towards the heap of bracken and letting himself fall stiffly upon it. He was weary, for he had walked all night, and in consequence his injured leg was troubling him. Doctor Cameron sat down beside him.

“I came on Hector,” resumed Ardroy, “last evening by Loch Treig side, staggering about like a drunken man from a blow on the head, and with his pockets rifled. It seems that while making for Cluny’s hiding-place he fell in with some man whom he could not shake off—a Government spy, he thought afterwards. When I found him Hector was trying himself to come to warn Lochdornie of the loss of the letter; but that was manifestly impossible, and he implored me to take his place. Luckily I was mounted . . . on a lame horse,” he added with a shrug. “So I have come, and glad I am to be in time.”

Archibald Cameron was looking grave. “I wonder what was in that letter, and whom it was from?”

“Hector did not tell me. He had not too many words at his command; I had enough ado at first to get him to recognise me. The letter was, I gather, mostly in cipher, which is something; but cipher can be read. And since he was so insistent that a warning should be carried, and I turn——” He checked himself—“Since he was so insistent you will pay heed, Archie, will you not, and avoid crossing the Lochy yet awhile?”

“Yes, indeed I will. I must not be captured if I can help it,” answered Doctor Cameron simply. “But, my dear Ewen”—he laid a hand on his kinsman’s arm, “do not look so anxious over it! You have succeeded in warning me, and in preventing, perhaps, a great wreckage of hopes. The Prince owes you a fine debt for this, and some day he will be able to repay you.”

“I am already more than repaid,” said the young man, looking at him with sincere affection, “if I have stayed you from running into special peril . . . and I’m glad that ’twas for you, after all, that I came. But what of MacPhair of Lochdornie—should one take steps to warn him also?”

“He’ll not be coming this way yet,” replied his cousin. “We are to meet in a week, back in Glen Dessary, and since he is to await me there, there is no danger.”

“And what will you do meanwhile—where will you bestow yourself?”

“Oh, I’ll skulk for a while here and in Glen Dessary, moving about. I am become quite an old hand at that game,” said Archibald Cameron cheerfully. “And now, ’ille, the sun’s coming up; let us break our fast. I have some meal with me, and you must be hungry.” Rising, he went over to the other corner of the shelter.

Directly his back was turned Ewen leant his head against the rough wall behind him and closed his eyes, spent with the anxiety which had ridden with him to the point where the increasing lameness of his horse had forced him to abandon the beast and go on foot, and then had flitted by his side like a little wraith, taking on the darling shape of the child who was causing it. He heard Archie saying from the corner, “And how’s all with you, Ewen? Mrs. Alison and the children, are they well?”

“Alison is well. The children . . .” He could get no further, for with the words it came to him that by this sunrise there was perhaps but one child at Ardroy.

Archibald Cameron caught the break in his voice and turned quickly, the little bag of meal in his hand. “What’s wrong, Ewen—what is it?”

Ewen looked out of the doorway. The sun was up; a hare ran across the grass. “Little Keith is . . . very ill. I must get back home as quickly as I can; I will not stay to eat.”

Archie came quickly over to him, his face full of concern. “Very ill—and yet you left home for my sake! Have you a doctor there, Ewen?”

Ardroy shook his head. “I was on my way to fetch one yesterday when I came upon Hector . . . so I could not go on. . . . I dare say Keithie is better by now. Children so easily get fever that it may mean nothing,” he added, with a rather heartrending air of reciting as a charm a creed in which he did not really believe. “That’s true, is it not?” And as Doctor Cameron nodded, but gravely, Ewen tried to smile, and said, getting to his feet, “Well, I’ll be starting back. Thank God that I was in time. And, Archie, you swear that you will be prudent? It would break my heart if you were captured.”

He held out his hand. His kinsman did not take it. Instead, he put both of his on the broad shoulders.

“I need not ask you if you are willing to run a risk for your child’s sake. If you will have me under your roof, Ewen, I will come back with you and do my best for little Keith. But if I were taken at Ardroy it would be no light matter for you, so you must weigh the question carefully.”

Ewen started away from him. “No, no!—for it’s you that would be running the risk, Archie. No, I cannot accept such a sacrifice—you must go back farther west. Ardroy might be searched.”

“Why should it be? You must be in fairly good repute with the authorities by now. And I would not stay long, to endanger you. Ewen, Ewen, let me come to the bairn! I have not quite sunk the physician yet in the Jacobite agent.”

“It would be wrong of me,” said Ewen, wavering. “I ought not. No, I will not have you.” Yet his eyes showed how much he longed to accept.

“You cannot prevent my coming after you, my dear boy, even if you do not take me with you; and it would certainly be more prudent if you introduced me quietly by a back door than if I presented myself at the front. . . . Which is it to be? . . . Come now, let’s eat a few mouthfuls of drammoch; we’ll go all the faster for it.”