Читать книгу The Dark Mile - D. K. Broster - Страница 6

The rain had quite ceased, and a tremulous sunlight was now gilding the pools and the wet pebbles beyond the archway as MacPhair of Glenshian, with this benediction upon his head, closed the door of Mr. Shand’s retreat behind him. People had even come into the streets again, for, as he then emerged into the mouth of the close, he was aware of a figure standing where he had stood a little while ago, in front of the shop window. But this figure was a woman’s.

For one brief second Finlay MacPhair studied her from the mouth of the wynd. He was looking at a gentlewoman of about thirty, whose bare hands were loosely clasped in front of her, and who was undoubtedly gazing at the print of Doctor Cameron; from his position in a line with the window Mr. MacPhair could even see the deeply sorrowful expression on her face, and guessed that her eyes were brimming with unshed tears. If sad, she was uncommonly pretty. But was that a wedding ring upon her left hand, or was it not?

He stepped out from the archway, and was aware that the lady never so much as moved an eyelash, so absorbed was she in her mournful gazing. The young Chief knew a stab of pique; he drew up his fine figure and cast a glance, as he passed, at the lady’s back. So doing, he saw an excellent opportunity of breaking in upon that unflattering reverie, for on the stones between her and the gutter lay a forlorn little grey glove. He picked it up and approached the fair owner.

“Madam,” he said in the most courtly tones, “I think this glove must be your property.”

Startled out of her preoccupation, the lady half turned. “My glove, sir . . . have I dropped one?”

“I believe so. Allow me the privilege of restoring it,” said Glenshian with a smile. He put it into her hand, took the opportunity of directing an appraising stare under her bonnet, then swept her a low bow, replaced his hat, and walked slowly away.

A few seconds later, while the lady, holding her recovered glove, was still looking after the figure of its rescuer, who by now had crossed the Lawnmarket and was walking down the other side, the door of the shop opened and a very tall and broad-shouldered man was stooping his head to come out of it.

“So you finished with your mantua-maker sooner than you expected, my dear,” he observed with a smile. “And whom, by the way, were you talking to just now? I did not see.”

“I have no notion,” replied the lady. “ ’Twas merely a gentleman who was kind enough to restore the glove I had dropped. There he goes!”

The newcomer turned and looked, and instantly the most remarkable change came over him. At first he stood as still as death, staring after the departing figure of Finlay MacPhair; the next moment he had taken a couple of steps forward and was at his wife’s side.

“Let me have that glove, Alison,” he said in a suffocated voice,—“the one he gave back to you!”

Overcome with amazement, Alison Cameron made but a half movement to comply. Her husband took the glove from her hand and went instantly and dropped it, as one drops something repellent, into the rain-swelled gutter in the middle of the street, where, in company with cabbage-stalks and other refuse, it began to voyage along the Lawnmarket.

“Ewen, what ails you?” exclaimed its owner, looking up in alarm. “My poor glove was not poisoned . . . and now you have left me with but the one!”

“Anything MacPhair of Glenshian touches is poisoned!” answered Ewen Cameron between his teeth. “And to think he dare come within a mile of that portrait!” He indicated the window; and then, making an effort to curb the fury which had so suddenly risen in him, said more quietly, as he drew his wife’s arm through his, “Come with me, m’eudail, and I will buy you another pair of gloves for your little cold hands.”