Читать книгу Almond, Wild Almond - D. K. Broster - Страница 10

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“Yes, this northern side of the loch is known as the Sliosmin, the smooth slope,” said Malcolm Robertson. “The other is the Sliosgarbh, the rough slope. As you see, it is steeper and much more thickly wooded; the famous Black Wood of Rannoch is over there. And on the far side of those heights runs Glen Lyon, the longest glen in Scotland.”

“And this side of the loch, I think you told me, is Menzies territory, and the other Robertson?” commented Ranald Maclean, as the two young men went briskly next morning up the easy sloping track through the birch and hazel.

“Yes, this is Menzies territory—though no Menzies live here. Rannoch, Mr. Maclean, is a district of strange anomalies, peopled by many clans. There are, for instance, many MacGregors on this side, but no MacGregor chief; and though if you were to count heads in Rannoch you would probably find the majority to be Camerons, yet no Cameron chief has ever owned land here. And though the southern side is Robertson territory, we of Clan Donnachaidh are not so numerous there as others. Moreover, there are the Stewarts, whose especial territory is Bunrannoch, the district at the eastern end of the loch, where we were yesterday.”

Young Robertson was going, upon business for his father, up to the clachan of Annat, on the northern slope, about a mile from the end of Loch Rannoch, and his guest was accompanying him. There was the slightest sprinkling of snow here and there upon the dead and brittle bracken, and little pockets of it stowed away in the crooks of the birch trees, but the sky was clear, the air exhilarating, and before they had started their ascent they had seen, away at the far end of the loch, the sugar-loaf shapes of the mountains at the entrance of Glencoe, the Watchers of Etive, showing blue and clear, as though ten miles of water and fifteen more of desolate waste did not lie between. As they mounted, Malcolm continued his remarks upon the history and landmarks of Rannoch; and fierce enough some of the former was, since for many years that inaccessible district had been a haunt of broken men. After a while the talk came round to the Stewarts again.

“Did I understand you to say, Mr. Robertson,” asked his listener, “that the Stewarts at the end of the loch are Stewarts of the royal line?”

“Yes, descendants of Alexander Stewart, the son of King Robert II—the Wolf of Badenoch. Yet, even so, not all of them,” said Malcolm, laughing, “for the Stewarts of Innerchadden are from Appin, offshoots of the Stewarts of Invernahyle. ’Tis always said that you will know the two strains apart by the colour of their eyes; the Wolf’s descendants—Siol a’ Chuilein Churta—having them usually blue.” And he embarked upon some rather complicated family history to which, as it was addressed to another Highlander, he had an outwardly attentive listener, though actually Ranald was pondering over the question as to whether those eyes he had seen yesterday in the firelight could be called blue.

“But, talking of Stewarts,” broke off Malcolm suddenly, “look who is ahead of us!”

And further on, between the trees, Ranald saw a little female figure with a small basket. She was by her dress a gentlewoman and by her step young, but from the rear he could not assign to her any especial identity, more especially as the usual tartan “screen” was thrown about her head and shoulders.

“’Tis my cousin Bride,” announced Malcolm; and again the little name came caressingly from his lips. “I think she must be on her way to visit that very old woman, her father’s nurse, who lives up here. Shall we overtake her and offer our escort for the short way that remains?”

They quickened their pace, and just before they came to an old stone wall of some height which crossed the track, allowing it however an uninterrupted passage between two half-crumbling and gateless pillars, they overtook the young lady of Inchrannoch House. After greetings had passed young Robertson possessed himself gently of the basket.

“Why do you come up on foot with this, Cousin Bride?” he asked. “’Tis no very light weight. What has become of your pony, and your man?”

“Mist has gone lame, I know not how, and Jonas is busy digging in the garden,” she answered.

“And the deerhound?”

Her little laugh at that was enchanting; it sounded to Ranald like the note of a stream in summer, liquid and gay. “Fiona would not consent to carry a basket, cousin! Or do you mean that I should have brought her as a protection? Do you think I’m like to be run away with, just stepping up to Annat? If that is in your mind, I fancy you must have been telling Mr. Maclean the story of the beautiful Rachel MacGregor who walked in the birch wood at Dunan and was carried off by her suitor and a band from Lochaber.—But you know that it turned out to be a very happy marriage!”

“Ay; but you know, Cousin Bride, that she did not marry the man who planned the outrage,” retorted Malcolm. “She married one of his companions, a Cameron.”

“At any rate, good came out of evil,” remarked Miss Stewart, smiling up at her kinsman from the folds of tartan. “Now give me the basket, if you please, for here is old Eilidh’s cottage, and you will not be wishing to come in.”

They had, indeed, arrived at a little stone and thatch cottage, an outpost of a collection of similar ones higher up the mountain slope. So they took leave of Miss Bride Stewart, who entered on her errand of mercy while the two young men continued their way towards the clachan.

Malcolm Robertson’s business with his father’s tacks-man was not, however, as summarily despatched as Ranald had anticipated, for the latter was out upon the hillside and had to be sought for. After some twenty minutes of fruitless waiting Malcolm suggested that his guest might prefer to start downwards again, escorting Miss Stewart perhaps, if he cared to wait a little for her. To this suggestion Ranald was far from offering any objection; but when he tapped at the cottage door a young girl appeared, and in response to his query told him that Miss Stewart had just left.

Ranald reflected that if that were so he could probably overtake her, and hurried down the snow-sprinkled track between the bare, unstirring trees. And after a moment or two he did indeed catch sight of her little figure, but to his surprise she was not alone; there was a man with her. It could not be Malcolm Robertson, whom he had left behind at the clachan; nor was it probable (to his mind at least) that Malcolm would walk beside Miss Stewart, admirer and kinsman though he was, in that half-masterful way, bending so closely over her as they went. And they were going quickly too; he had a half impression that it was Miss Stewart who was setting the pace. No, it was certainly not Malcolm.

His own intention of escorting the young lady home was now frustrated; nor was there any reason why he should follow behind the couple all the way down to the loch—indeed, every reason why he should not, since there was something about this unknown man which suggested a loverlike interest in Miss Bride Stewart, of which Ranald Maclean had no desire to be witness. He must then either stop for a little and wait until the two were out of sight, or walk yet faster and pass them. Ranald elected for the former course; but, though he stayed his steps, he could not keep his eyes from following them nor from observing something indefinable about the way in which Miss Stewart was walking, which seemed to testify that the proximity of her companion was not welcome to her. Within the limits of the narrow path she seemed to be keeping as far as possible from him; while he, for his part, appeared determined to walk as close to her as he could. And once, perhaps under pretext of helping her over some inequality, he caught her arm, but from the way she turned her head Miss Stewart plainly asked him at once to release it. Yet he was a little while before complying.

And at that Ranald changed his mind and once more started onwards. He would walk at some distance behind, but he would keep them in sight, so that if Miss Stewart were going to be offered any unwelcome attentions by this admirer—if he were an admirer—he could, by merely overtaking the couple, cut these attentions short. The two gave no sign of hearing his footfalls behind them; these were deadened, perhaps, by the thin layer of snow on the track. Here already was the wall running downhill, with the unfenced gap between the tumbledown gateposts. The instant they reached it the couple disappeared abruptly to the right, behind the wall.

Now, as Ranald knew, the path itself went straight ahead. He was sure that the man at her side had taken Miss Stewart’s arm again and forced her out of the path . . . Unless, of course, there was a track running down the further side of the wall which he had not noticed. He quickened his pace almost to a run.

As he arrived at the gap he heard their voices upraised together: hers protesting, “I cannot listen to you now . . . pray let me go on!” and the man’s, fired with passion, “You must, you shall listen, Miss Stewart! If you can listen to that dullard, young Robertson of Auchendrie——”

Ranald advanced through the gateposts. Yes, Miss Stewart’s companion had her by both hands, had her pressed up against the wall all among the snowladen brambles, her empty basket upside down on the ground. As Mr. Maclean’s indignant eyes took in this fact, however, it became a fact no longer, for the intemperate admirer instantly loosened his hold and faced round; his glance was as hot as a blow. The very evident relief in Miss Stewart’s face made Ranald glad indeed that he had come up.

Restraining himself with a good deal of difficulty, he raised his hat. “If this gentleman is escorting you home, madam,” he said, much more coolly than he felt, “I think he has mistaken the right path. May I assist you back to it?” And he offered his arm.

But it was struck aside, and he looked into a dark face lit by a pair of blazing eyes—a Highland face, too, no doubt of it, though its owner wore no tartan. “By what right do you interfere, sir? As you say, the path goes on—go you on with it! I am quite capable of escorting this lady.”

“I doubt that!” retorted Ranald. “And if you ask Miss Stewart herself, I think she will prefer the direct path to this patch of brambles, and, if not my escort, at least that of her kinsman, Mr. Robertson, who will shortly be returning this way.”

“Take yourself off!” shouted the other, as he would have shouted to a dog, his right hand going instinctively to his right hip—another proof of his race.

“Not until you do!” replied Ranald with equal animosity. “Miss Stewart——” But the girl had slipped behind them and was doing the best thing, perhaps, that she could have done by starting to walk away down the path. When he realised it her admirer made to follow her, but Ranald gripped him by the shoulder.

“No!” he exclaimed in the height of indignation, “no, not if you know so little how to behave to a lady!”

“Who are you that presume to teach a Griogarach manners?” flashed out the other; but before he could strike Ranald had closed with him. The veneer of good breeding and respect for the proximity of a lady ripped off in an instant, they struggled like two wildcats. Although Ranald looked the stronger and had slightly the advantage in height, the MacGregor was extraordinarily wiry and beside himself with fury; it was therefore doubtful how the encounter might have ended had it been carried further. But a man’s voice calling, “Bride, Bride—is that you, Bride?” all at once announced the approach of Malcolm Robertson, who could, apparently, see his kinswoman on the path ahead, though not the two men at grips behind the wall. The MacGregor, on that, made a final effort, tore himself free, sending Ranald staggering, dashed at the wall, was over it like a stoat, and was running down the farther side when Malcolm Robertson came through the gateposts to perceive his guest recovering his balance with difficulty.

“Dhia gleidh sinn!” he exclaimed, catching him by the arm. “What have you been at, Mr. Maclean, and who was it that jumped the wall just now?”

The panting Ranald put a hand to his throat and hastily rearranged his cravat. “Some unmannerly fellow who was molesting Miss Stewart—a MacGregor, by what he said.”

Malcolm’s placid brow grew black. “It will be Gregor MacGregor—Gregor Murray—from Glen Lyon, malediction on him! He is mad after her . . . and he does not always comport himself like a gentleman. I am glad you came by when you did. Was she much alarmed?—Let us go to her.”

Miss Bride Stewart, hearing his voice, had come to a stop. He hurried down the path to her.

“Oh, Bride, my dear”—there was all the distress and tenderness in his voice of one speaking to a beloved child—“I wish I had not left you to return alone! But who could guess——”

She slipped her hand into his arm and smiled up at him. “There’s naught to be perturbed at, Malcolm,” she answered, and her voice, sweet and cool as rain in spring, was steady, though she was paler than her wont. “I was a trifle startled, that was all. We all know that Mr. Gregor Murray is somewhat . . . impetuous.—But that is not to say that I do not thank you, Mr. Maclean, a thousand times, for your intervention.”

But Ranald Maclean was not so cool. His deep-buried but volcanic temper was fermenting. He had seen what Malcolm Robertson had not—this girl, who seemed to him of an elfin fragility, helpless before that unmannerly brute. He looked back. “I have a mind to go after Mr. Gregor Murray or MacGregor,” he said between his teeth, “and teach him a lesson he will not soon forget. Small wonder that the very name of his clan has been proscribed these hundred and forty years!”

“Oh pray, pray do not think of doing such a thing!” exclaimed Miss Stewart, evidently really alarmed at this prospect. “Mr. Gregor Murray will, I am sure, be sorry for his conduct and ask my pardon when next we meet.”

“If I had my will,” declared Malcolm Robertson with a vehemence which he had not yet shown, “he should never see you again. He is not of the Dunan or the Ardlarich MacGregors, here in Rannoch,” he explained to Ranald. “He lives at Roro, in Glen Lyon—a kinsman of the chief’s.”

“He goes back to Glen Lyon to-day,” said Bride. “That is why, I think, he particularly desired speech with me.” She coloured a little. “I ought to be going on home now, Malcolm, I think—and indeed ’tis not over-warm up here.”

Atmospherically it might not be so, but mentally, for one at least of the three, it was torrid. Yet Ranald had perforce cooled a little by the time that he and Malcolm Robertson bade farewell to Miss Stewart at the ferry over the little river on which she lived, to which they both escorted her. He did not suppose that he should see her a third time before his departure two days later; nor did he. And since nothing was likely ever to bring him into the land of Schiehallion again, he knew that, as far as he was concerned, Bride Stewart might have vanished into that enchanted country forbidden to mortals, which, to his thinking, was her true home. But he would not soon forget her.