Читать книгу Almond, Wild Almond - D. K. Broster - Страница 15

The window was open that evening to the long July twilight; and it was an evening so quiet that the fall of a cone from the ranks of sentinel firs outside the front of Inchrannoch House had the importance of an event. It was light enough to read still, and, Uncle Walter being absorbed in his book, Bride’s needle began to ply slower and slower until it ceased from its task altogether, and she was gazing abstractedly at some rosy feathers of cloud which the flushed west, invisible from this room, had sent to drift towards the summit of Schiehallion.

Was it possible that thinking of a person had some effect upon their movements? For a year and four months—she could not deny it to herself—the image of the dark, lean traveller from Dunkirk had remained as fresh as though she had possessed a picture of him—no, fresher, because it could move and speak in her memory. And she knew that was because she had often thought about him, though with no hope of seeing him again—just as a dweller on a remote sea-loch might recall, even to its spars and rigging, a chance ship which had put in there where ships seldom came. And now the same vessel had sailed once more into the uneventful waters of her life.

How was she to know whether he had meant anything particular by that little speech at the ferry about her friendship? Perhaps he was accustomed to say such things, with just that earnestness, to any young lady who took his fancy—though somehow one would not easily think that. Yet how could one know? He was an absolute stranger in Rannoch, even to Malcolm Robertson, who had first brought him to her uncle’s house. But she would very much like to believe that he had meant what he had said.

Fiona got up from her place near Mr. Stewart’s chair and came and put her muzzle on Bride’s knee. “I wish you could tell me, Fiona,” thought her mistress as she stroked it.

The deerhound’s movement caused her uncle to look up and then lay down his book. “If you are not sewing any more, my dear, I should be obliged if you would read to me awhile—that is, if this light is good enough for you. I’d not have you try your young eyes to save mine.”

Bride rose at once and took the book. “’Tis full light enough for me here by the window, Uncle Walter,” she said, with her accustomed sweetness. “Is this the place?”

But it is quite possible to read aloud—read intelligently—and think of something else as well.