Читать книгу Almond, Wild Almond - D. K. Broster - Страница 9

At Inchrannoch House meanwhile they talked of what they had just heard.

“And that young man,” said Mr. Stewart reflectively, passing his hand over his high, pale forehead, “that young man, only about two weeks since, saw and spoke in Dunkirk with our Prince, whom we thought to be in Rome! Does it not seem well-nigh miraculous, Bride?”

Bride nodded her little head gravely.

“A great pity that your aunt was not well enough to receive him. I must go to her presently and tell her this news.”

“I will go and see if she is awake now, Uncle Walter,” said Bride, and slipped from the room, noiselessly, as she did most things.

But upstairs, between the half-drawn curtains of the bed, she could see Mrs. Stewart’s nightcap motionless; stealing a little nearer she verified that she was asleep, and thought how old and frail she looked. She was not very old in reality, but she had never known good health, poor Aunt Rachel! And, having reported to her uncle, Bride went back to her room, to the silent wheel and the half-spun wool, and sat down to them.

Five minutes later she was still sitting there, her hands idle in her lap. She was thinking of all that she had been told—what more natural? But she was thinking not only of the substance of it, but also of the manner of its telling; for she heard still in her ears the voice of the narrator, a pleasant, deep, strong voice, and grave, as befitted the subject. A Highland gentleman who had so recently held intimate speech with the Prince passing this way, like a vessel with great tidings! Bride was aware of a faint but distinct regret that she was never likely to see him again.

With a sigh—no doubt for the hopes which the storm had wrecked—she began to press the treadle of the spinning-wheel—and then remembered that the thread was broken. The light was gone too; she would not spin any more to-day. So she rose, and going to the window, stood with her elbow on the high sill, looking out at Schiehallion, now only dimly visible, despite the snow upon its crest, and wondering whether Mr. Maclean, from the Isle of Askay, had admired her dear mountain.