Читать книгу D. K. Broster Collection - D. K. Broster - Страница 132

June 25th—26th.

If Ian slept ill that night he could, and did, attribute it to the smart of his burnt wrist. But he knew in his heart that that was not the cause.

The last day of Miss Campbell’s sojourn at Invernacree was going, he saw, to be gloriously fine. The last day; yes, to-morrow would see her leave his father’s roof for ever. If, therefore, he could only get safely through to-day, all would be well. The best thing would be to invent some excuse which would keep him out of doors most of the time, and at a distance; and after some casting about he succeeded.

But he had forgotten that his father had appointed this morning for going into the half-yearly accounts of the estate with him, and this there was no escaping. All morning Ian added, subtracted, verified and discussed; but in this unromantic pursuit he had less time to think of Miss Campbell, and at all events could not be in her company. His arithmetic, however, was not beyond reproach. At the end of their joint computations the laird began to talk of the sum which he intended in the future to apportion to his son when he married, for though he would not at first have a separate establishment he would need more money, and with economy Invernacree thought that he could allow him this.

Ian thanked him in a voice which even to himself sounded choked, and his father asked if by ill chance he had taken a fever of cold, as well as burning his hand so foolishly yesterday (for enquiries at supper, not to speak of the presence of a bandage, had disclosed that fact to Mr. Stewart; and in truth Ian had not found writing too pleasant this morning). The young man repudiated this suggestion.

“Indeed, I hope you are not indisposed,” said Invernacree, “for it is so fine a day that I think a row upon the loch this afternoon might benefit as well as interest Miss Campbell, and Grizel thinks so too.”

“Dougal Livingstone and his brother are both available,” replied his son.

“I think,” pronounced the laird, “that it would show more courtesy if you were to row Miss Campbell and your sisters yourself. Or at least (if the consequence of your folly last night incapacitates you) that you should accompany them.”

“Since when,” asked Ian, “have you laid store, sir, by showing courtesy to a Campbell?”

Displeasure sat upon the old man’s brow. “One does not war with women, Ian. I cannot think that I have ever trained you in such a notion. And Miss Campbell is our guest.”

She has bewitched you too, thought Ian. Aloud he said submissively, “No, sir, you are in the right of it. I shall be pleased to row Miss Campbell and my sisters on the loch this afternoon.”

And even as he said it he knew that what he desired was to row Miss Campbell without his sisters. He caught his breath. But that could never be . . . mercifully.

“By the way,” said his father, reverting to business, “you will have to go to Glasgow for me in a few weeks’ time to see Buchanan about that affair I spoke of, and one or two others. I am too old for the journey now.—Where is that paper of memoranda I had under my hand a moment since?”