Читать книгу While Rivers Run - Maurice Walsh - Страница 16

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“Many a good man goes to jail,” said Aelec Brands. “I helped to put them there myself when I was a policeman in Glasgow.”

“Go on, uncle!” protested Margaret. “You were only a ‘special’ constable during the war.”

“You see, Mr Long,” explained Aelec solemnly, “I pretend I was a policeman so as to hide that my real business was a maker of antique furniture.”

Again the two chuckled.

“I was wondering,” said Long. “That grandfather clock and the Welsh dresser are not made antiques, are they?”

“No, then. The clock is Chippendale in his good period. Not so sure about the dresser, but it is old.”

“And your dog is an old breed, too. You got him in Glasgow, of course?”

“From an Irishman. There’s a bit story—Ha! Did you hear yon?” And with, “Tell you another time,” Aelec Brands was at the inner door before anyone could move. He turned the handle quietly, and put head and shoulder inside. “Are you waked, then, Mr MacIan? Ah, that’s good.... Here are Mr Long and Mr Webster to look in on you.... Hush!” And Aelec coughed.

“Ay, faith!” said the Irishman, at his shoulder. “He has a gift that way. Let me in at him.”

Aelec Brands moved aside, and Long, with Don Webster following in some hesitation, entered the room. Aelec shut the door on them, walked to the smouldering fire, poked among the ashes with a long-tongs, and built up a little pyramid of red peats. “A nip coming in the night air,” he remarked, “and my feet no’ that dry.”

“Heavens, uncle!” said Margaret, jumping up; “you’ll get your death. Change your things at once. Go on, now.”

She hurried to a side-hatched box below the old dresser, and picked out some small black peats. With one of these she brushed aside the ashes, and then built the others round the back of the glowing coals. Her uncle stood towering at her shoulder, his eyes affectionately on her red crown. “What do you think of our visitors, Margaret?”

“Mr Long is a pleasant man—and frank—but he has his reserves, I think.”

“So! Mr Don Webster is reserved enough too.”

“And makes it plain.” After a pause she added musingly, “So these are Sir Hugh’s nephews?”

“MacIan and Webster. Ay! You weren’t expecting to meet them?”

“No. Lady Sara wanted me to, but there was no time.”

“And that reminds me—you’re off to-morrow, and I with a salmon for you down at the Urdog.”

She did not seem to hear him, but steadily pursued her own train of thought. “Not a happy situation, is it?”

“Eh? The salmon——”

“No. The two young men. A double jealousy at work—love and gear.”

“Hardly that. Young Alistair is the heir, and, anyway, both have plenty of gear without considering Highland Drum—though ’tis a nice bit nest-egg, with the laird’s forestry schemes beginning to hatch out. MacIan has a good-sized fortune that his father left him in the States, and Webster has made his own money—China way. ’Tis said he’s settling down and building a house near London.”

“With the prospect of a wife to adorn it.”

“If his cousin will be minding his own business.”

“Just so. Are you aware that this Miss Carr is Norrey Carr the famous actress?”

“I had heard as much. She’ll have a way with her?”

“No doubt. Aelec Brands, look at your wet feet.”

“Right, woman, right! Who’s speirin’ anyway?” He bustled into an inner room through a door near the head of the couch, and left Margaret on her knees before the fire, her graceful cropped head leaning forward, and her eyes on the licking peat-flames.