Читать книгу While Rivers Run - Maurice Walsh - Страница 19

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Some time in the night it had rained a small shower out of a mist that had crept down from the higher hills—Cairn Rua, Cairn Kitty, and big Ben MacDhui behind all—but with lift of sun a cleansing wind had come in off the sea, washing the air clear and making the woods dance in the new light as if they had no inkling of the sere time that was almost upon them. It was now a fresh young day, with a gentle breeze, and the sun was well over the crown of the moors.

But young Alistair MacIan was still abed. He had not spent a restful night. Before the house bedded down, Margaret had again ministered to him—changing the compress on his head and massaging his neck; but youth will not easily lie in one posture all night, and when, in a half-doze, he instinctively made to turn on one side or the other, the resulting twinge woke him up very definitely to the realisation of a dull but persistent headache. That headache was still with him in the morning, though his neck muscles no longer protested, if he lay reasonably still.

Aelec Brands was an early riser always, and Margaret Brands was an early riser this morning. Truth to tell, she liked to snuggle down for a last forty winks, each wink a minute, and it was very pleasant to be at last wakened by Else MacLean (wife to Andra the farm-hand), bearing a cup of hot tea with cream in it and half a lump of sugar, and a bit of crisp buttered toast as well. Then, indeed, she waked up fresh as a flower, without yawns, with clean eyes touched with blue in the whites, cheeks faintly flushed, copper hair tousled, and neck and shoulders like ivory that is very new. But this morning she was up and dressed, and had the kettle singing on the black rack over the peat fire that Aelec had already nursed out of the smoored ashes, long before the stout and slightly frowsy Else MacLean shuffled up from the bothy. And by the time that Aelec returned from the byre, where Andra was milking the three cows, she was industriously stirring the porridge. He paused to admire the way she held the spirtle, little finger lifted and wrist curving gracefully.

“Lumps in it, and we’ll ken who to blame,” he warned, and turned towards the door of the inner room. Her eyes followed him.

The sounds of all these morning activities came to Alistair MacIan as he lay abed, gingerly moving his head from side to side to discover if he might not make a sally at getting up. His efforts had not taken him far in that direction, but he was able to turn his face to the door when Aelec entered, and his greeting was cheerful enough.

“A long night, Mr MacIan, I’m thinking,” said that man of the wise eye. “Does the head still stoun?”

“A little; but I’ve had heads that could beat this a mile.”

“The cheerful word for it, Highland Drum,” commended Aelec.

The lad was game, but one could gather as much from his face. It was now a face white almost to haggardness and with shadows under the heavy-lashed eyes; a faint line or two rayed out from the eye-corners, and a faint line was impressed at each side of the mouth, and these might be due to humour or taking thought—or just living. The material fact was that the bones of cheek and jaw stood out firmly, and that suffering would only make that face more reliant.

“Do you like porridge?” Aelec asked.

“I do. I was whaled into taking it as a boy, and, Lord! how I hated it—the flaked kind. But I do like your Scotch porridge.”

“They are a good diet. An egg, now—or maybe two—and a bit finnock?”

“Only a cup of tea—another taste I have acquired—hot enough to skin a lizard.”

“Good, then! A puckle pillows under your head and you’ll be feeling fine. Margaret outby is having designs on you first. She used to be a V.A.D. nurse, and has no mercy on poor helpless loons.”

And in a little while Margaret had dealt with him faithfully, and he was none the worse of it. There was a blue-black film of stubble on his chin this morning, so that the sponge would not run smoothly over it, and this amused them both, and so, in some subtle way, made intercourse a little easier. Life currents are always flowing in the underneath, and eyes and fingers touch many springs. After a sleepless night of images and thoughts he could now have told Margaret that her hair was not red—not really red—or at least not the red he disliked. But he was chary of reopening that subject, and in the end he told her nothing. What her thoughts were no male can imagine and be honest.

And then he had breakfast. He had cream with his small portion of porridge, which had not the least lump in it, and crisp toast with his scalding hot tea. But that poor head of his still persisted in aching, and his eyes hurt and had some difficulty in focusing.