Читать книгу While Rivers Run - Maurice Walsh - Страница 24
ОглавлениеI
In the afternoon Margaret Brands finished her preparations for going away. Her leave-taking of the Croft o’ Drum filled her with a dreichness greyer than usual—an unusual touch of lonesomeness. While the pony—a cross between a hackney and a shelt—pawed the gravel and softly butted its muzzle against Aelec Brands’s broad breast, she went into the inner room to say good-bye to Alistair MacIan. “I am on the top of the road,” she said lightly; “if you know what that means.”
“I get the slant of it,” he said. “I hope you’ll have a comfortable journey.”
She leant an elbow on the low newel-post of the bed, drawing her gloves through one hand, and, in her travelling costume, she looked young and fine and very gallant. The costume was of a rich and soft shade of blue, with a swinging cape showing a lining of grey silk, and it had a soldierly smartness. Her hat, helmet-like, fitted so close to her head that all her hair was hidden except a curl or two about her ears—copper-red, embracing a face very tenderly coloured, and vigorously alive. There was in her eyes a quality of thought that was altogether apart from her good looks, and that might be equally attractive or that might abash very definitely. No man with wits would care to dare lightly the level look of Margaret Brands’s blue eyes. Alistair MacIan met those discerning eyes now, and they gave him a little stab of appreciation, just touched with embarrassment. Here was a young woman who was different, that had to be taken at her own value, that plainly weighed a man actively instead of passively. And that was why he said, “I hope you’ll have a comfortable journey,” instead of the “Sorry you are going” that was in his mind.
“It will be a rather weary journey,” she replied, “but dad will be at the end of it.”
“You don’t care a whole heap about London?”
“Not a very big heap, at any rate.”
“An old burg, London. Should it not have acquired that aura of old places that appeals to you?”
“It has its own—yes, but—” She laughed, and gave a little shrug. “No time to go into that now.”
“I am interested, you know. If this old pumpkin of mine was a bit clearer I might find a snag for you.”
“No doubt you could.”
“I shall be in London soon, too—I’m rather tickled with London. Could we not meet there some time?” There was no over-boldness the way he put it.
“Father and I will be very glad to see you if you care to call,” she said graciously; and added, “we live out of the way, though.”
“No place in London is much out of the way.”
“High Barnet is. Uncle will give you the address. Good-bye now, Mr MacIan. Your head is no worse, is it?”
“Much better, thanks.”
Their hands met and grasped firmly. Hers was cool and softly strong; she was glad to note that his, while warm, was dry, for she had a curious dislike for a moist hand. She smiled brightly at him from the door, and he smiled back, though he did not then feel like smiling.
II
Uncle and niece had reached as far as the incline of the railway bridge on the outskirts of the little town of Muiryside, when a telegraph-boy met them. He vaulted off his bicycle while it was still at a good speed, skidded and braked with practised ease, and cried to Aelec, “A wire for you, Mr Brands.” Internally he cursed his luck, for it meant his missing a satisfying gorge of gooseberries and white currants.
Aelec had pulled up as quickly as the boy, and reached a hand for the buff envelope. Margaret said no word, but drew in a deep breath.
“Brands, Croft o’ Drum! For me, right enough.” The happy grin that spread over his face as he read the wire reassured Margaret. “He cut it fine,” he chuckled. “By Chippendale, he did!”
“Dad, isn’t it?”
“The very man. It is for you. ‘Called to Prague for ten days. Writing. Stay at Croft.’ Where else would you stay?”
“It must have been delayed in transit,” considered Margaret, who could not see her father so nearly making a blunder.
Aelec examined the telegram. “It was, but not at Muiryside.” He turned to the boy. “All right, Charlie—except you’d like to run out for a puckle goosies—eh?”
“I’ll wait till you’re hame some time, Mr Brands.”
“That’ll no’ be long. Come you out on Sunday, then.”
“Ay, will I,” said the lad; and his red cycle seemed as live as a cow-pony as it swung round on the road.
“Well, and what now, my lass?” spoke Aelec, holding the restless pony on a stiff rein.
Margaret lifted her eyes from the wire that she had taken from her uncle’s hand and smiled. “They say it is unlucky to turn back.”
“What? Would you go on to London and leave me?”
She placed her gloved hand on his knee. “Of course not. We had better turn, then.”
But Aelec did not turn. Instead, he mused with half-shut eyes, “Ay, it’s unlucky, they say.” And then, suddenly, “Tell you what you might do, since we are so far on the road. Take the train as far as Barnagh, and run across and see Mrs King. You know she wanted you to come.”
“Do you think I should?” she hesitated. “Are they still at Reroppe Lodge?”
“She is. Tom might be across at Loch Ruighi with Archie MacGillivray. You could borrow the school-mistress’s bike at Barnagh station and be there in no time.”
“And my luggage?”
“Take your small bag—and the salmon. Davy Thomson, the keeper, will fetch them. Tell him it was caught honest.”
“Will you manage all right, uncle? There’s Mr MacIan.”
“Plenty to look after him—except you’d like to do it yourself.”
That remark, carefully made, without emphasis, seemed to decide her. “Mind, I’ll not stay long.”
“You will not, then. Over to-morrow only. I’ll be at the station for you the following evening. We’ll need our time now.”
He flicked the pony with the whip, and they went at a hand-gallop towards the station.
It might be that Aelec Brands was too proud of his niece to set her attractions over against the attractions of even a great actress in the eyes of any man.
