Читать книгу Trouble in the Glen - Maurice Walsh - Страница 13

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Gawain had not the whole place to himself. A thud of hooves on packed gravel, and he turned quickly. There was a third way through the woods. It was a track, not a road, coming down amongst humplochs of young bracken, and debouching on the other side of the drive. That track led to Cobh Echlan, and he had helped to make it. When the old laird had opened his private cove to free bathing, Gawain had engineered that track, and a squad of volunteers from Blinkbonny and Ardaneigh had cut it through waist-high undergrowth. It was wide enough for two to walk abreast, and the branches of overhanging trees had been lopped so that a horseman could ride through. A horsewoman was using it this morning.

She was riding a chestnut of the polo-pony type, riding easily, American style, almost standing on long stirrups, and her back arched forward a little. She had come round a hillock of bracken, and her eyes were at once set on Gawain. And Gawain’s eyes were set on her.

This is the proud one. Was it Lukey said that? My certies! The most intolerant scrap of enzyme I have ever seen.

If the young horsewoman had any thought in her mind it might be: Who is this truculent, arrogant, black-avised fellow holding the middle of the road?

Was it the shape of her face that made her look so intolerant: broad and, somehow, foreign-looking, with fine black brows down-slanted, strongly-moulded cheekbones, and a nose, not hooked, but flattened a fraction of a degree over the short upper lip and full sullen mouth? It was that slightly flattened nose and full mouth wherein the intolerance lay. Real intolerance is never thin-lipped.

Her face was not made-up this early in the morning, and it had a fine clean pallor touched with cream. And, foreign though she looked, there was nothing foreign about her eyes, which were only so big and not black; they were the colour of a sloe that is not quite ripe, and they had a directness that showed her Scots blood.

A brilliantly-scarlet kerchief loosely held down her black hair, which was not crinkly, but strong and inclined to wave. She wore a white roll-collared pullover, fawn doe-skin breeches, scarlet riding boots, and, yes! scarlet long gauntlets. On her feet she would be reasonably tall, and she might be an inch too wide in the shoulder, and a curve too full in the bust.

A nicely-sexed young woman, and she has her looks! thought Gawain. Once on a time I’d ha’ kissed that mouth and taken a chance!

She did not check or urge her pony’s easy pacing. Her way to the Big House led a yard in front of Gawain, and she came out on the drive, looked through and beyond him, and rode straight on.

Begod! She’d ha’ ridden ower me if I was in her road. And would she bid any man the top o’ the mornin’ in the young o’ the day?

Gawain was forgetting his own duty of courtesy on a fine morning. But she had come out of his own track, no longer free to him, and she had ridden by as if he were invisible. His mouth twitched. Maybe he was wearing his invisible cloak after all. Fine! Let her gang!

Suddenly she changed her mind. She did not look over her shoulder, but a knee twitched, a red gauntlet moved, saddle-leathers creaked, and the pony was round facing him. She looked more intolerant than ever.

I’m for it! thought Gawain. And she said:

“Who the devil do you think you are staring at?” Her voice was deep for youth, and it had a flowing cadence not unfamiliar to Gawain.

It was a fair question. He had been staring at her underbrowed, and he did not know how arrogant had been that stare. A tall, black-browed fellow, whom she did not know, waiting for her at mid-road, and staring insolently at her in her own grounds—and not even saluting her with a friendly word on a fine morning. He was not a visitor, she knew. Then who was he, and what was he doing here?

Gawain threw up his left forearm to his chin, and lifted a cautious head, as if he were looking at an adversary over the rim of a shield.

He spoke almost in a whisper. “But a moment ago I was invisible.”

And she said, her voice lifting a little:

“Who the blue blazes are you?” Her Irish governess had had the Irish habit of using cuss words with abandon.

“She sees not the blazes—I mean blazon—on my shield?” Gawain said. “Hold it! Keep the lid on! There is a message from yonder varlet.” He glanced over his shoulder. The mechanic Thompson was standing in front of the gate-lodge gazing their way. “He would have you know that a headless carriage awaits your pleasure at the hour of noon.”

Her brows did not once twitch or frown, and the immobility of her face was the immobility of an old race. She said calmly:

“You are insolent—or a fool.”

“Insolent I hope not!—but foolish alas!”

She moved a scarlet hand. “You are not a visitor at the Tigh?” She used the Gaelic guttural that is more than g and not quite gh.

“Not at that Tigh,” Gawain told her. “In that tall house dwells one who is lonely in all his company—and a damosel who sings in the woods. Art thou that one? Or ride thou like that Woman who hath no Mercy? Indeed, you have the looks and the shape, riches greater than beauty, but beauty you have too, and beauty is aye sad and often merciless. You are sad, and your mouth is sullen, and pride is always sullen. The Tigh I sojourn in has an open door, and friendliness within—and, alas! a little sadness too. It is your turn now!”

She had not sought to interrupt him. He had spoken, looking over his forearm, his carved face wholly grave, and his voice rolling resonantly; and his words had a meaning that was only half-hidden. And those black eyes under their black brows had some queer holding quality.

There was a thrush singing somewhere, and the trees were hushed, and this was no longer the middle of the twentieth century. This was an old, old wood in an old land of an old culture, but life was young and surgent, and this strange madman touched her where she lived. But she touched Gawain in turn, for, at the back of his mind, he realised that her mouth was not really sullen but was part of a strange, foreign comeliness to make it alive and desirable.

Don’t be a dam’ fool, me lad! thought Gawain.

Then she surprised him. She flattened a scarlet hand at him and said:

“Put down your shield! You are foolish, of course—but not insolent, I think. Who are you? What is your name?”

“Ho-ho! possessing my name you would hold power. But your name I know. You are hight Iosabel.”

He had aroused her curiosity now. She said:

“Whoever you are, you are a trespasser?”

“Go to! who is the trespasser?”

She found herself using his medium. “Now you are insolent, for I know your meaning, and I also know your myth of the secret name.” She pointed a finger at him. “But to-day your name is trespasser. You will give me your other name, or you will come with me now to the Tigh, and my father will take your name. Come!”

Her knee twitched, and the pony’s head turned away. Gawain threw a hand up.

“It is a road I might take with you, but I obey only one queen at a time. Go in peace!”

He turned on his heel, strode across the road and into the mouth of the track to Cobh Echlan. There was a clatter of hooves, and the pony’s head was by his shoulder.

Good job she hasn’t a switch, said Gawain.

One broad hand caught the pony’s head by bridle and snaffle ring, and the pony went back on its haunches. The young woman swayed lithely in the saddle, tightened her reins, and gave her mount both heels. The pony reared, but that powerful hand brought it down again, and forcefully backed it out on the drive. The lady tipped and swayed, and felt maddeningly helpless.

“Let that pony go, you brute!” she cried at him.

“Begone!” he blared up at her. “Begone! Or I will take you down off your fine horse, and close your mouth with the kisses four. Go thou!”

He almost lifted the pony, stepped away, and brought a hard palm smack on the round croup. And the pony went cavorting from there.

Then Gawain turned and marched off down the path to Cobh Echlan.

Iosabel, daughter of Sanin Cejador y Mengues, like a slip of steel in the saddle, checked her mount, but only for a moment. She was possessed wholly by a sense of outrage—a fine honest sense of outrage that was as Highland as it was Spanish. She and her pony were no match for that nameless madman—him and his kisses four—but blast him! she must not let him get away with such insolence. And the first thing to do was to find out something about him.

On a tight rein she gave her pony both heels, and it went bucketing down the drive towards the South Gate. Thompson, her chauffeur, was bucketing along too, flag of battle on the breeze. Begoad! he would take it out o’ that dom’ foreigner, gent or no gent.

The lady pulled in her mount with a slither of hooves, her back arching like a bow, and Thompson got out from under.

“Did you see that—fellow, Sam?”

“I saw the—I saw him, Miss Iosabel.”

“Where did he come from?”

“The Big House, would it be—?”

“No, it isn’t. Yes, you thought it was—I got your message. But where did he come from?”

“He was walkin’ the middle o’ the road as if he owned it.”

“He thinks he does.”

Thompson gestured suddenly with a greasy fist. “By dom’! Your pardon, Miss Iosabel! The only other place about here is Lukey Carnoch’s.”

“Lukey’s!” She sat up. Personally she had nothing against Luke Carnoch. Luke was all right, but he and her father!—and she was loyal to her father—

“Major Keegan, Miss—”

“I know Major Keegan. This devil has two sound legs.”

“What I mean, Miss, the Major, I hear tell, was expectin’ a soldier friend yestreen—frae the East I think it was.”

“And tanned as leather. You know his name?”

“N-o-o, Miss!” He had heard the name, but wasn’t sure; and, anyway, when he came to think of it, he wouldn’t want to get any friend of the Major’s—or Lukey’s—into trouble.

“All right, Thompson!” She pointed a scarlet hand. “Could he have got over that gate?”

“A tough job, Miss!” said Thompson with some feeling. He turned head to look at the tall gate—and to hide a grin. His mother was lodge-keeper, and kept a tight hold of the gate-key to hold her innocent slob of a son—as she called him—from night rambling; but twice a week the same son climbed over the gate, to the detriment of his pants, for a bit of diversion at Dinny Sullavan’s pub.

“If he got his bear’s paws on top!” half-mused Iosabel Mengues, remembering the powerful hand that had lifted the pony under her.

“Sure enough, Miss!” Thompson agreed. “Is there anything you’d want me—”

“No, Sam! Get the car going—I’ll attend to this.”

She turned her pony around and rode off, not bucketing this time, but soberly pacing, and her thoughts busy.

A soldier from the East, a friend of Major Keegan’s, and staying at Luke Carnoch’s? Very probably! And he was of the Highlands, that was clear. And here, in her father’s demesne, he had made fun of her, using archaic language to puzzle a foreign interloper—damn him! And yet! there was a meaning in his words, and—yes—a hint of a warning too. He would know of the trouble in the glen, but he would know only one side of it.... She had no part in that trouble—it was folly—but there had been rank insubordination—and she was loyal to her own. And she would not be made fun of ... in her own grounds! ... A fresh thought made her throw up her head, and then she chuckled. But this was fine! This had lifted her out of the doldrums on a Spring morning! This was better than playing round with that herd of tame visitors! This was a new game worth playing.... But she would have to move very carefully....

She came to the dip of the road, and, without hesitation, turned her pony into the track leading to Cobh Echlan. She was ravening for her breakfast, but breakfast could wait, and this interesting shield-striker might not.

And as she ambled along the path so nicely graded among bracken mounds, a high, clear, anguished yell came up to her from the Cobh.

He has fallen in, gracias a Dios! she said, and gave knees to her pony.