D. K. Broster - Ultimate Collection: Historical Novels, Mysteries, Victorian Romances & Gothic Tales. D. K. Broster

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СКАЧАТЬ 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?”

      § 2

      Dougal Livingstone and his brother were the rowers after all, and Ian, steering, was unable therefore to feast his miserable eyes upon the King of Lochlann’s daughter, where she sat beside him in the stern, as well as he could have done had he faced her on a thwart. On the other hand she was so close to him that his miserable body was only too conscious of the fact.

      The boat slipped over the hardly rippled loch, stained in the distance by the reflected mountains with hues that had vanished when the spot was reached, leaving the water as clear and colourless as before. Jacqueline chattered, the rowers at Olivia’s request sang a iorram, Grizel told legends of this place and that. All illusion, like this tormenting nearness on the other side of the helm—like the mirage on the water, pretence of what was not and could never be. . . . When he moved the tiller from him his hand all but brushed her; when a stray whisper of breeze caught a ribbon of hers it sent it across his face or knee . . .

      “Ian,” said Jacqueline, suddenly leaning forward and pointing, “why should we not land on Eilean Soa and show Miss Campbell the cairn where the ancient king was buried with his treasure?”

      Land, and be released from this torturing and intoxicating proximity? No . . . yes . . . which?

      His decision was not awaited. “Oh, let us land!” cried Olivia. “Of all things I love a buried treasure!”

      “ ’Tis not there now,” observed the practical Grizel.

      “We need not go round the point to the flat shore,” pursued Jacqueline. “You know the place this side, with the solitary pine-tree. I have often got ashore there.”

      “It might be difficult for Miss Campbell,” said her brother doubtfully.

      “Why, Mr. Stewart, are you suggesting that I am less nimble than your sister!” cried the guest. “I am no town lady, and I insist on being put ashore where Miss Jacqueline is accustomed to land.”

      Ian yielded, and steered for the nearer side of the island, since to anyone young the place presented no difficulty. A slight spring up to an embedded piece of granite and a tiny scramble thereafter, aided by the tough stems of the tall island heather, and one was there. He got out, and, knee-deep in the heather a little above her, assisted Miss Campbell, half hoping that she would slip, so that he could catch her; but she showed no sign of such a thing.

      It was Ian who slipped, or nearly, though it was not his fault. For, having put one foot on the lump of granite to extend a hand to Grizel in the boat below, he felt the stone, to his astonishment, beginning to give beneath him, and sprang back, clutching the heather, just in time to watch it slowly leave its place, slide down, and disappear sedately into the water.

      “I had no notion that I was so heavy!” called Olivia’s laughing voice from above him. “I am glad you did not follow it, Mr. Stewart!”

      “So am I,” observed Grizel from the boat. “But, Ian, can we land here now?”

      “You cannot,” replied her brother. “Go round the point to the beach. Miss Campbell and I will walk across and meet you there.”

      There was nothing else to be done, so the boat pushed off again and Ian was left alone with Olivia Campbell—alone, though but for a few minutes, in a world apart. His desire was equally to hasten to the other side of the little island . . . and to loiter here; not to speak or listen to her . . . and to detain her for hours. In this state of mind he preceded her from the landing-place, mechanically holding back a bramble or a branch when necessary, but really not conscious of what he was walking on, grass, rock or heather—till all at once he heard her cry:

      “Oh, Mr. Stewart, how beautiful . . . and how very unexpected!”

      And because she had stopped, he stopped too, and found that they were both in a little abandoned meadow full of moon-daisies, all swaying and nodding towards them in welcome. But in a few minutes the boat would have rounded the little green headland on their left, and he would never be alone with her anywhere again . . . thank God, thank God!

      And was that why he took her hand in a cold, unsteady clasp, and without a word raised it to his lips and kissed the palm of it with a long, forsaken kiss? The touch of her fingers was like cool well-water to the burning lips of fever. She did not pull them away. But Ian dropped her hand, and stood looking at her among the knee-high daisies of Eilean Soa so wildly, so desperately, that for a second Olivia Campbell all but recoiled. She did not, however; she said gently, “The sun is very hot, Mr. Stewart; will you not put on your hat?”

      “Do you think I have sunstroke?” Ian spoke so low that she could scarcely catch the words. “You know it is not that! . . . You are going away to-morrow?”

      “Yes,” answered Olivia gravely. “To-morrow, when my brother comes for me.” There was pity in her beautiful eyes; that made it harder still. “I did not mean to do this to you—indeed I did not! . . . There is the boat coming to shore. I will wait here.”

      He still looked at her, for as long as it took a tiny breeze to run from side to side over the daisy heads and set them quivering. Then he turned, and strode through the flowers towards the shore.

      But Olivia stood without moving, pressing her hands tightly together. No, indeed she had not meant to do this! And how had she done it—she had seen him so little, talked with him so seldom! In vain to ask that question of the thousand flower-faces in their white and golden dance; if they knew they would not tell her.

      “Oh dear,” said Olivia, “I wish it had not happened!”

      And this was strange, for conquests were not distasteful to her.

      But Ian continued to stride on, through a tangle of grasses, to the flat strand where the boat had already grounded.

      “You have left Miss Campbell behind, I see,” observed Jacqueline as she sprang to land. “Whatever can those flowers be among which she is standing?”

      “I do not know,” said Ian. “Are there any flowers?”

      “Dear brother, you must be blind! One can see them from here—hundreds of them!” And she ran off.

      Ian helped his elder СКАЧАТЬ