Almond, Wild Almond. D. K. Broster

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СКАЧАТЬ descendants of Alexander Stewart, the son of King Robert II—the Wolf of Badenoch. Yet, even so, not all of them,” said Malcolm, laughing, “for the Stewarts of Innerchadden are from Appin, offshoots of the Stewarts of Invernahyle. ’Tis always said that you will know the two strains apart by the colour of their eyes; the Wolf’s descendants—Siol a’ Chuilein Churta—having them usually blue.” And he embarked upon some rather complicated family history to which, as it was addressed to another Highlander, he had an outwardly attentive listener, though actually Ranald was pondering over the question as to whether those eyes he had seen yesterday in the firelight could be called blue.

      “But, talking of Stewarts,” broke off Malcolm suddenly, “look who is ahead of us!”

      And further on, between the trees, Ranald saw a little female figure with a small basket. She was by her dress a gentlewoman and by her step young, but from the rear he could not assign to her any especial identity, more especially as the usual tartan “screen” was thrown about her head and shoulders.

      “’Tis my cousin Bride,” announced Malcolm; and again the little name came caressingly from his lips. “I think she must be on her way to visit that very old woman, her father’s nurse, who lives up here. Shall we overtake her and offer our escort for the short way that remains?”

      They quickened their pace, and just before they came to an old stone wall of some height which crossed the track, allowing it however an uninterrupted passage between two half-crumbling and gateless pillars, they overtook the young lady of Inchrannoch House. After greetings had passed young Robertson possessed himself gently of the basket.

      “Why do you come up on foot with this, Cousin Bride?” he asked. “’Tis no very light weight. What has become of your pony, and your man?”

      “Mist has gone lame, I know not how, and Jonas is busy digging in the garden,” she answered.

      “And the deerhound?”

      Her little laugh at that was enchanting; it sounded to Ranald like the note of a stream in summer, liquid and gay. “Fiona would not consent to carry a basket, cousin! Or do you mean that I should have brought her as a protection? Do you think I’m like to be run away with, just stepping up to Annat? If that is in your mind, I fancy you must have been telling Mr. Maclean the story of the beautiful Rachel MacGregor who walked in the birch wood at Dunan and was carried off by her suitor and a band from Lochaber.—But you know that it turned out to be a very happy marriage!”

      “Ay; but you know, Cousin Bride, that she did not marry the man who planned the outrage,” retorted Malcolm. “She married one of his companions, a Cameron.”

      “At any rate, good came out of evil,” remarked Miss Stewart, smiling up at her kinsman from the folds of tartan. “Now give me the basket, if you please, for here is old Eilidh’s cottage, and you will not be wishing to come in.”

      They had, indeed, arrived at a little stone and thatch cottage, an outpost of a collection of similar ones higher up the mountain slope. So they took leave of Miss Bride Stewart, who entered on her errand of mercy while the two young men continued their way towards the clachan.

      Malcolm Robertson’s business with his father’s tacks-man was not, however, as summarily despatched as Ranald had anticipated, for the latter was out upon the hillside and had to be sought for. After some twenty minutes of fruitless waiting Malcolm suggested that his guest might prefer to start downwards again, escorting Miss Stewart perhaps, if he cared to wait a little for her. To this suggestion Ranald was far from offering any objection; but when he tapped at the cottage door a young girl appeared, and in response to his query told him that Miss Stewart had just left.

      Ranald reflected that if that were so he could probably overtake her, and hurried down the snow-sprinkled track between the bare, unstirring trees. And after a moment or two he did indeed catch sight of her little figure, but to his surprise she was not alone; there was a man with her. It could not be Malcolm Robertson, whom he had left behind at the clachan; nor was it probable (to his mind at least) that Malcolm would walk beside Miss Stewart, admirer and kinsman though he was, in that half-masterful way, bending so closely over her as they went. And they were going quickly too; he had a half impression that it was Miss Stewart who was setting the pace. No, it was certainly not Malcolm.

      His own intention of escorting the young lady home was now frustrated; nor was there any reason why he should follow behind the couple all the way down to the loch—indeed, every reason why he should not, since there was something about this unknown man which suggested a loverlike interest in Miss Bride Stewart, of which Ranald Maclean had no desire to be witness. He must then either stop for a little and wait until the two were out of sight, or walk yet faster and pass them. Ranald elected for the former course; but, though he stayed his steps, he could not keep his eyes from following them nor from observing something indefinable about the way in which Miss Stewart was walking, which seemed to testify that the proximity of her companion was not welcome to her. Within the limits of the narrow path she seemed to be keeping as far as possible from him; while he, for his part, appeared determined to walk as close to her as he could. And once, perhaps under pretext of helping her over some inequality, he caught her arm, but from the way she turned her head Miss Stewart plainly asked him at once to release it. Yet he was a little while before complying.

      And at that Ranald changed his mind and once more started onwards. He would walk at some distance behind, but he would keep them in sight, so that if Miss Stewart were going to be offered any unwelcome attentions by this admirer—if he were an admirer—he could, by merely overtaking the couple, cut these attentions short. The two gave no sign of hearing his footfalls behind them; these were deadened, perhaps, by the thin layer of snow on the track. Here already was the wall running downhill, with the unfenced gap between the tumbledown gateposts. The instant they reached it the couple disappeared abruptly to the right, behind the wall.

      Now, as Ranald knew, the path itself went straight ahead. He was sure that the man at her side had taken Miss Stewart’s arm again and forced her out of the path . . . Unless, of course, there was a track running down the further side of the wall which he had not noticed. He quickened his pace almost to a run.

      As he arrived at the gap he heard their voices upraised together: hers protesting, “I cannot listen to you now . . . pray let me go on!” and the man’s, fired with passion, “You must, you shall listen, Miss Stewart! If you can listen to that dullard, young Robertson of Auchendrie——”

      Ranald advanced through the gateposts. Yes, Miss Stewart’s companion had her by both hands, had her pressed up against the wall all among the snowladen brambles, her empty basket upside down on the ground. As Mr. Maclean’s indignant eyes took in this fact, however, it became a fact no longer, for the intemperate admirer instantly loosened his hold and faced round; his glance was as hot as a blow. The very evident relief in Miss Stewart’s face made Ranald glad indeed that he had come up.

      Restraining himself with a good deal of difficulty, he raised his hat. “If this gentleman is escorting you home, madam,” he said, much more coolly than he felt, “I think he has mistaken the right path. May I assist you back to it?” And he offered his arm.

      But it was struck aside, and he looked into a dark face lit by a pair of blazing eyes—a Highland face, too, no doubt of it, though its owner wore no tartan. “By what right do you interfere, sir? As you say, the path goes on—go you on with it! I am quite capable of escorting this lady.”

      “I doubt that!” retorted Ranald. “And if you ask Miss Stewart herself, I think she will prefer the direct path to this patch of brambles, and, if not my escort, at least that of her kinsman, Mr. Robertson, who will shortly be returning this way.”

      “Take СКАЧАТЬ