The Collected Western Classics & Adventures Novels. William MacLeod RaineЧитать онлайн книгу.
turned the key and entered.
A girl was sitting at a table with her back to me, her averted head leaning wearily on her hand. Dejection spoke in every line of her figure. She did not even turn at my entrance, thinking me no doubt to be her guard. I stood waiting awkwardly, scarce knowing what to say.
“Madam,” I began, “may I— Is there——?” So far I got, then I came to an embarrassed pause, for I might as well have talked to the dead for all the answer I got. She did not honour me with the faintest sign of attention. I hemmed and hawed and bowed to her back with a growing confusion.
At last she asked over her shoulder in a strained, even voice,
“What is it you’re wanting now? You said I was to be left by my lane to-night.”
I murmured like a gawk that I was at her service, and presently as I shifted from one foot to the other she turned slowly. Her face was a dumb cry for help, though it was a proud face too—one not lacking in fire and courage. I have seen fairer faces, but never one more to my liking. It was her eyes that held me. The blue of her own Highland lochs, with all their changing and indescribably pathetic beauty, lurked deeply in them. Unconsciously they appealed to me, and the world was not wide enough to keep me from her when they called. Faith, my secret is out already, and I had resolved that it should keep till near the end of my story!
I had dropped my muddy cloak before I entered, and as she looked at me a change came over her. Despair gave way to a startled surprise. Her eyes dilated.
“Who are you, sir? And—what are you doing here?” she demanded.
I think some fear or presage of evil was knocking at her heart, for though she fronted me very steadily her eyes were full of alarm. What should a man of rank be doing in her room on the night she had been abducted from her lodgings unless his purpose were evil? She wore a long cloak stretching to the ground, and from under it slippered feet peeped out. The cloak was of the latest mode, very wide and open at the neck and shoulders, and beneath the mantle I caught more than a glimpse of the laced white nightrail and the fine sloping neck. ’Twas plain that her abductors had given her only time to fling the wrap about her before they snatched her from her bedchamber. Some wild instinct of defense stirred within her, and with one hand she clutched the cloak tightly to her throat. My heart went out to the child with a great rush of pity. The mad follies of my London life slipped from me like the muddy garment outside, and I swore by all I held most dear not to see her wronged.
“Madam,” I said, “for all the world I would not harm you. I have come to offer you my sword as a defense against those who would injure you. My name is Montagu, and I know none of the name that are liars,” I cried.
“Are you the gentleman that was for stopping the carriage as we came?” she asked.
“I am that same unlucky gentleman that was sent speldering in the glaur.2 I won an entrance to the house by a trick, and I am here at your service,” I said, throwing in my tag of Scotch to reassure her.
“You will be English, but you speak the kindly Scots,” she cried.
“My mother was from the Highlands,” I told her.
“What! You have the Highland blood in you? Oh then, it is the good heart you will have too. Will you ever have been on the braes of Raasay?”
I told her no; that I had always lived in England, though my mother was a Campbell. Her joy was the least thing in the world daunted, and in her voice there was a dash of starch.
“Oh! A Campbell!”
I smiled. ’Twas plain her clan was no friend to the sons of Diarmaid.
“My father was out in the ’15, and when he wass a wounded fugitive with the Campbell bloodhounds on his trail Mary Campbell hid him till the chase was past. Then she guided him across the mountains and put him in the way of reaching the Macdonald country. My father married her after the amnesty,” I explained.
The approving light flashed back into her eyes.
“At all events then I am not doubting she wass a good lassie, Campbell or no Campbell; and I am liking it that your father went back and married her.”
“But we are wasting time,” I urged. “What can I do for you? Where do you live? To whom shall I take you?”
She fell to earth at once. “My grief! I do not know. Malcolm has gone to France. He left me with Hamish Gorm in lodgings, but they will not be safe since——” She stopped, and at the memory of what had happened there the wine crept into her cheeks.
“And who is Malcolm?” I asked gently.
“My brother. He iss an agent for King James in London, and he brought me with him. But he was called away, and he left me with the gillie. To-night they broke into my room while Hamish was away, weary fa’ the day! And now where shall I go?”
“My sister is a girl about your age. Cloe would be delighted to welcome you. I am sure you would like each other.”
“You are the good friend to a poor lass that will never be forgetting, and I will be blithe to burden the hospitality of your sister till my brother returns.”
The sharp tread of footsteps on the stairs reached us. A man was coming up, and he was singing languidly a love ditty.
“What is love? ’Tis not hereafter,
Present mirth has present laughter,
What’s to come is still unsure;
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me sweet and twenty.
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.”
Something in the voice struck a familiar chord in my memory, but I could not put a name to its owner. The girl looked at me with eyes grown suddenly horror-stricken. I noticed that her face had taken on the hue of snow.
“We are too late,” she cried softly.
We heard a key fumbling in the lock, and then the door opened—to let in Volney. His hat was sweeping to the floor in a bow when he saw me. He stopped and looked at me in surprise, his lips framing themselves for a whistle. I could see the starch run through and take a grip of him. For just a gliff he stood puzzled and angry. Then he came in wearing his ready dare-devil smile and sat down easily on the bed.
“Hope I’m not interrupting, Montagu,” he said jauntily. “I dare say though that’s past hoping for. You’ll have to pardon my cursedly malapropos appearance. Faith, my only excuse is that I did not know the lady was entertaining other visitors this evening.”
He looked at her with careless insolence out of his beautiful dark eyes, and for that moment I hated him with the hate a man will go to hell to satisfy.
“You will spare this lady your insults,” I told him in a low voice. “At least so far as you can. Your presence itself is an insult.”
“Egad, and that’s where the wind sits, eh? Well, well, ’tis the manner of the world. When the cat’s away!”
A flame of fire ran through me. I took a step toward him, hand on sword hilt. With a sweep of his jewelled hand he waved me back.
“Fie, fie, Kenn! In a lady’s presence?”
Volney smiled at the girl in mock gallantry and my eyes followed his. I never saw a greater change. She was transformed. Her lithe young figure stood out tall and strong, every line of weariness gone. Hate, loathing, scorn, one might read plainly there, but no trace of fear or despair. She might have been a lioness defending her young. Her splendour of dark auburn hair, escaped and fallen free to her waist, fascinated me with the luxuriance of its disorder. Volney’s lazy admiration quickened to a deeper interest. For an instant his breath came faster. His face lighted with the joy of the huntsman after worthy game. But almost immediately he recovered his aplomb. Turning to me, he asked with his odd light smile,
“Staying