The Greatest Historical Novels & Stories of D. K. Broster. D. K. Broster

I have seen you I shall continue my journey to Appin this afternoon.”

      “I should like to have spoken with you again about this matter,” said Olivia faintly. “There are considerations . . . I cannot bear your thinking of my father in this way . . . If I had not such a headache I think I could make you see it differently.” She put her hand once more to her head, and it was quite plain that she was not acting a part.

      But if he stayed, if he stayed! . . . Oh, could he be held to blame when she directly asked him to remain? And did he care if he were blamed? He offered his arm, his heart leaping so wildly that he almost felt its pulsations must quiver down to his finger-tips.

      “Allow me to take you back to your lodging,” he said quietly. “And, to avoid the sun, let us descend the hill inside the wood, if it is possible.”

      Murmuring some excuse for her “foolishness,” Olivia accepted his arm, and, going back a few paces, they turned and went down the slope through the solemn pine boles. So there she was, walking beside him in the twilight, as he had said. But the sun of heaven was not his, to cast from the sky; he could do nothing, nothing. . . .

      CHAPTER VIII

       THE ONLY SAFETY

       Table of Contents

      § 1

      Aug. 13th—14th.

      Strange that it should often take an obstacle in the stream’s path to show the stream which way it is flowing! This, at least, was what had happened to Olivia Campbell, and it was the matter which she sat deeply pondering at her bedroom window that evening, while the stars strove faintly overhead against the long-drawn Northern daylight.

      She could not tell herself that she loved Ian Stewart, but she did recognise that she had been devoting a good deal of thought to him these last few weeks. And now she had been informed that she must not do so any more. Human nature being what it is, there could hardly have been given her a more powerful specific for ensuring that she should.

      But he—he was in earnest, and she had lost what she had never known that she possessed. She would never see him again after to-morrow . . . unless to-morrow she could persuade him to view differently that tragic gulf which in his eyes separated them. In her heart she doubted her power to do that, although he had agreed to stay until she could see him again. Besides, why was she about to try to make him see it differently? The attempt, thus formally arranged for, had the appearance of an endeavour to persuade him to make her an offer of marriage after all; and, since she had no intention of accepting such an offer, why should she try to provoke it? It would be no satisfaction to refuse him.

      Olivia got up and began to move about her tiny low-ceiled room, her hands clasped together and her chin resting upon them. She somewhat prided herself upon being clearsighted. Why was it that she was loth to let him go? Surely it could not be some unworthy form of coquetry or pique? What was it, then, since she did not love him?

      With that question still unanswered she sought the stuffy little box-bed in the wall which was all that the cottage—and many a dwelling better than a cottage—had to offer. But she could not sleep; and in this confined space the sudden headache of the morning, which had been perfectly genuine and had continued most of the afternoon, came on again. Her own hot forehead, when she put her hand on it, recalled young Invernacree’s when he had pressed that same hand to his brow; and the remembrance brought back the hopeless passion in his voice as he had knelt there in the wood, renouncing her. . . . But why should she think of that again now, and so insistently that she could see once more the top of his dark head bowed over her hand, even the very way in which his hair-ribbon was knotted, and feel a longing to lay her other hand in consolation on that bent head? Good God, had she really been conscious of such a feeling at the time, or was it a mere trick of memory? For what was hopeless passion to her, when she did not share it? She had met it before; and after a while felt glad to be rid of the tribute.

      But this particular tribute she did not want to be rid of: that was the conclusion of the whole matter. It was not a conclusion which made for peaceful or refreshing sleep.

      Its effects, indeed, were apparent next morning, for Mrs. MacUre observed that she doubted Miss Olivia was getting as much benefit from the whey as her Papa would wish, and added, “Did ye not sleep well, my dear?”

      “Not very well,” confessed Olivia. “It was so hot in my little room. But I shall be myself again when I am in the fresh air.”

      “Would ye not do better to stay in the house the morn?” suggested her attendant. “ ’Tis going to be a hot day again. But at any rate ye’ll need to stay until ye have drunk your whey.”

      Olivia assented, knowing that Mr. Stewart would not arrive to wait upon her until after that hour.

      The rite over, she brought out a piece of embroidery and sat down to watch for him. Elspeth and she had the cottage to themselves, Mr. Campbell having hired it in its entirety, which had enabled Mrs. MacUre to bring it to a state of cleanliness not known for many years. The sun climbed a little higher; the goats could be heard bleating as they were driven to pasture; a few people went by; still Ian did not come. A panic seized Olivia; suppose he had not kept to the compact, if compact it could be called, which they had made yesterday? She flung down her embroidery, looked out of the window several times, took up a book and dropped it again after a page or two.

      “Ye’re unco restless, Miss Olivia,” observed Elspeth MacUre, who was in and out of the room enough to observe this fact. “If ye’re ettlin’ to go out, why not go out now? ’Twill be hotter by and by.”

      “I think I will not go just yet,” murmured her charge. To herself she said, “But, upon my soul, if he does not arrive within the next five minutes, I will . . . and he can come and search for me!”

      But in that case he might fail to find her; or, worse, he might not even try, but ride away discouraged.

      “This is too tiresome!” she exclaimed aloud.

      “What’s tiresome, my dear? And who’s keeping you in the house if ye’re set on going out? I’m sure ’tis not your old Elspeth. She’s ready to put on her bonnet the moment ye give the word.”

      Olivia looked at her in mute despair. The five minutes had already fled away and another three been added to them. Save that convention forbade, even here, she would have gone to the cottage where Mr. Stewart was lodging, not exactly to hasten him, but to ease her mind of this ghastly suspicion of a misunderstanding somewhere. But of course even she, who was somewhat of a law unto herself, could not outrage decorum so far as that. Should she send Elspeth? But that would be to reveal . . . too much.

      The middle portion of a man’s figure—more was never visible of any passer-by—came past the minute window. Olivia’s heart leapt up; higher still when there came a knock at the door, which opened directly into the living-room. Elspeth hastened to open it, and there he stood, slim and strong against the sunlight, and doffed his hat. His hair was not as dark as she had thought—not so dark as her own—for the sun struck a gleam of brown from it. . . .

      “I called to enquire for Miss Campbell, whether she is recovered of her indisposition of yesterday?” came his voice.

      “Miss Campbell is quite recovered,” called Olivia gaily from the corner of the room. “Will you not come in, Mr. Stewart?”

      § 2

      In the clear air above Meall na Creige a speck was hovering—a large hawk, perhaps even an eagle. Olivia looked up at it fixedly, because if there are tears in your eyes there is in this attitude a more reasonable hope of their not descending your cheeks.

      It was all in vain: in vain that she stood here alone with Ian Stewart by the great lichened shoulder of rock on the other slope of the glen, surveying