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"But perhaps he may not come back till morning, in which case I shall have to watch here all night, and those impatient geese in the camp will be sure to disturb us on the plea that they feared I had been killed bah! and perhaps he won't come at all!" This last idea was not muttered; it was only thought, but the thought banished the smile of satisfaction from Ian's face.
She looked up gratefully in Ian's face, already beginning to feel for him a reverence which made it easier to forego the right to put her arms round him. And therewith awoke in her the first movement of divine relationship rose the first heave of the child-heart toward the source of its being. It appeared in the form of resistance.
It was the history of the feud between Ian Red Hand and Dark Malcolm of the Glen. Dark Malcolm's child was called Wee Brown Elspeth hundreds of years ago five hundred, I think. It makes me feel so bewildered when I remember the one I played with." "It was a bloody story," he said. "I heard it only a few days before we met at Sir Ian's house in London." That made me recall something.
Ian's voice spoke. "Alexander?" "Yes, it is I." "The night is so still. I heard you coming a long way off. I have lighted a fire in the cave." They entered it the old boyhood haunt. All the air was moted for them with memories. Ian had made the fire and had laid fagots for mending. The flame played and murmured and reddened the walls.
Glenfernie went there, passing by a terrace walk around the house. Going under the windows of the room that was yet Ian's when he came home. Ian still in his mind, he recovered strongly the look of that room the day Ian had taken him there, in boyhood, when they first met.
And, Ian, I looked up at that portrait, and suddenly I was reminded of that fearful night when I came back and saw something. I am descended from that woman, and you know how wicked she was." Again the strange irritation stirred in the midst of Ian's pity. "Wicked, darling! That's an absurd word to use." "She left her husband.
"Please don't look at me like that," Mildred said, tremulously, after a pause. And the tears rushed to her eyes. Ian's face softened, as leaning against the tall white mantel-piece he looked down and met the tear-bright gaze of his beloved. "Poor sweetheart!" he exclaimed. "You're just a child for all your cleverness, and you don't half understand what you're talking about.
She was almost pathetically anxious not to produce the impression that this frantic journey had been undertaken on Ian's account. If she failed, she would put George Vanneck out of his long misery by marrying him. She would even say that they had been secretly engaged for some time. Anything rather than Somerled should suspect the truth. But she was going to try hard not to fail.
She awoke to see that manners are of the soul; that such as she had hitherto heard admired were not to be compared with the simple, almost peasant-like dignity and courtesy of the chief; that the natural grace, accustomed ease, and cultivated refinement of Ian's carriage, came out in attention and service to the lowly even more than in converse with his equals; while his words, his gestures, his looks, every expression born of contact, witnessed a directness and delicacy of recognition she could never have imagined.
On the contrary, he found himself without intention declaring: "Well, then, I never found anything the least zig-zaggery about what he said or did. His words and ways were all straight. That is the truth." Yet Ian's happy mood was instantly dashed by Ragnor's manner. He did not take his offered hand and he said in a formal tone: "Ian, we will go to my office before we go to the house.
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