The House That is Our Own. O. Douglas
table-cover, she read of the beautiful wife of Mr. Secretary Murray, who so ardently supported the cause of the young Prince who came over the seas to trust his fortunes to his people. It was a tragic story. Her husband, fleeing from the massacre at Culloden dressed as a drover, managed to get over the hills to Tweeddale, but his own house was full of King George’s soldiers, and he had to make his way to Polmood in Tweedsmuir where his sister lived. He was tired out and hungry, as was his horse, the evening was cold and wet, and he could not resist turning in at the gates of Glenbucho Place, the home of his aunt, Mrs. Dickson.
Unfortunately the master of the house was away, and his aunt, kindly, stupid woman that she was, could not be got to understand that he was in danger if recognised. A drink in the kitchen with the servants? Whoever heard of such a thing?
“Na, na, you’ll have your broth and your saumon, and gigot, and your wine wi’ your aunt and cousins,” and matters were not improved by the good woman chiding her daughter before the waiting servant for calling her cousin by his name.
There were soldiers hanging about the kitchen when the servant went “ben” and reported. “Queer-like drover! Dining and drinking claret wi’ the mistress,” and that pricked their ears and watched. So it happened that the tired fugitive had hardly fallen asleep in his sister’s house thinking, good easy man, that he was safe, when there came a loud knocking on the door, “In the King’s name!” and he was dragged away to Edinburgh, a prisoner.
Isobel could see it all. A weary man on a jaded horse stumbling into the courtyard; would Mrs. Dickson speak a minute to a drover who had a message for her? The shocked exclamations of the lady when she recognised him, her ill-advised hospitality, the misery of that dinner with its good food and its comforts, and the suspicious looks of the serving-man. Then, feverishly anxious to be gone, Murray mounting his horse, the clatter on the cobble-stones, the beat of hooves as he rode into the night.
It was night, indeed, that he rode into, poor Mr. Evidence Murray! How could he ever again lift up his head to the sun, when to save that head he had betrayed his Prince and his Cause? Isobel sat in the lamplight, with the moon coming over Ratchell Hill, and thought about this unhappy story, so far off and yet so oddly near to her. What sort of man was this John Murray of Broughton? Was he so in love with living that to save his life he was willing to send men who had been his friends to the scaffold? Did life mean so much to him that in the scales it weighed down his love, his loyalty, his honour? One could imagine a man in a moment of panic doing some irreparable wrong, but having done it could he go on living with himself? But this man had lived for years, and must have slept o’ nights. Surely the Place had felt that evening that something momentous was happening within its walls. Did it ever hear an echo of the clatter on the cobble-stones, as a decent man rode away to become a traitor? No wonder Gideon Veitch was interested in the old tale: they were his kin, these Dicksons and Murrays.
Isobel blew out the lamp, and went upstairs to bed.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.