Love stories; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
When you are, in small authority, set over the people of a locality,
you are apt to develop a small official mind which obscures the power
of seeing, understanding, divining. Such an attitude, as I had
painfully seen in various parts of the Highlands, fretted the great
sore of defeat that lay upon the Jacobites, whereas the effort should
have been to heal it. My own mind I had tried to keep fresh and free
in all my relationships at Corgarff, impelled, may be, by a nature
which liked, possibly out of vanity, to give sympathy. From this and a
mute speaking with one near and dear, I now had my personal reward, for
I understood. Marget was the trophy sought in this dark raid, and she
was to be the Black Colonel's trophy.
"Action, front!" I said to myself, in one of the drill-book commands.
Offence is always a soldier's best defence, although it is a sailor's
phrase, so I would go out and make a reconnaissance from the back of
the Dower House. This should cause the invaders to show themselves,
and might, if they thought the move stood for any force, even alarm
them into a quiet retreat, which, for several reasons, was what I most
desired.
Quickly I told Marget of my intention, and the need for it, and asked
her to remain on guard where she was. She answered briskly, a woman
determined to be brave and not a burden, that nobody should enter the
place without feeling the weight of her grandfather's stick. She
added, and here came in the other woman, that I was not to be long
absent. This touched me sweetly, for it showed that Marget was
thinking less of her own safety, or, at the moment, even of her
mother's, than of mine in the night outside. Honestly, I went dancing
from her side with a wine of joy in me that I had never tasted, for she
had shown that I was something to her, perhaps more than something. I
might have been drunk, and if I had I could not have been more lost
than I was in the darkness behind the Dover House, because it instantly
swallowed me up.
There is a darkness to which, after a little, the eye so accustoms
itself that it can see trees and rocks and even faces in contour.
There is another darkness which seals the eyes and numbs the mind and
even weights the feet as with lead. This was that night's darkness, so
pall-like that I was simply lost in it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account