The Judas Tree Read Online Free PDF Page A

gently.
    â€˜Lucky Darkie and me weren’t away. There’s few enough folks around Craigdoran this early in the year.’
    â€˜Or at any other time?’ He half smiled.
    â€˜No,’ she corrected him seriously. ‘ When the fishing and shooting are on we have a wheen of fine customers. That’s why my father keeps this place on. Our bakery is in Ardfillan. If you like we could give you a lift there. He always fetches me at the weekend.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘ Of course, there’s your bike. Is it badly smashed?’
    â€˜Not too badly. But I’ll have to leave it here. If they’d put it on the Winton train it would be a big help. You see, it’s not mine. It belongs to a fellow at the hospital.’
    â€˜I don’t see why Dougal couldn’t slip it in the guard’s van as a favour. I’ll speak to him first thing Monday. But if your friend’s in the hospital he’ll not be needing it for a while.’
    Amused at her conclusion he explained:
    â€˜He’s not a patient. A final year medical student, like me.’
    â€˜So that’s it.’ She laughed outright. ‘If I’d known I wouldn’t have been so gleg at the bandaging.’
    Her laughter was infectious, natural, altogether delightful. There was something warm about it, and about her, due not only to her colouring – she had reddish brown hair with gold lights in it and soft brown eyes, dark as peat, set in a fair, slightly freckled skin – but to something sympathetic and outgiving in her nature. She was perhaps four years younger than himself, not more than nineteen, he guessed, and while she was not tall, her sturdy little figure was trim and well proportioned. She wore a tartan skirt, belted with patent leather at the waist, a home-knitted grey spencer, smart well-worn brown brogues, and a little grey hat with a curlew’s feather in the brim.
    A sudden awareness of her kindness swept over Moray, for him a rare emotion. Yes, she had been decent – that was the word – damned decent to him. And, forgetting the nagging discomfort of his knee and the greater calamity of the damage to his only suit, he smiled at her, this time his own frank, winning smile, that smile which had so often served him through hard and difficult years. Although he had a good brow, regular features, and a fresh skin, with fine light brown naturally wavy hair, he was not particularly good-looking in the accepted sense of the word; the lower part of his face lacked strength. Yet the smile redeemed all his defects, lit up his face, invited comradeship, was filled with promise, expressed interest, understanding and concern at will, and above all radiated sincerity.
    â€˜I suppose you realise,’ he explained, ‘how grateful I am for your extreme kindness. As you’ve practically saved my life, may I hope that we’ll be friends? My name is Moray – David Moray.’
    â€˜And I’m Mary Douglas.’
    A touch of colour had come into her cheeks but she was not displeased by this frank introduction. She took the hand he held out to her in a firm clasp.
    â€˜Well now,’ she said briskly, ‘if you like to wheel your bike in here I’ll take Darkie and lock up. Father’ll be here any minute.’
    Indeed, they had barely reached the road outside when a pony and trap appeared over the brow of the hill. Mary’s father, to whom Moray was introduced, with the full circumstances of his mishap, was a slight little man with a pale, perky face, hands and nails permanently ingrained with flour, and the bad teeth of his trade. A wisp of hair standing up from his forehead and small, very bright brown eyes gave him an odd, bird-like air.
    After turning the pony with practised clickings of his tongue, and studying Moray with shrewd, sidelong glances, he summed up Mary’s recital.
    â€˜I’ve no use for these machines myself, as ye may observe. I