CHAPTER XIV
THE BEND IN THE ROAD
"'Brave Derwentwater he is dead; From his fair body they took the head: But Mackintosh and his friends are fled, And they'll set the hat upon another head'"--
chanted the Fair View storekeeper, and looked aside at Mistress TrueloveTaberer, spinning in the doorway of her father's house.
Truelove answered naught, but her hands went to and fro, and her eyes werefor her work, not for MacLean, sitting on the doorstep at her feet.
"'And whether they're gone beyond the sea'"--
The exile broke off and sighed heavily. Before the two a little yard, allgay with hollyhocks and roses, sloped down to the wider of the two creeksbetween which stretched the Fair View plantation. It was late of a holidayafternoon. A storm was brewing, darkening all the water, and erectingabove the sweep of woods monstrous towers of gray cloud. There must havebeen an echo, for MacLean's sigh came back to him faintly, as became anecho.
"Is there not peace here, 'beyond the sea'?" said Truelove softly. "Thinemust be a dreadful country, Angus MacLean!"
The Highlander looked at her with kindling eyes. "Now had I the harp ofold Murdoch!" he said.
"'Dear is that land to the east, Alba of the lakes! Oh, that I might dwell there forever'"--
He turned upon the doorstep, and taking between his fingers the hem ofTruelove's apron fell to plaiting it. "A woman named Deirdre, who livedbefore the days of Gillean-na-Tuaidhe, made that song. She was not born inthat land, but it was dear to her because she dwelt there with the manwhom she loved. They went away, and the man was slain; and where he wasburied, there Deirdre cast herself down and died." His voice changed, andall the melancholy of his race, deep, wild, and tender, looked from hiseyes. "If to-day you found yourself in that loved land, if this parchedgrass were brown heather, if it stretched down to a tarn yonder, if thatgray cloud that hath all the seeming of a crag were crag indeed, andeagles plied between the tarn and it,"--he touched her hand that lay idlenow upon her knee,--"if you came like Deirdre lightly through the heather,and found me lying here, and found more red than should be in the tartanof the MacLeans, what would you do, Truelove? What would you cry out,Truelove? How heavy would be thy heart, Truelove?"
Truelove sat in silence, with her eyes upon the sky above the dream crags."How heavy would grow thy heart, Truelove, Truelove?" whispered theHighlander.
Up the winding water, to the sedges and reeds below the little yard,glided the boy Ephraim in his boat. The Quakeress started, and the colorflamed into her gentle face. She took up the distaff that she had dropped,and fell to work again. "Thee must not speak to me so, Angus MacLean," shesaid. "I trust that my heart is not hard. Thy death would grieve me, andmy father and my mother and Ephraim"--
"I care not for thy father and mother and Ephraim!" MacLean beganimpetuously. "But you do right to chide me. Once I knew a green glen wheremaidens were fain when paused at their doors Angus, son of Hector, son ofLachlan, son of Murdoch, son of Angus that was named for Angus Mor, whowas great-grandson of Hector of the Battles, who was son of LachlanLubanach! But here I am a landless man, with none to do me honor,--awretch bereft of liberty"--
"To me, to all Friends," said Truelove sweetly, halting a little in herwork, "thee has now what thee thyself calls freedom. For God meant notthat one of his creatures should say to another: 'Lo, here am I! Beholdthy God!' To me, and my father and mother and Ephraim, thee is no bondservant of Marmaduke Haward. But thee is bond servant to thy own vainsongs; thy violent words; thy idle pride, that, vaunting the cruel deedsof thy forefathers, calls meekness and submission the last worst evil; thyshameless reverence for those thy fellow creatures, James Stewart and himwhom thee calls the chief of thy house,--forgetting that there is but onehouse, and that God is its head; thy love of clamor and warfare; thyhatred of the ways of peace"--
MacLean laughed. "I hate not all its ways. There is no hatred in my heartfor this house which is its altar, nor for the priestess of the altar. Ah!now you frown, Truelove"--
Across the clouds ran so fierce a line of gold that Truelove, startled,put her hand before her eyes. Another dart of lightning, a low roll ofthunder, a bending apart of the alder bushes on the far side of the creek;then a woman's voice calling to the boy in the boat to come ferry herover.
"Who may that be?" asked Truelove wonderingly.
It was only a little way to the bending alders. Ephraim rowed across theglassy water, dark beneath the approach of the storm; the woman steppedinto the boat, and the tiny craft came lightly back to its haven beneaththe bank.
"It is Darden's Audrey," said the storekeeper.
Truelove shrank a little, and her eyes darkened. "Why should she comehere? I never knew her. It is true that we may not think evil, but--but"--
MacLean moved restlessly. "I have seen the girl but twice," he said. "Onceshe was alone, once--It is my friend of whom I think. I know what theysay, but, by St. Kattan! I hold him a gentleman too high of mind, toonoble--There was a tale I used to hear when I was a boy. A long, long timeago a girl lived in the shadow of the tower of Duart, and the chief lookeddown from his walls and saw her. Afterwards they walked together by theshore and through the glens, and he cried her health when he drank in hishall, sitting amongst his tacksmen. Then what the men whispered the womenspoke aloud; and so, more quickly than the tarie is borne, word went to aman of the MacDonalds who loved the Duart maiden. Not like a lover to histryst did he come. In the handle of his dirk the rich stones sparkled asthey rose and fell with the rise and fall of the maiden's white bosom. Sheprayed to die in his arms; for it was not Duart that she loved, but him.She died, and they snooded her hair and buried her. Duart went overseas;the man of the MacDonalds killed himself. It was all wrought with threadsof gossamer,--idle fancy, shrugs, smiles, whispers, slurring speech,--andit was long ago. But there is yet gossamer to be had for the gathering; itgleams on every hand these summer mornings."
By now Darden's Audrey had left the boat and was close upon them. MacLeanarose, and Truelove hastily pushed aside her wheel. "Is thee seekingshelter from the storm?" she asked tremulously, and with her cheeks aspink as a seashell. "Will thee sit here with us? The storm will not breakyet awhile."
Audrey heeded her not, her eyes being for MacLean. She had beenrunning,--running more swiftly than for a thousand May Day guineas. Evennow, though her breath came short, every line of her slender figure wastense, and she was ready to be off like an arrow. "You are Mr. Haward'sfriend?" she cried. "I have heard him say that you were so--call you abrave gentleman"--
MacLean's dark face flushed. "Yes, we are friends,--I thank God for it.What have you to do with that, my lass?"
"I also am his friend," said Audrey, coming nearer. Her hands wereclasped, her bosom heaving. "Listen! To-day I was sent on an errand to ahouse far up this creek. Coming back, I took the short way home throughthe woods because of the storm. It led me past the schoolhouse down by thebig swamp. I thought that no one was there, and I went and sat down uponthe steps to rest a moment. The door behind me was partly open. Then Iheard two voices: the schoolmaster and Jean Hugon were inside--close tome--talking. I would have run away, but I heard Mr. Haward's name." Herhand went to her heart, and she drew a sobbing breath.
"Well!" cried MacLean sharply.
"Mr. Haward went yesterday to Williamsburgh--alone--without Juba. He ridesback--alone--to Fair View late this afternoon--he is riding now. You knowthe sharp bend in the road, with the steep bank above and the pond below?"
"Ay, where the road nears the river. Well?"
"I heard all that Hugon and the schoolmaster said. I hid behind a fallentree and watched them leave the schoolhouse; then I followed them, makingno noise, back to the creek, where Hugon had a boat. They crossed thecreek, and fastened the boat on this side. I could follow them no farther;the woods hid them; but they have gone downstream to that bend in theroad. Hugon had his hunting-knife and pistols; the schoolmaster carried acoil of rope." She flu
ng back her head, and her hands went to her throatas though she were stifling. "The turn in the road is very sharp. Justpast the bend they will stretch the rope from side to side, fastening itto two trees. He will be hurrying home before the bursting of thestorm--he will be riding the planter's pace"--
"Man and horse will come crashing down!" cried the storekeeper, with agreat oath "And then"--
"Hugon's knife, so there will be no noise.... They think he has gold uponhim: that is for the schoolmaster.... Hugon is an Indian, and he will hidetheir trail. Men will think that some outlying slave was in the woods, andset upon and killed him."
Her voice broke; then went on, gathering strength: "It was so late, and Iknew that he would ride fast because of the storm. I remembered thishouse, and thought that, if I called, some one might come and ferry meover the creek. Now I will run through the woods to the road, for I mustreach it before he passes on his way to where they wait." She turned herface toward the pine wood beyond the house.
"Ay, that is best!" agreed the storekeeper. "Warned, he can take the longway home, and Hugon and this other may be dealt with at his leisure. Come,my girl; there's no time to lose."
They left behind them the creek, the blooming dooryard, the small whitehouse, and the gentle Quakeress. The woods received them, and they cameinto a world of livid greens and grays dashed here and there withebony,--a world that, expectant of the storm, had caught and was holdingits breath. Save for the noise of their feet upon dry leaves that rustledlike paper, the wood was soundless. The light that lay within it, fallenfrom skies of iron, was wild and sinister; there was no air, and the heatwrapped them like a mantle. So motionless were all things, so fixed inquietude each branch and bough, each leaf or twig or slender needle of thepine, that they seemed to be fleeing through a wood of stone, jade andmalachite, emerald and agate.
They hurried on, not wasting breath in speech. Now and again MacLeanglanced aside at the girl, who kept beside him, moving as lightly aspresently would move the leaves when the wind arose. He remembered certainscurrilous words spoken in the store a week agone by a knot of purchasers,but when he looked at her face he thought of the Highland maiden whosestory he had told. As for Audrey, she saw not the woods that she loved,heard not the leaves beneath her feet, knew not if the light were gold orgray. She saw only a horse and rider riding from Williamsburgh, heard onlythe rapid hoofbeats. All there was of her was one dumb prayer for therider's safety. Her memory told her that it was no great distance to theroad, but her heart cried out that it was so far away,--so far away! Whenthe wood thinned, and they saw before them the dusty strip, pallid andlonely beneath the storm clouds, her heart leaped within her; then grewsick for fear that he had gone by. When they stood, ankle-deep in thedust, she looked first toward the north, and then to the south. Nothingmoved; all was barren, hushed, and lonely.
"How can we know? How can we know?" she cried, and wrung her hands.
MacLean's keen eyes were busily searching for any sign that a horseman hadlately passed that way. At a little distance above them a shallow streamof some width flowed across the way, and to this the Highlander hastened,looked with attention at the road-bed where it emerged from the water,then came back to Audrey with a satisfied air. "There are no hoof-prints,"he said. "No marks upon the dust. None can have passed for some hours."
A rotted log, streaked with velvet moss and blotched with fan-shaped,orange-colored fungi, lay by the wayside, and the two sat down upon it towait for the coming horseman. Overhead the thunder was rolling, but therewas as yet no breath of wind, no splash of raindrops. Opposite them rose agigantic pine, towering above the forest, red-brown trunk and ultimatecone of deep green foliage alike outlined against the dead gloom of thesky. Audrey shook back her heavy hair and raised her face to the roof ofthe world; her hands were clasped upon her knee; her bare feet, slim andbrown, rested on a carpet of moss; she was as still as the forest, ofwhich, to the Highlander, she suddenly seemed a part. When they had keptsilence for what seemed a long time, he spoke to her with some hesitation:"You have known Mr. Haward but a short while; the months are very fewsince he came from England."
The name brought Audrey down to earth again. "Did you not know?" she askedwonderingly. "You also are his friend,--you see him often. I thought thatat times he would have spoken of me." For a moment her face was troubled,though only for a moment. "But I know why he did not so," she said softlyto herself. "He is not one to speak of his good deeds." She turned towardMacLean, who was attentively watching her, "But I may speak of them," shesaid, with pride. "I have known Mr. Haward for years and years. He savedmy life; he brought me here from the Indian country; he was, he is, sokind to me!"
Since the afternoon beneath the willow-tree, Haward, while encouraging herto speak of her long past, her sylvan childhood, her dream memories, hadsomewhat sternly checked every expression of gratitude for the part whichhe himself had played or was playing, in the drama of her life. Walking inthe minister's orchard, sitting in the garden or upon the terrace of FairView house, drifting on the sunset river, he waved that aside, and went onto teach her another lesson. The teaching was exquisite; but when thelesson for the day was over, and he was alone, he sat with one whom hedespised. The learning was exquisite; it was the sweetest song, but sheknew not its name, and the words were in a strange tongue. She wasAudrey, that she knew; and he,--he was the plumed knight, who, for thelack of a better listener, told her gracious tales of love, showed her howwarm and beautiful was this world that she sometimes thought so sad, sangto her sweet lines that poets had made. Over and through all she thoughtshe read the name of the princess. She had heard him say that with thebreaking of the heat he should go to Westover, and one day, early insummer, he had shown her the miniature of Evelyn Byrd. Because she lovedhim blindly, and because he was wise in his generation, her trust in himwas steadfast as her native hills, large as her faith in God. Now it wassweet beneath her tongue to be able to tell one that was his friend howworthy of all friendship--nay, all reverence--he was. She spoke simply,but with that strange power of expression which nature had given her.Gestures with her hands, quick changes in the tone of her voice, acountenance that gave ample utterance to the moment's thought,--as onemorning in the Fair View library she had brought into being that long deadEloisa whose lines she spoke, so now her auditor of to-day thought that hesaw the things of which she told.
She had risen, and was standing in the wild light, against the backgroundof the forest that was breathless, as if it too listened, "And so hebrought me safely to this land," she said. "And so he left me here for tenyears, safe and happy, he thought. He has told me that all that while hethought of me as safe and happy. That I was not so,--why, that was not hisfault! When he came back I was both. I have never seen the sunshine sobright or the woods so fair as they have been this summer. The peoplewith whom I live are always kind to me now,--that is his doing. And ah! itis because he would not let Hugon scare or harm me that that wicked Indianwaits for him now beyond the bend in the road." At the thought of Hugonshe shuddered, and her eyes began to widen. "Have we not been here a longtime?" she cried. "Are you sure? Oh, God! perhaps he has passed!"
"No, no," answered MacLean, with his hand upon her arm. "There is no signthat he has done so. It is not late; it is that heavy cloud above ourheads that has so darkened the air. Perhaps he has not left Williamsburghat all: perhaps, the storm threatening, he waits until to-morrow."
From the cloud above came a blinding light and a great crash ofthunder,--the one so intense, the other so tremendous, that for a minutethe two stood as if stunned. Then, "The tree!" cried Audrey. The greatpine, blasted and afire, uprooted itself and fell from them like a reedthat the wind has snapped. The thunder crash, and the din with which thetree met its fellows of the forest, bore them down, and finally struck theearth from which it came, seemed an alarum to waken all nature from itssleep. The thunder became incessant, and the wind suddenly arising theforest stretched itself and began to speak with no uncertain voice.MacLean took hi
s seat again upon the log, but Audrey slipped into theroad, and stood in the whirling dust, her arm raised above her eyes,looking for the horseman whose approach she could not hope to hear throughthe clamor of the storm. The wind lifted her long hair, and the risingdust half obscured her form, bent against the blast. On the lonesomeroad, in the partial light, she had the seeming of an apparition, acreature tossed like a ball from the surging forest. She had made herselfa world, and she had become its product. In all her ways, to the day ofher death, there was about her a touch of mirage, illusion, fantasy. TheHighlander, imaginative like all his race, and a believer in things not ofheaven nor of earth, thought of spirits of the glen and the shore.
There was no rain as yet; only the hurly-burly of the forest, the whitedust cloud, and the wild commotion overhead. Audrey turned to MacLean,watching her in silence. "He is coming!" she cried. "There is some onewith him. Now, now he is safe!"
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