CHAPTER XXII
BY THE RIVERSIDE
"Yea, I am glad--I and my father and mother and Ephraim--that thee isreturned to Fair View," answered Truelove. "And has thee truly no shoes ofplain and sober stuffs? These be much too gaudy."
"There's a pair of black callimanco," said the storekeeper reluctantly;"but these of flowered silk would so become your feet, or this red-heeledpair with the buckles, or this of fine morocco. Did you think of me everyday that I spent in Williamsburgh?"
"I prayed for thee every day," said Truelove simply,--"for thee and forthe sick man who had called thee to his side. Let me see thy callimancoshoes. Thee knows that I may not wear these others."
The storekeeper brought the plainest footgear that his stock afforded."They are of a very small size,--perhaps too small. Had you not better trythem ere you buy? I could get a larger pair from Mr. Carter's store."
Truelove seated herself upon a convenient stool, and lifted her gray skirtan inch above a slender ankle. "Perchance they may not be too small," shesaid, and in despite of her training and the whiteness of her soul twodimples made their appearance above the corners of her pretty mouth.MacLean knelt to remove the worn shoe, but found in the shoestrings anobstinate knot. The two had the store to themselves; for Ephraim waitedfor his sister at the landing, rocking in his boat on the bosom of theriver, watching a flight of wild geese drawn like a snowy streamer acrossthe dark blue sky. It was late autumn, and the forest was dressed in flamecolor.
"Thy fingers move so slowly that I fear thee is not well," said Truelovekindly. "They that have nursed men with fever do often fall illthemselves. Will thee not see a physician?"
MacLean, sanguine enough in hue, and no more gaunt of body than usual,worked languidly on. "I trust no lowland physician," he said. "In my owncountry, if I had need, I would send to the foot of Dun-da-gu for blackMurdoch, whose fathers have been physicians to the MacLeans of Duart sincethe days of Galethus. The little man in this parish,--his father was alawyer, his grandfather a merchant; he knows not what was hisgreat-grandfather! There, the shoe is untied! If I came every day to yourfather's house, and if your mother gave me to drink of her elder-flowerwine, and if I might sit on the sunny doorstep and watch you at yourspinning, I should, I think, recover."
He slipped upon her foot the shoe of black cloth. Truelove regarded itgravely. "'Tis not too small, after all," she said. "And does thee notthink it more comely than these other, with their silly pomp of coloredheels and blossoms woven in the silk?" She indicated with her glance thevainglorious row upon the bench beside her; then looked down at the littlefoot in its sombre covering and sighed.
"I think that thy foot would be fair in the shoe of Donald Ross!" criedthe storekeeper, and kissed the member which he praised.
Truelove drew back, her cheeks very pink, and the dimples quite uncertainwhether to go or stay. "Thee is idle in thy behavior," she said severely."I do think that thee is of the generation that will not learn. I praythee to expeditiously put back my own shoe, and to give me in a parcel thecallimanco pair."
MacLean set himself to obey, though with the expedition of a tortoise.Crisp autumn air and vivid sunshine pouring in at window and door filledand lit the store. The doorway framed a picture of blue sky, slow-movingwater, and ragged landing; the window gave upon crimson sumac and the goldof a sycamore. Truelove, in her gray gown and close white cap, sat in themidst of the bouquet of colors afforded by the motley lining of the FairView store, and gazed through the window at the riotous glory of thisworld. At last she looked at MacLean. "When, a year ago, thee was put tomind this store, and I, coming here to buy, made thy acquaintance," shesaid softly, "thee wore always so stern and sorrowful a look that my heartbled for thee. I knew that thee was unhappy. Is thee unhappy still?"
MacLean tied the shoestrings with elaborate care; then rose from hisknees, and stood looking down from his great height upon the Quakermaiden. His face was softened, and when he spoke it was with a gentlevoice. "No," he said, "I am not unhappy as at first I was. My king is anexile, and my chief is forfeited. I suppose that my father is dead. EwinMackinnon, my foe upon whom I swore revenge, lived untroubled by me, anddied at another's hands. My country is closed against me; I shall neversee it more. I am named a rebel, and chained to this soil, this dull andsluggish land, where from year's end to year's end the key keeps thehouse and the furze bush keeps the cow. The best years of mymanhood--years in which I should have acquired honor--have gone from mehere. There was a man of my name amongst those gentlemen, old officers ofDundee, who in France did not disdain to serve as private sentinels, thattheir maintenance might not burden a king as unfortunate as themselves.That MacLean fell in the taking of an island in the Rhine which to thisday is called the Island of the Scots, so bravely did these gentlemen bearthemselves. They made their lowly station honorable; marshals and princesapplauded their deeds. The man of my name was unfortunate, but notdegraded; his life was not amiss, and his death was glorious. But I, AngusMacLean, son and brother of chieftains, I serve as a slave; givingobedience where in nature it is not due, laboring in an alien land forthat which profiteth not, looking to die peacefully in my bed! I should beno less than most unhappy."
He sat down upon the bench beside Truelove, and taking the hem of herapron began to plait it between his fingers. "But to-day," he said,--"butto-day the sky seems blue, the sunshine bright. Why is that, Truelove?"
Truelove, with her eyes cast down and a deeper wild rose in her cheeks,opined that it was because Friend Marmaduke Haward was well of his fever,and had that day returned to Fair View. "Friend Lewis Contesse did tell myfather, when he was in Williamsburgh, that thee made a tenderer nurse thanany woman, and that he did think that Marmaduke Haward owed his life tothee. I am glad that thee has made friends with him whom men foolishlycall thy master."
"Credit to that the blue sky," said the storekeeper whimsically; "there isyet the sunshine to be accounted for. This room did not look so brighthalf an hour syne."
But Truelove shook her head, and would not reckon further; instead heardEphraim calling, and gently drew her apron from the Highlander's clasp."There will be a meeting of Friends at our house next fourth day," shesaid, in her most dovelike tones, as she rose and held out her hand forher new shoes. "Will thee come, Angus? Thee will be edified, for FriendSarah Story, who hath the gift of prophecy, will be there, and we do thinkto hear of great things. Thee will come?"
"By St. Kattan, that will I!" exclaimed the storekeeper, with suspiciousreadiness. "The meeting lasts not long, does it? When the Friends are gonethere will be reward? I mean I may sit on the doorstep and watch you--andwatch _thee_--spin?"
Truelove dimpled once more, took her shoes, and would have gone her waysedately and alone, but MacLean must needs keep her company to the end ofthe landing and the waiting Ephraim. The latter, as he rowed away from theFair View store, remarked upon his sister's looks: "What makes thy cheeksso pink, Truelove, and thy eyes so big and soft?"
Truelove did not know; thought that mayhap 'twas the sunshine and theblowing wind.
The sun still shone, but the wind had fallen, when, two hours later,MacLean pocketed the key of the store, betook himself again to the water'sedge, and entering a small boat, first turned it sunwise for luck's sake,then rowed slowly downstream to the great-house landing. Here he found ahandful of negroes--boatmen and house servants--basking in the sunlight.Juba was of the number, and at MacLean's call scrambled to his feet andcame to the head of the steps. "No, sah, Marse Duke not on de place. Heorder Mirza an' ride off"--a pause--"an' ride off to de glebe house. Yes,sah, I done tol' him he ought to rest. Goin' to wait tel he come back?"
"No," answered MacLean, with a darkened face. "Tell him I will come to thegreat house to-night."
In effect, the storekeeper was now, upon Fair View plantation, master ofhis own time and person. Therefore, when he left the landing, he did notrow back to the store, but, it being pleasant upon the water, kept ondownstream, gliding beneath the drooping bra
nches of red and russet andgold. When he came to the mouth of the little creek that ran past Haward'sgarden, he rested upon his oars, and with a frowning face looked up itssilver reaches.
The sun was near its setting, and a still and tranquil light lay upon theriver that was glassy smooth. Rowing close to the bank, the Highlander sawthrough the gold fretwork of the leaves above him far spaces of pale bluesky. All was quiet, windless, listlessly fair. A few birds were on thewing, and far toward the opposite shore an idle sail seemed scarce to holdits way. Presently the trees gave place to a grassy shore, rimmed by afiery vine that strove to cool its leaves in the flood below. Behind itwas a little rise of earth, a green hillock, fresh and vernal in the midstof the flame-colored autumn. In shape it was like those hills in hisnative land which the Highlander knew to be tenanted by the _daoine shi'_the men of peace. There, in glittering chambers beneath the earth, theydwelt, a potent, eerie, gossamer folk, and thence, men and women, theyissued at times to deal balefully with the mortal race.
A woman was seated upon the hillock, quiet as a shadow, her head restingon her hand, her eyes upon the river. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, slight offigure, and utterly, mournfully still, sitting alone in the fading light,with the northern sky behind her, for the moment she wore to theHighlander an aspect not of earth, and he was startled. Then he saw thatit was but Darden's Audrey. She watched the water where it gleamed faroff, and did not see him in his boat below the scarlet vines. Nor when,after a moment's hesitation, he fastened the boat to a cedar stump, andstepped ashore, did she pay any heed. It was not until he spoke to her,standing where he could have touched her with his outstretched hand, thatshe moved or looked his way.
"How long since you left the glebe house?" he demanded abruptly.
"The sun was high," she answered, in a slow, even voice, with no sign ofsurprise at finding herself no longer alone. "I have been sitting here fora long time. I thought that Hugon might be coming this afternoon.... Thereis no use in hiding, but I thought if I stole down here he might not findme very soon."
Her voice died away, and she looked again at the water. The storekeepersat down upon the bank, between the hillock and the fiery vine, and hiskeen eyes watched her closely. "The river," she said at last,--I like towatch it. There was a time when I loved the woods, but now I see that theyare ugly. Now, when I can steal away, I come to the river always. I watchit and watch it, and think.... All that you give it is taken so surely,and hurried away, and buried out of sight forever. A little while ago Ipulled a spray of farewell summer, and went down there where the bankshelves and gave it to the river. It was gone in a moment for all that thestream seems so stealthy and slow."
"The stream comes from afar," said the Highlander. "In the west, beneaththe sun, it may be a torrent flashing through the mountains."
"The mountains!" cried Audrey. "Ah, they are uglier than the woods,--blackand terrible! Once I loved them, too, but that was long ago." She put herchin upon her hand, and again studied the river. "Long ago," she said,beneath her breath.
There was a silence; then, "Mr. Haward is at Fair View again," announcedthe storekeeper.
The girl's face twitched.
"He has been nigh to death," went on her informant. "There were days whenI looked for no morrow for him; one night when I held above his lips amirror, and hardly thought to see the breath-stain."
Audrey laughed. "He can fool even Death, can he not?" The laugh was lightand mocking, a tinkling, elvish sound which the Highlander frowned tohear. A book, worn and dog-eared, lay near her on the grass. He took it upand turned the leaves; then put it by, and glanced uneasily at theslender, brown-clad form seated upon the fairy mound.
"That is strange reading," he said.
Audrey looked at the book listlessly. "The schoolmaster gave it to me. Ittells of things as they are, all stripped of make-believe, and shows howmen love only themselves, and how ugly and mean is the world when we lookat it aright. The schoolmaster says that to look at it aright you mustnot dream; you must stay awake,"--she drew her hand across her brow andeyes,--"you must stay awake."
"I had rather dream," said MacLean shortly. "I have no love for yourschoolmaster."
"He is a wise man," she answered. "Now that I do not like the woods Ilisten to him when he comes to the glebe house. If I remember all he says,maybe I shall grow wise, also, and the pain will stop." Once more shedropped her chin upon her hand and fell to brooding, her eyes upon theriver. When she spoke again it was to herself: "Sometimes of nights I hearit calling me. Last night, while I knelt by my window, it called so loudthat I put my hands over my ears; but I could not keep out the sound,--thesound of the river that comes from the mountains, that goes to the sea.And then I saw that there was a light in Fair View house."
Her voice ceased, and the silence closed in around them. The sun wassetting, and in the west were purple islands merging into a sea of gold.The river, too, was colored, and every tree was like a torch burningstilly in the quiet of the evening. For some time MacLean watched thegirl, who now again seemed unconscious of his presence; but at last he gotto his feet, and looked toward his boat. "I must be going," he said; then,as Audrey raised her head and the light struck upon her face, he continuedmore kindly than one would think so stern a seeming man could speak: "I amsorry for you, my maid. God knows that I should know how dreadful are thewounds of the spirit! Should you need a friend"--
Audrey shook her head. "No more friends," she said, and laughed as she hadlaughed before. "They belong in dreams. When you are awake,--that is adifferent thing."
The storekeeper went his way, back to the Fair View store, rowing slowly,with a grim and troubled face, while Darden's Audrey sat still upon thegreen hillock and watched the darkening river. Behind her, at no greatdistance, was the glebe house; more than once she thought she heard Hugoncoming through the bushes and calling her by name. The river darkened moreand more, and in the west the sea of gold changed to plains of amethystand opal. There was a crescent moon, and Audrey, looking at it with eyesthat ached for the tears that would not gather, knew that once she wouldhave found it fair.
Hugon was coming, for she heard the twigs upon the path from the glebehouse snap beneath his tread. She did not turn or move; she would see himsoon enough, hear him soon enough. Presently his black eyes would lookinto hers; it would be bird and snake over again, and the bird was tiredof fluttering. The bird was so tired that when a hand was laid on hershoulder she did not writhe herself from under its touch; instead onlyshuddered slightly, and stared with wide eyes at the flowing river. Butthe hand was white, with a gleaming ring upon its forefinger, and it stoledown to clasp her own. "Audrey," said a voice that was not Hugon's.
The girl flung back her head, saw Haward's face bending over her, and witha loud cry sprang to her feet. When he would have touched her again sherecoiled, putting between them a space of green grass. "I have hunted youfor an hour," he began. "At last I struck this path. Audrey"--
Audrey's hands went to her ears. Step by step she moved backward, untilshe stood against the trunk of a blood-red oak. When she saw that Hawardfollowed her she uttered a terrified scream. At the sound and at the sightof her face he stopped short, and his outstretched hand fell to his side."Why, Audrey, Audrey!" he exclaimed. "I would not hurt you, child. I amnot Jean Hugon!"
The narrow path down which he had come was visible for some distance as itwound through field and copse, and upon it there now appeared anotherfigure, as yet far off, but moving rapidly through the fading light towardthe river. "Jean! Jean! Jean Hugon!" cried Audrey.
The blood rushed to Haward's face. "As bad as that!" he said, beneath hisbreath. Going over to the girl, he took her by the hands and strove tomake her look at him; but her face was like marble, and her eyes would notmeet his, and in a moment she had wrenched herself free of his clasp."Jean Hugon! Help, Jean Hugon!" she called.
The half-breed in the distance heard her voice, and began to run towardthem.
"Audrey, listen to me!" cried Haward. "How ca
n I speak to you, howexplain, how entreat, when you are like this? Child, child, I am nomonster! Why do you shrink from me thus, look at me thus with frightenedeyes? You know that I love you!"
She broke from him with lifted hands and a wailing cry. "Let me go! Let mego! I am running through the corn, in the darkness, and I hope to meet theIndians! I am awake,--oh, God! I am wide awake!"
With another cry, and with her hands shutting out the sound of his voice,she turned and fled toward the approaching trader. Haward, after one deepoath and an impetuous, quickly checked movement to follow the flyingfigure, stood beneath the oak and watched that meeting: Hugon, in hiswine-colored coat and Blenheim wig, fierce, inquisitive, bragging of whathe might do; the girl suddenly listless, silent, set only upon animmediate return through the fields to the glebe house.
She carried her point, and the two went away without let or hindrance fromthe master of Fair View, who leaned against the stem of the oak andwatched them go. He had been very ill, and the hour's search, togetherwith this unwonted beating of his heart, had made him desperatelyweary,--too weary to do aught but go slowly and without overmuch ofthought to the spot where he had left his horse, mount it, and ride asslowly homeward. To-morrow, he told himself, he would manage differently;at least, she should be made to hear him. In the mean time there was thenight to be gotten through. MacLean, he remembered, was coming to thegreat house. What with wine and cards, thought might for a time be pushedout of doors.
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