Lawrence Clavering

by A. E. W. Mason

  CHAPTER XIV.

  I DROP THE CLOAK.

  The lesson, however, was lost on me, or rather, to speak by the book,had the very reverse effect to that it aimed at For my solemnity wasincreased thereby. I reflected that Dorothy would never have playedthis trick upon an enemy, or even upon an unconsidered acquaintance,but only upon one whom she thought of as a friend. And there was thetrouble. I held her in that reverence that it irked me intolerably tomasquerade to her, though the masquerading was to my present advantagein her esteem. I had, of course, no thought that ever I could win her,since I saw myself hourly either doomed to the gallows, or, if Ifailed of that, to a more disgraceful existence. But I was fain thatshe should know me through and through for no better than I was; andso I wore her friendship as a stolen cloak.

  Now, a thief, if the cloak galls him, may restore it. That I could notdo without telling her the whole story; and the story I could nottell, since it was not I alone whose honour was concerned in it, but awoman with me. Or the thief may drop the cloak by the roadside withouta word, and get him into the night. Over that alternative I pondered along, dreary while.

  But while I was yet tossed amidst these perplexities, news came tohand which quite turned the current of my thoughts. It was the 18thday of September, and Mr. Curwen, I remember, had left Applegarthearly that morning on horseback, and, though it was now pastnightfall, had not yet returned; the which was causing both hisdaughter and myself no small uneasiness at the very time when Tashrapped upon the door. He brought me a letter. I mind me that I stoodin the hall staring in front of me, holding the open letter in myhand. It seemed that I saw the lock fall from a door, and the dooropening on an unimagined dawn.

  "What is it?" cried Dorothy, and for a second she laid a gentle handupon my arm.

  "It is," I exclaimed, drawing in a breath, "it is that the Earl ofMar--the duke, God bless him! for now one may give him his propertitle--has raised King James's standard at Kirkmichael in Braemar."

  Dorothy gave a cry of delight, and I joined in with it. For if theduke did but descend into England, if England did but rise to welcomehim--why, there would be the briefest imprisonment for those lyingunder charge, whether true or false, of conspiring for King James.

  Through the open doorway sounded the tramp of a horse.

  "My father!" said Dorothy.

  I crammed the letter into my pocket without a glance at itsconclusion, and ran down the pathway to the gate. As I opened the gateMr. Curwen rode up to it.

  "I am glad to have this chance of speaking to you alone," said he, ashe dismounted. "I have been to-day to Whitehaven. My ship, the_Swallow_, is fitting out I have given orders that the work should behurried, and the crew shipped with the least delay. The Swallow willsail the first moment possible, and lie off Ravenglass until you come.It is an arduous journey from here to Ravenglass, but safe."

  A farm-servant came up and led away the horse.

  "The _Swallow_ should be at Ravenglass in six weeks from to-day," hecontinued.

  "But, sir," said I in a whisper, though I felt an impulse to cry thenews out, "there will be no need, I trust, for the _Swallow_. There isthe grandest news to tell you;" and I informed him of the contents ofmy letter.

  Mr. Curwen said never a word to me, but dropped upon his knees in thepathway.

  "God save the King!" he cried in a quavering voice, and the fervour ofit startled me. His hands were clasped and lifted up before him, andby the starlight I saw that there were tears upon his cheek. Then hestood up again and mopped his face with his handkerchief, leaningagainst the palings of the garden fence. "Mr. Clavering, I could addwith a full heart, 'Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace,' butthat there is work even for an arm as old and feeble as mine." At thathe stopped, and asked, in a very different tone of trepidation, "DoesMary Tyson know?"

  "Miss Dorothy does."

  "Ah, of course, of course," he said with resignation, "It is all one;"and he walked slowly up the path. At the door he turned to me, and seta hand on my shoulder. "There is work, Mr. Clavering, for the feeblestarm?" he asked wistfully.

  Now, all my instincts urged me to say "Yes," but, on the other hand, Iremembered certain orders which had been given to me in a very decidedvoice, so that I stood silent. With a sorrowful shake of the head, Mr.Curwen passed through the door.

  "Maybe you are right," said he, disconsolately; and then, "But thequestion is worth proving"--this bracing his shoulders and making acut in the air with an imaginary sabre. However, Mary Tyson bustledforward to help him off with his great-coat, and scolded all theboldness out of him in the space of a minute, drawing such a pictureof the anxiety into which his early outgoing and late home-coming hadthrown the household, as melted him to humility.

  "It was to do me a service," said I, interposing myself.

  "And the more shame to you," says she, bluntly; "white hairs must waiton young legs!" and off she flung to the kitchen.

  It was not until the following morning that Dorothy made allusion tohis absence.

  "I went on business to Whitehaven," he replied with a prodigious winkat me, which twisted the whole side of his face--his daughter couldnot but have observed it--"though the business might have waited;" andhe added hurriedly, "However, I bring a message for you, my dear, forI chanced to meet old Mr. Aislabie in the street, and he sent his loveto Miss Cherry-cheeks."

  "Cherry-cheeks!" cried she, indignantly, "Cherry-cheeks! How dare he?Is it a bumpkin, a fat country milk-maid he takes me for?"

  "My dear," said Mr. Curwen, with the gentlest spice of raillery, "youcertainly deserve the charming title now."

  She said no more concerning the journey to Whitehaven, being muchoccupied with her indignation. Once or twice I heard her mutter,"Cherry-cheeks!" to herself, but with a tone as though her tongue wastoo delicate for the gross epithet, and, as if to disprove itssuitability, she sailed in to dinner that day with her hair all piledand builded on the top of her head under a little cap of lace, and agreat hoop petticoat of silk, and the funniest little shoes of greenand gold brocade with wonderful big paste buckles and the highestheels that ever I saw. Nor was that the whole of her protest. Forthough, as a rule, she was of a healthy, sensible appetite, now shewould only toy with her meat, protesting that she could not eat a bit.

  "I have no doubt," says I, "but what you are troubled with thevapours," and got a haughty glance of contempt for my pains. And afterdinner what does she do but sit in great state in the drawing-room,with her little feet daintily crossed upon a velvet cushion, fanningherself languidly, and talking of French gowns, as the latestNewsletter represented them, and the staleness of matrimony, andsuch-like fashionable matters.

  "But no doubt," says she with a shrug of the shoulders, and a prettyvoice of insolence, "Mr. Clavering will marry;" she paused for asecond. "And what will the wife be like?"

  I was taken aback by the question, and from looking on her face, Ilooked to the ground or rather to the velvet cushion by which Ihappened to be sitting. It was for that reason, that not knowingclearly what I should say, I answered absently--

  "She must have a foot."

  "I suppose so," she replied, "and why not two?"

  "Yes!" I continued slowly, "she must certainly have a foot."

  "And maybe a head with eyes and a mouth to it," says she; "or does notyour modesty ask so much?"

  "I wonder you can walk on them at all," said I.

  The heels were popped on the instant demurely under the hooppetticoat.

  "Owl," she said in a very soft, low, reflective voice, addressing theword in a sort of general way to the four walls of the room.

  "Miss Cherry-cheeks," said I, in as near the same tone as I couldmanage.

  She rose immediately, the very figure of stateliness and dignity, swamout of the room, without so much as a word or a nod, and, I mustsuppose, went hungry to bed; for we saw no more of her that night.

  For the next few days, as may be guessed, we l
ived in a greatexcitement and stress of expectation at Applegarth. Mr. Curwen wouldget him to his horse early of the morning, now rather encouragedthereto than dissuaded, and ride hither and thither about the countryside, the while his daughter and I bided impatiently for his return. Icannot say, however, that the information which he gleaned was acomfort to compensate us for the impatience of our waiting. FromScotland, indeed, the news was good. We heard that the Earl of Mar wasgathering his forces at the market-town of Moulin, and that the sixtymen who proclaimed King James at Kirkmichael were now swelled to athousand. But of England--or rather of those parts of it which layabout us--it was ever the same disheartening story that he carriedback, a story of messengers buzzing backwards and forwards, betwixt apoor handful of landlords, and, for the rest, of men going quietlyabout their daily work. Once or twice, indeed, he returned upliftedwith a rumour that the towns of Lancashire were only waiting for theScottish army to march into England, before they mounted the WhiteCockade; on another occasion he satisfied us with a fairy-tale thatthe insurgents had but to appear before the walls, and Newcastle wouldforthwith open its gates; and at such times the old panels of theparlour would ring with laughter, as doubtless they had rung in theold days after Atherton Moor, and I would sit with a heart unworthilylightened by a thought that I might escape the payment which was due.But for the most part I had ever in my mind Lord Derwentwater's wordabout the pawns, and those yet earlier forebodings of my kinsmanBolingbroke. It seemed to me, indeed, that in this very rising of theEarl of Mar's, I had a proof of the accuracy of his forecasts. For hehad sent word that the rebellion would be deferred, and here were theorders reversed behind his back. Moreover, we heard that the FrenchKing had died upon September 1st, and that I counted the mostdisheartening of calamities.

  In this way, then, a week went by. On the evening of the eighth day,being the 25th September, I was leaning my elbows on the gate of thelittle garden, when I heard a heavy step behind me on the gravel. Iturned, and there was Mary Tyson. It seemed to me that she was barringthe path.

  "Good-evening, Mary," said I, as pleasantly as possible.

  "I am wishing for the day," said she, "when I can say the same to you,Mr. Clavering."

  "And why?" said I, in astonishment. "It is no doing of mine that Mr.Curwen rides loose about the country-side."

  "It is not of the father I am thinking," she interrupted; and I feltas though she had struck me.

  "What do you mean?" I asked shortly.

  "I know," she said, "this is no way for a rough old serving-body tospeak to the likes of you. But see, sir," and her voice took on acuriously gentle and pleading tone, "I remember when she couldn'tclinch her fist round one of my fingers. It's milk of mine, too, thathas fed her, and it's honey to my heart to think she owes some of hersunshine to it I've seen her here at Applegarth grow from baby tochild, and from child to woman. Yes, woman, woman," she repeated;"perhaps you forget that."

  "No, indeed," said I, perplexed as to what she would be at; "it wasthe first thought I had of her."

  "Then the more blame to you," she cried, and speech rushed out of herin a passion. "What is it that you're seeking of her--you that'shunted, with a price on your head? What is it? what is it?" And shestretched out her great arms on either side of her as though to make abarrier against myself. "Ah, if I were sure it would bring no harm onher, you should have the soldiers on your heels to-morrow. Many andmany's the time I've been tempted to it when I've spied you in theorchard or on the lake. I have been sore tempted to it--sore tempted!What is it you want of her? It's the brother's clothes you arewearing, but is it the brother's heart beneath them?"

  "Good God, woman!" I cried, dumfounded by her words.

  She stood in the dusk before me, her grotesque figure dignified out ofall knowledge by the greatness of her love for Dorothy. The veryaudacity of her words was a convincing evidence of that, and at thesight of her the anger died out of my heart. If she accused meunjustly, why, it was to protect Dorothy, and that made amends forall. Nay, I could almost thank her for the accusation, and I answeredvery humbly--

  "I am like to get little good in my life, but may I get less when thatis done if ever I had a thought which could disparage her."

  "And how will I be sure of that?" asked Mary Tyson.

  "Because I love her," said I.

  An older man would have made, and a more experienced woman would havepreferred, perhaps, a different answer; but I suppose she gauged it bythe depth of her own affection. It struck root in a responsive soil.

  "Ay, and how could you help it!" she cried, with a little note oftriumph in her voice. But the voice in an instant deadened withanxiety. "You will have told her?"

  "Not a syllable," says I. "I am, as you say, a man with a price on hishead. I may be mated with an axe, but it is the only mate that I cancome by."

  She drew a deep breath of relief, and hearing it I laughed, but withno merriment at my heart She took a step forward on the instant.

  "Well, and I am sorry," said she, "for you are not so ill-looking alad in the brother's clothes." It was a whimsical reason, but given ina voice of some tenderness. "Not so ill-looking," she repeated, and atthat her alarm reawakened. "But there's a danger in that!" she cries."Miss Dorothy has lived here alone, with but a rare visitor once ortwice in the twelvemonths. Maybe you speak to her in the same voiceyou use to me."

  "Nay," I interposed, and this time my laugh rang sound enough. "MissCurwen treats me with friendliness--a jesting friendliness, which isthe very preclusion of love."

  She bent forward a little, peering at me.

  "Well, it may be," said she, "though I would never trust a boy'sjudgment on anything, let alone a woman."

  Dorothy's voice called her from the house. She looked over hershoulder, and went on, lowering her tone--

  "Look," said she, "at these boulders here," and she pointed to thedarkening hillside. "They are landmarks to our shepherds in the mistBut when the snow lies deep in winter, they will cross them and neverknow until they come to something else that tells them. It's so withus. We cross from this friendliness into love, thinking there arelandmarks to guide us; but the landmarks may be hid, and we do notknow until something else tells us we have crossed. And with some,"and she nodded back towards the house, "there will be no retracing ofthe steps. Suppose you left your image with her. A treasure she willthink it. It will prove a curse. You say you care for her?"

  I saw what she was coming to, and nodded in assent.

  "There is the one way to show it--not to her. No, not to her. That isthe hardest thing I know, but the truest proof, that you will becontent, for your love's sake, to let her think ill of you."

  Dorothy's voice sounded yet louder. She came out into the porch. MaryTyson hurried towards her, and receiving some order, disappeared intothe house. Dorothy came slowly down the path towards me.

  "You were very busy with Mary Tyson," said she.

  "She was talking to me of the landmarks," said I.

  "But one cannot see them," said she, looking towards the hillside.

  I stood silent by her side. It was not that Mary Tyson's words had sogreatly impressed me. I believed, indeed, that she spoke out of anovermastering jealousy for the girl's welfare. But I asked myself,since she had said so much, knowing so little of me, what would shehave said had she known the truth? The temptation to set the sheriffon my path would long ago, I was certain, have become an accomplishedact Nor could I have blamed her. I was brought back to my old thoughtthat I was wearing this girl's friendship as a thief may wear a stolencloak.

  "There is something I ought to tell you," said I suddenly, and came toa no less sudden stop, the moment that the sound of the words told mewhither I was going. "But at this time," I continued in the lamest ofconclusions, "I have no right to tell it you," and so babbled a wordor two more.

  She gave a little quiet laugh, and instead of answering me, began tohum over to herself that melody of "The Honest Lover." In the midst ofa bar she broke off. I heard her breat
h come and go quickly. Sheturned and ran into the house.

  That night, at all events, I acted upon an impulse of which I havenever doubted the rectitude. Since I could not restore to her thestolen cloak, I took that other course, and dropped it by the wayside.I wrote a brief note of thanks to Mr. Curwen, and when the house wasquiet, I crept from my room along the passage, and dropping out ofthat window which my host had shown me on the night of my coming toApplegarth, betook me under the star-shine across the fells.