Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times

by Robert William MacKenna

  *CHAPTER XX*

  *LOVE THE ALL-COMPELLING*

  As the days passed I began to be able to go further and further afield.I needed no support save the good ash stick which Andrew had given tome, but for love's sweet sake I dissembled if Mary was at hand to helpme.

  A day came when I gave serious thought to my future. I was unwilling totear myself away from Daldowie, for the spell of love bound me, but Ifelt that I could not continue to trespass indefinitely upon thehospitality of my friends.

  And there was another matter of grave moment. Apparently, from what Jeanhad told me, Lag was in the habit of visiting Daldowie from time totime. So far, he had learned nothing of my presence there; but a daymight come when I should be discovered, and that would expose my friendsto deadly peril. I dared not think of that possibility, and yet it wasreal enough. I turned these things over in my mind, but alwayshesitated on the brink of decision, because I could not live withoutMary.

  We were thrown much together. Sometimes I would accompany her when shewent about her duties on the farm; and many a pleasant hour we spenttogether on the green hill-side. Almost daily I discovered some new andbeautiful trait in her character. To know her was to love her. No wordscan paint her. Vivid, alluring, she was like a mountain stream--at onetime rippling over the shallows of life alive with sunny laughter, oragain, falling into quiet reflective pools, lit by some innerlight--remote, mysterious. Her haunting variety perplexed me while itcharmed me.

  Sometimes I was tempted to throw ardent arms about her and pour my loveinto her ears in a torrent of fervid words. That is the way of the boldlover, but I feared that to declare my love in such cavalier fashionmight defeat its end. None but a woman with some rude fibres in herbeing can care to be treated in such fashion--and I imagined that Mary'ssoul was delicate and fragile as a butterfly's wing, and would bebruised by such mishandling.

  My love for her grew daily, but I hesitated to declare it till I shouldknow whether it was returned. And Mary gave me no clue. If on a day shehad lifted me to the heights of bliss by some special winsomeness, shewould dash my hope to the earth again by avoiding me for a time so thatI was thrown back on my thoughts for companionship. And they gave melittle solace. Over and over again I remembered the warning of the dearold saint of the hills: "She's no' for you. The dove maunna mate wi'the corbie."

  At nights I lay awake distraught. Was her kindness to me, her winningsweetness, no more than the simple out-pouring of a woman's heart for aman she pitied? I had no need of pity: I hated it: my heart hungeredfor love. I had yet to learn that there is always pity in a woman'slove.

  At last I brought my fevered mind to a resolute decision. I wouldspeak. For the sake of those who had succoured me I must leaveDaldowie, but before I went I must try to find out the secret in Mary'sheart.

  The hour came unsought, and took me almost unaware.

  We had wandered further afield than was our wont, and on a mellow autumnafternoon we sat by the side of a burn. We had been chatting gaily,when, suddenly, silence fell between us like a sword.

  I looked at Mary. Her eyes were fixed on distance, and my gaze fellfrom the sweet purity of her face to the rich redness of the bunch ofrowan berries set in the white of her bodice.

  "Mary," I began, "I have something to say to you." She turned andlooked at me quickly, but did not speak.

  I drew an anxious breath and continued: "I am going away."

  Her pointed little chin rose quickly, and she spoke rapidly: "You'regaun away. Whatever for?"

  "It is not my will," I said, "but need that urges me. Your mother, yourfather, and, more than all, you have been kind to me--you found me insore straits and succoured me. My presence at Daldowie means danger toyou all, and for your sakes I must go."

  Pallor swept over her face: the red berries at her breast movedtremulously.

  "Danger," she said--"the hill-folk think little o' danger: that needna'drive ye away. Is there nae ither reason?"

  Before I could speak she continued: "I doot there's some English lassiewaiting for ye ayont the Border," and turning her face away from me shewhispered, "It maun e'en be as ye will."

  "Mary," I said, "you wrong me. If you could read my heart you wouldknow what I suffer. I hate to go. I am leaving friendship and lovebehind me----"

  I paused, but she did not speak. "Before God," I said, "I shall neverforget Daldowie, and--you."

  Her hands were folded in her lap--and I took them gently in mine.

  "Our lives have touched each other so delicately, that I shall neverforget you. Dearest, I love you."

  She uttered a little startled cry and drew her hands away. "Love youwith all the fire of my heart," I said, "and if I succeed in escapingacross the border I shall dream always of the day when I may come backand ask you to be my wife. Mary--tell me--have you a little corner inyour heart for me?--You have had the whole of mine since first you spoketo me."

  Her face was a damask rose: her lips curved in a smile, and a dimpledanced alluringly on her left cheek: her eyes were lit as though a lampwere hidden in their depths, but all she said was,--"I daur say I canpromise ye that."

  I drew her towards me and took her, gently resisting, into my arms. "OMary mine," I whispered. Her hand stole up and gently stroked my hair,and as she nestled to me I could feel a wild bird fluttering in herbreast. "I love you, Mary," and bending over her dear face I kissed herwhere the dimple still lingered.

  "Sweetheart," she murmured, as her arms closed about my neck, and herlips touched mine.

  The old earth ceased to be: heaven was about us, and above us a highlark sang:--my love was in my arms.

  A little tremor, as when a leaf is stirred, stole over her. I held herclose, and bent to look at her. Twin tears glistened on her eyelids."Flower o' the Heather," I whispered, "little sweetheart--what ailsyou?"

  She took a long breath--broken like a sigh.

  "I am feared," she said.

  "Afraid? dearest, of what?"

  Her lips were raised to my ear.

  "Afraid o' love," she whispered: "for when you kissed me a wee bird flewinto my heart and whispered that nae woman ever loved without sorrow."

  "Dearest," I said. But she stopped me, and continued:--"But I wouldnalose the love for a' the sorrow that may lie in its heart--for it's thesorrow that makes the love worth while."

  "My own Mary," I whispered, "in my arms no sorrow shall ever touch you.I will protect you!"

  "My love, my love," she murmured brokenly, "ye canna thwart God."

  So still she lay that I could hear the beating of my heart. I looked ather sweet face half hidden against my coat. There was upon it a beautythat I had never seen before. Reverence that was half awe swept overme, and I bowed my head, for I had seen into the holy place of a woman'ssoul.

  Suddenly she let her arms fall from my neck, and freeing herself gentlyfrom my embrace she seated herself by my side.

  "I'm sorry," she said gently. "I ha'e spoilt your happy moments wi' mytears. But they're no tears o' sorrow: they're juist the joy bubblingup frae a heart ower fu'. I can let ye go noo--since I ken ye love me.Love can aye surrender, selfishness aye clings."

  "Are you sending me away, Mary?"

  "Oh no! No! No! It's because I love you I wad ha'e you go. You're indanger here, and I ken--oh, I ken ye'll come back."

  "And now," I answered proudly, "I do not wish to go. I cannot go."

  "But you're in danger here. If they find you they'll kill you."

  "Beloved," I whispered, "to leave you now would be worse than death."

  She buried her head on my shoulder, and sat silent. The door had swungback and shown us the kingdom of love with its laughing meadows andenchanted streams. But amid all that beauty each of us had caught aglimpse of the shadow that lay across our lives.

  Suddenly she lifted her face and gazed at me with troubled, wistfuleyes. "I ken ye ought to go: but an ye winna it's no fo
r me to sendyou. My heart cries for you, and," she added slowly, "I've got a notion.About this time o' year my faither aye hires a man. Ye could ha'e theplace for the askin'. Ye're strong enough noo to help him, and naebodywould ever jalouse that the hired man at Daldowie was Trooper Bryden o'Lag's Horse."

  Her ready wit had found the way out.

  "Dear little witch," I cried, and kissed her fragrant hair--"You havebrought light into the darkness. I shall offer myself to your father,and by faithful service show my gratitude: but more than that I shallask him for you."

  Her eyes shone. "Speir at him for the place," she said, "and let thesecond question bide till ye've spoken to mither. Faither loves me--Iken weel: but he's dour and sometimes contrairy, and winna understand.But mither's heart is young yet. She'll help us."

  "O winsome little wiseacre," I whispered, and held my open arms out toher.

  She sprang up. "I maun leave you," she said. "I want to be alane--totell the flowers and the birds my secret, but maist o' a' to tell itower and ower again to masel'. I'll see ye by and by--and maybe erethen ye'll ha'e talked to mither."

  She turned and walked lightly away, crooning a song. I watched herlongingly as she went, palpitating with life and love, an angel ofbeauty, the sun on her hair.

  For long I sat in a delightful reverie, then I rose and made my wayslowly to the house.

  Mary loved me!--the moor winds sang for me. They knew our secret.

  I found Jean at her spinning-wheel, alone in the kitchen. The momentseemed opportune, so, without any preface, I opened my heart to her.

  "You must have seen," I said, "that Mary and I are very warm friends.Indeed we are more than friends, for we love each other, and I wouldmake her my wife; but she will not promise without your consent and herfather's. Dare we hope for it?"

  She stopped her spinning and took a long breath. "So that's the wayo't," she said. "I thocht as muckle, and I'm no' ill-pleased, for Ilike ye weel. But I dinna ken aboot her faither. He's a queer man,Andra. If ye speir at him he'll want to ken if ye are ane o' the elect,and by your answer ye'll stand or fa'.

  "Weel dae I mind his ongoin's when he speired me. A Scotsman's ayepractical even in his love-making: but Andra was waur than practical, hewas theological. But he couldna help it--that's aye been his weakness.As a maitter o' fact maist Scotsmen are as fu' o' sentiment as an egg isfu' o' meat. But ye've to crack their shell afore ye fin' that oot.An' they'll watch ye dinna. For they're feared that if ye fin' they'resaft i' the hert ye micht think they were saft i' the heid as weel.Weel, as I was sayin', he had been courtin' me for maybe a twalmonth.No that he ever talked love--but he would drap into my step-faither'shoose o' a nicht maybe twice a week, and crack aboot horses and craps,and sheep, and kye, tae the auld man, and gi'e me a 'Guid E'en' in thebye-goin'. But aince I catched him keekin' at me through his fingerswhen we were on our knees at the worship--and though I was keekin' athim mysel' I never let on. But I thocht tae mysel' he was beginnin' totak' notice o' ane o' the blessings o' the Lord--and so it turned oot,for maybe a month later he brocht me a bonnie blue ribbon frae Dairy;and he cam' to me in the stack-yaird and offered it tae me, kind o'sheepish-like. It was a bonnie ribbon, and I was awfu' pleased; andfirst I tied it roon my neck, and then I fastened it among my hair. Andhe looked on, gey pleased-like himsel': and then a kind o' cloud cam'ower his face and he said, 'Eh, Jean, ye maunna set your affections onthe gauds o' this earth.' I was that angry that I nearly gi'ed him backthe ribbon; but it was ower bonnie.

  "Weel, a week or twa went by, and ae nicht in the gloamin' I met him onthe road--accidental like. He was gey quate for a time, then he laid ahaun' on my airm and said, very solemn: 'Jean, I love ye: are ye ane o'the elect?' My heart gi'ed a big loup, for I guessed what was comin',and juist to gain time I answered, 'I'm no' sure, Andra,' says I, 'but Ihope sae.' 'Oh, but ye maun be sure; ye maun be sure. Hope is no'enough,'--and he turned on his heel and went down the road again. Weel,I went back tae the hoose a wee bit sorry, for I liked him weel; and itseemed tae me I had frichtened him awa. But that nicht in my bed Ithocht things ower, and said tae mysel'--'Jean, my lass, it's a seriousstep gettin' married, but it's a lot mair serious remainin' single, andguid young men are scarce, and you are a tocherless lass. What are yegaun tae dae?' So I worked oot a plan in my heid. After maybe a week,Andra cam' back for a crack wi' my step-faither, and seein' him comin'up the road I went oot tae meet him. He was a wee blate at the first,but I helped him oot wi't. 'Andra,' says I, 'dae ye mind what ye saidthe last nicht ye were here?' 'I do, Jean,' says he. 'Weel,' says I,'I've been thinkin' very hard since then. Ye believe, I hope, infore-ordination?' 'Certainly,' says he, 'Predestination is a cardinaldoctrine.' 'I ken,' I said, 'and it was fore-ordained that you shouldtell me that you lo'e me. You were fore-ordained tae lo'e me: I wasfore-ordained tae lo'e you--and I like ye weel: and if ye let my puirhuman uncertainty as tae my election stand in the way, ye are fleein' inthe face o' Providence wha fore-ordained that we should love eachother.' He was a bit ta'en aback, I could see; for he stood quate for awhile. Then he turned and said, "I daurna dae that: I daurna. Jean,will ye tak' me?' 'It was fore-ordained that ye should ask me thatquestion,' I answered, 'and it was fore-ordained that I should say "Ay."I'll be a guid wife tae ye, Andra.' And I ha'e been, though even yethe's no' sure if I'm ane o' the elect or no.

  "Whiles he thinks I am. I mind the morning after Dauvit was born--I wasane o' the elect then. He sat by the bedside, takin' keeks every nooand then at the wee lamb sleepin' in the fold o' my airm, and repeatin'lang screeds oot o' the Song o' Solomon, wi' the love-licht in his e'e,till the howdie turned him oot, sayin' it was no' seemly for an elder o'the kirk tae be using sic holy words tae a mere woman. A mere womanforsooth! and me a mither! She was a barren stock hersel', ye see.

  "But I'm haverin' awa--and no' answerin' your question. Let things bidea wee as they are. Andra thinks a lot o' ye; but he has got tae ken yebetter afore he'll judge ye tae be a fit husband for Mary. I'll tell yewhen the time is ripe tae speir at him. Meantime the lassie winna rinawa frae ye; and if ye'll tak' the advice o' an auld woman, there'stwice as muckle joy in the courtin' days as there is in the level yearso' wedded life; sae mak' the maist o' them, and the Lord bless yebaith."

  My little sweetheart had been right. Her mother understood.

  Later I sought her, and found her alone in the gloaming--the lover'shour.

  "And what does mither say?" she asked.

  Briefly I told her. She laughed happily:--

  "I kent it wad be a' richt."

  As she stood before me--her face upturned, her eyes eager, I slipped anarm about her, and would have drawn her to me, but she drew back.

  "Dinna spoil it," she said--"maybe the morn"--and she smiled. "I wantto keep the wonder o' your first kiss till then: it's a kind o'sacrament."

  She laid her hands upon my shoulders, and her words tumbled over eachother.

  "Love is magical. Since you kissed me I have wakened frae sleep: everymeenute has had rose-tipped wings: the silence sings for me, and themoor wind plays a melody on the harp o' my hert. Can ye no' hear it?"

  I would have answered as a lover should, but she continued: "No, no! Yecanna hear it. I'm sure there maun hae been a woman wi' the shepherdson the plains o' Palestine the nicht they heard the angels sing. Naeman ever heard the angels sing till a woman telled him they weresinging. Men are deaf craturs."

  "Mary," I cried, "I am not deaf. I hear the angels singing whenever youspeak"--and I seized her hands.

  "Dinna talk havers," she answered, and raced off; but at the corner ofthe house she turned and, poised on tip-toe, shadowy among the shadows,she blew me a kiss with either hand.