“That is exactly what I told her.”
“And a strength to grow into the new nature He has fashioned for her. When I look back on our lives, Ian, I marvel at that very thing—how the Lord gave us such new natures! Do you remember what we were like?”
He laughed. “How could I ever forget? I was so caught up in myself.”
“We both were! And yet here we are, at least in some small measure, beginning to reflect Him. Oh, He has been so good to us!”
They walked along for a while, gradually making their way back down the hill toward the house, when Ian stopped and slowly bent his aging body down to the ground. With deft, experienced fingers, he pushed back a tuft of grass.
“Look, Maggie!”
When she had stooped down next to him, he indicated with almost a sense of joyful reference a tiny yellow primrose, so small that few casual strollers would have seen it.
“Winter is coming to an end,” said Maggie, her words sounding oddly prophetic.
They rose and continued on.
“You know,” said Ian at length, “there’s another element in this change in Allison that I continue to puzzle over.”
Maggie glanced up inquisitively. “You’re not thinking of our new mechanic friend?”
“Aye,” replied Dorey with a twinkle in his eye. “Somehow I think he has more to do with the unlocking of Allison’s heart than even she knows. She mentioned him a number of times when I was talking with her. You do know whom he reminds me of, don’t you?” he asked.
“Why, of course, Ian—you!”
He laughed. “I only hope he can be a better influence on Allison than I was on you.”
“Nonsense! Don’t you even think such a thing,” she chided.
“But it just goes to show again how the Lord uses the most unlikely instruments.”
“I know! Just imagine—old Digory’s descendant.”
“I was actually thinking of his background. It’s as if he just turned up here out of nowhere. We really know nothing about him. I sometimes almost imagine him to be an angel, planted here at this time for the very purpose of triggering these changes in Allison’s heart.”
Maggie became silent for a moment. “He is a puzzling fellow,” she then said. “From the moment I laid eyes on him, I could see Digory in him. His eyes drew me. Yet I’ve sensed something else, too—something I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t know whether it alarms me or excites me. But it seems that there is more to him than we know.”
“Of one thing we can be sure. He is intrinsically bound up in the Lord’s present work in Allison—and, for that matter, of the whole estate!”
“We must remember to pray diligently for Mr. Macintyre,” said Maggie solemnly. “Angel or not, there can be no doubt that God sent him to us, not only for Allison’s benefit, but also because of the work the Lord is carrying out in him. Whatever his future at Stonewycke, I sense that he is troubled. We must pray earnestly, for there is no doubt but that he is among us by God’s design.”
44
Ramsey Head Again
Logan spent that same morning brooding over the events of the previous day.
The quest which had brought him here was becoming increasingly difficult to fulfill—not because he couldn’t find the treasure, but because it was becoming harder and harder to keep his mind on its business. Suddenly all sorts of new emotions were bearing in upon him from many unexpected directions. Every time he thought of resuming his search, and then packing up and leaving town in the dead of night as a rich man, he could not help but cringe inwardly.
He threw down the tool he’d been cleaning, jumped up, and began to pace about the stable. He couldn’t keep his mind on anything! True to the half-hearted vow he’d made with himself, he had dug out old Digory’s Bible that morning and tried to read it. But he couldn’t make sense out of it. Vaguely familiar passages from childhood occasionally stood out. But the rest of it might as well have been Greek. He was too troubled to concentrate on it, anyway. Whenever he tried to read something, the phrase Jesse had said to him kept coming back into his mind: Things aboot God, things we’ve all heard from oor mothers but which we pay no attention t’, till we get older an’ wiser an’ then we start rememberin’ . . . His brain was too full to read, to think . . . to do anything. He had then thrown down the Bible and gone downstairs where he hoped some work would take his mind off his dilemma. But work proved as impossible as reading, and even cleaning up rusted tools turned out to be more taxing than his restive mind could cope with.
All his life he had looked out for only one person—himself. The instinct to survive was deeply ingrained, and with it a certain mistrust of others. Because his own motives were often self-seeking and larcenous, he naturally suspected the same of everyone else—and experience more often than not proved him right.
Yes, he admitted, this Duncan clan seemed congenial and hospitable enough—now. But they, like anyone, he tried to convince himself, had the capacity to turn on someone who proved a threat. What was to make him think they’d treat him any differently? The risk of revealing his motives was too great. Even if he hadn’t done anything strictly illegal, people with the power and prestige of the Duncans could find some charge against him and make it stick.
Logan knew he was risking their friendship, which was, for some reason he could not quite identify, difficult to give up—not only theirs, but also that of Jesse and others. And to continue on his chosen course of action would mean to give up Allison, too. Whether she would ever accept someone from his station might be doubtful, but that made it no easier to forget the moments they had had together.
Did none of the last two weeks matter? Was it all a mere distraction, one of the obstacles he anticipated in seeking out this lost treasure? How could everything change so quickly? What Jesse had said kept coming back to haunt him: I don’t know why we willna listen t’ truth till we get oorsel’s int’ trouble, or until some catastrophe smacks us in the face an’ wakes us up. But he didn’t want to hear it! He had no time for all that now. And that old poet talking about bad boats and wretched crews and freedom. Was he one of the poor, foolish men who refused to be free?
No! He would be free. The treasure would give him freedom. With it he could help all these people who had been kind to him and have plenty left over for himself. It was his rightful inheritance anyway! It had last been in Digory’s possession. It did not belong to anyone. It had belonged to an ancient people and whoever found it—well, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Everyone knew it. He would not listen to these doubts any longer, all these ridiculous religious fancies that somehow got stirred up in his brain.
Survival. That’s what it amounted to. No more!
He had to survive, and he knew only one way to do it.
Logan sat down, picked up an oily rag, and began to wipe down the scythe he had been sharpening for Alec.
He could take uncounted chances with a deck of cards. He had done so for years. He was good at it. But he had never gambled with his emotions, never let his personal feelings emerge far enough to lay them on the table. The mere thought of giving up his quest for Digory’s treasure in exchange for friendship, even love, was so unimaginably foreign to his nature that he could hardly believe such a thing was occurring to him. No, he was not ready for a risk like that!
The incident yesterday on Ramsey Head proved it. When he had been dangerously wedged between those crushing rocks, the only thing that had mattered was saving his own skin. Alec MacNeil could have rotted in that cave, with his daughter too, for all he had cared. Now was no time to start getting soft. He came here to do a job, and he had to stick with it. For the moment he conveniently forgot how in those tense moments of fear he had silently prayed for Alec’s rescue, and how good he had felt when it was over, until Alec’s praise had sent his conflicting emotions spinning.
“‘Each man for himself,’” Logan murmured to himself, quoting Chaucer, “‘there is none other.’”
He had pic
ked up the words once in a pub, and though he knew very little about Chaucer, he did recall the bloke who had recited the verse. He’d been a dandy of a man by the name of Charles E. Franklin, rather good-looking for his age, which had at the time been about sixty. Extremely slick with dice, well-dressed, he claimed to have worked the Riviera and America for some years. He boasted that he had married and divorced a duchess and earned several thousand pounds selling real estate that didn’t exist, and had once even sold a so-called gold-manufacturing machine to some gullible American.
Logan had admired the man from afar for some time, for he was not without a reputation, and it had been quite an honor to meet him that night. But later that evening, Logan had encountered Franklin again, passed out drunk in an alley where several street urchins were picking his pockets.
The sight of his fallen hero had been sickening, for he was fallen in every sense of the word. The self-reliant man had no one but a near-stranger to pick him up and haul him off to his dingy one-room flat, filled with dusty momentos of a life that was quickly passing.
When he had recalled the quotation, sitting there in Stonewycke’s stable, he hadn’t expected to conjure up the whole scene. He had hardly remembered how that evening had ended until just now as it flooded his mind. Bad boats and wretched crews . . . That certainly described Franklin!
“Well,” Logan thought, trying to shrug off this newest wave of reflection, “you have to pay a price for everything, especially independence.”
But was it independence or cowardice that was driving him? The question pierced his mind before he had time to hide from it. For the first time in his life, Logan Macintyre was truly confused. He didn’t know the answer.
Out on Ramsey Head, when Alec had praised his courage, Logan knew how close he had been to running. Yet he had never before considered himself a coward. He had stood up to Chase Morgan, hadn’t he? Was it the danger he had wanted to run from, or something else? Was it because he didn’t care about these people . . . or because he did?
Logan threw down the scythe, and its point stuck in the dirt floor. He rose again and unconsciously began pacing. This questioning and confusion were too much! He should never have gotten involved. He should have stayed at the inn, found out what he could, retrieved the treasure, and then left. It had been a mistake to come live at the castle. He had to get out of here! He turned and headed toward his loft to pack his things.
Halfway up the stairs he stopped and closed his eyes tightly, as if to halt the careening assault of thoughts.
He had to get away from here . . . to think.
No! He had to stop thinking!
Frustrated, Logan spun around and raced down and to the bay’s stall. He managed, despite his inexperience, to saddle her, opened the stall door, mounted, and rode off, having no idea where he was going or what he would do. He just knew he had to get away. Perhaps I will never return, he thought with a trace of a smile. Then horse stealing could be added to his many other indiscretions, and the Duncans could prosecute him on those grounds.
It was not really coincidence that his path led him to Ramsey Head. Its mournful awe drew him. In many ways it was similar to the moor he had visited days ago—lonely, barren, and dangerous. But where the moor had been dead and impotent, Ramsey Head seemed to stir with an energy and even a certain power. Perhaps it was from its constant contact with the life of the sea. And now Logan knew why he had come here.
He tied the horse where the path began to narrow. He could have ridden farther—in fact, it appeared that at one time wagons or carts might have traversed the Head. But today he wanted to be alone, to walk unassisted. He turned up the path along the grassy side of the promontory; he wasn’t quite up to the challenge of the rocky seaward side today. It was the top he sought, where he could be alone—completely alone. The beauty all about him slowly muted his previous thoughts. He hoped that perhaps, in the midst of the grandeur of this place, surrounded on all sides by grass and wind and sky and sea, his confusion would be clarified. It was the first time in his life he had sought out nature for nature’s sake.
The grass was still slick from the rain, and he did not negotiate the summit without slipping many times. But after a ten- or fifteen-minute hike, after which he found himself puffing lightly, with splotches of mud and bits of bracken clinging to his tweed work clothes, he stepped at last onto the crown of Ramsey Head’s highest point.
As he crested the top and the sapphire of the sea spread out before him in all directions, he breathed deeply, and let out a silent exclamation of incredulity. It was a sight like he had never seen, and its impact on him was profound. He simply stood and gazed, his heart and mind at last quiet enough to receive the voice of peace that had been silently shouting to him through the created world all along.
Yesterday the sea had been gray and angry, but now it wore a completely new face. Rough whitecaps still beat against a shimmering blue. No boats were out yet, no doubt because of the strong wind which still lashed at the coast. Directly below lay the spot where they had been yesterday. Without the mist and rain to obscure his vision, he could see just how treacherous had been their position. Had he or Allison fallen when they were scrambling around on that ledge, they would not have survived for a moment. The mere thought sent a chill into the pit of his stomach, and he recalled again the tale of the murderer who had fallen, probably from that very spot. This was not a friendly place, nor a comforting one. Why had he come here? What sort of solace had he hoped to find?
At length Logan looked about for a rock to sit on. He’d have a short rest, then head back. There was nothing for him here, and he didn’t want to waste any more time thinking. It was beautiful, and he could enjoy that. And it had helped to clear his head. He should have known all along what to do. It was simple enough. When he got back, he’d pack up his things, and when the house was asleep tonight, he’d slip away. If he walked all night he might make Fenwick Harbor by morning, and from there he’d get a train or schooner to Aberdeen and thence to London. The treasure had been a bad idea; it was probably just imaginary, anyway. At any rate, it would be easier to leave it behind, and with it any necessity for wearisome sensitivities and awkward confessions. He’d been a fool. He’d put too much into the pot on a bad hand, and it was now time to cut his losses, quit while he still had seed money for the next opportunity, and get out of the game.
But he would have to keep his mind off what he might be leaving behind. It wasn’t only the treasure; there was Allison.
He couldn’t dwell on that! It was for the best. He couldn’t stop to consider what they would think of him sneaking away like a criminal. What did he care what they thought? He would never see any of them again, anyway. What did it matter what Allison thought? He’d never been good enough for her; she had made that clear from the start. She would probably breathe a sigh of relief to learn that he was gone.
Walking about fifty feet farther along the crest, he came to a large rock and sat down. As far as he could see in both directions the rugged coastline stretched into the distance. He had never thought much of the sea, but this truly had to be one of the rare high points of creation. Unconsciously his thoughts turned to the rock he was sitting on. For some reason it struck him as oddly out of place. It had a strangely sculptured look, as if it had at one time been chiseled toward some shape, then abandoned. He could not quite make out what the shape reminded him of. It was probably nothing, only an accident of nature.
As he rose to leave, his foot stepped on the matted bracken and weeds surrounding the rock and struck something hard underneath. Absently he kicked at the foliage and saw that buried beneath the surface of the tangled weeds was a smooth, flat board—hardly the sort of thing one would expect to find on this wild, uninhabited piece of earth. Maybe some children had dragged it up here with the intention of building a little hideaway.
Idle curiosity, coupled with a desire to divert his mind from its uncomfortable and confusing thoughts, made Logan bend down and scrape awa
y the plants in order to excavate the board. When at length he was able to pull it free from the tangled roots and undergrowth, he found it to be only about two feet long by some six or eight inches wide. The edges had at one time been sanded smooth and the corners carefully rounded, but many years under the wet ground had caused some rotting, and Logan could pinch off small chunks of wood with his fingers. There were holes in the center where it had apparently been nailed to another board. Turning it over in his hand, Logan discovered the most curious feature of all—carved letters spread out across the length of the wood. This was no random piece of scrap. Someone had made this very carefully and had designed it as some sort of plaque or inscription. Logan brushed away the dirt and grass and saw that the letters were still almost legible, though time and the weather had taken their toll. With a curious finger Logan dug away at the encrusted buildup until the two names Raven and Maukin began to appear before him.
At first glance they struck no chord of familiarity to him, but he was certain this sign had to be a marker of some sort—for a grave, perhaps. But the names were hardly human. Had this been the burying place for some child’s favorite pets? Two dogs, perhaps? A dog and a cat?
Raven and Maukin . . . where had he heard those names?
Suddenly Logan knew it was no child who had dug a grave at the top of Ramsey Head.
“ . . . I remember how he had pampered our horses, Raven and Maukin,” Lady Margaret had once said.
It couldn’t be! Yet what else could the plaque and this strangely crude rock signify? A grave for two beloved animals! If he had been anywhere else, Logan would not have believed such a thing possible. But at Stonewycke, where loyalties ran deep, where sympathies were out of step, where a hard-working vet was laird of the land, where the landowners gave away the largest portion of their once-vast estate to the poor crofters and villagers, where the heiress of the family lived forty years in a foreign land only to return to live out her golden years as matriarch of the family—this was certainly a place where anything could happen! Nothing at Stonewycke fit the expected patterns. So why not a grave on a high and windy promontory overlooking the sea?
Stranger at Stonewycke Page 36