Highland Ballad Part 13

All in the land of our birth, and the home that we had fought for.

After what we had already been through, I don't know how he endured it. I, at least, had thoughts of you, though I had lost all hope of your love. He had nothing but fever and chills, and a strength that grew less each day."

"My G.o.d. Michael. Did he know about the letter, the one you thought I wrote?"

"Yes, love. We'd been together through so much, and were now thrown into such a desperate pa.s.s..... There could be no secrets between us.

But he loved you, as cousin and friend, and never held it against you."

"Then he died thinking. . .that I was in love with those who did this to you. Oh, it is horrible."

"Easy, la.s.s. His pain is over." Again they embraced, taking that last human comfort against young and tragic death. Then Michael began to pace again, both to warm himself, and to finish what he must say. For he, too, carried a burden of guilt and remorse.

"As I said, it is a wonder that he survived it. But some last obsession drove him: whether hope or madness, I could never say. He was determined to return to the home of his fathers, and perform some last act of heroism." He paused. "There is something else I haven't told you. Something very painful to me."

"What is it, Michael?"

He could not face her, as if she were some part of himself which he had shamed. And the look of self-reproach that she had long known in him, returned with a force she had not yet seen.

"It was a horror for me to watch his decline, his hopeless battle in the stockade. Because we are so much alike, and because I felt..... I often felt that he made my mistakes for me. That I learned, and survived, only because of him. Many is the time that my own temper was about to explode, to my injury, and possible undoing.... But it was always James who struck the guard first, or raised his voice in anger at the outrage we all felt, but lacked the courage to act upon.

"It is a terrible thing to think that he died for that courage, and that because of my cowardice I live. Seeing the black end to which we must all come, still I shunned the fight. After the first year..... I only turned the other cheek, again and again. I told myself that I had to survive, just keep trying and hoping. But survival becomes a poor excuse, when pride is lost.

"It will be many years," he concluded, "before I can look myself in the face when I think of James Talbert."

"Why?" she asked, in deepest earnest. "Because you desired life instead of death? Because you saw the futility of resistance, and chose not to follow him into the grave? For I tell you now, and from the bottom of my heart, that if you had not lived, and come back to me. . .my own sorry tale could not have gone much further.

"And what of your mother? Do you have any idea what her life has been like, without you? I will never understand. Why do men call it a virtue to die, to leave bereft the ones they love, and a weakness to return to them, and give meaning and substance to their lives?

"Perhaps that is unfair," she continued. "I have seen in the years of your absence just how bitter, how unanswerable sorrow can be. And I know that nothing is ever that simple. I only want you to know that this pain, this scar, I understand as well as you. I have felt the same remorse, the same bludgeoning sense of guilt. Until tonight.

"Do you know what he said to me, as he lay dying in my arms? 'You have given my death meaning.' He performed that last act of heroism, Michael. He may have saved my life." Her voice faltered. "And if what you say is true, then he also helped deliver my love from the depths of the darkness. And to me, his name shall always be thrice blessed.

"Hold me, Michael, please. Don't ever let me go. Dear G.o.d!"

"My only love, I promise you that. With all my soul, I promise you that."

They put aside all further talk until the morning, and made their bed together for the first time. Michael was too ill, and she herself too weary, to make love. And without any words this was understood between them. They found joy and solace instead in the slow, gentle caress many lovers never feel, because they do not first feel love. Their pa.s.sion would come when the skies above them were less dark, and when the fruit was ripe on the tree. Not before.

They slept far into the overcast morning. And when they rose a further bond had been established between them, that no earthly trial could ever put asunder.

He was a man, and she was his woman.

Eighteen

The Lord Henry Purceville, Governor of MacPherson Castle and the Northern Garrison, awoke in the worst possible humor. He had quarreled bitterly with his son the night before, after being informed that one of his cavalrymen had died in disgrace, and another deserted rank in consequence. His head throbbed from the excesses of food and drink that had become habitual with him; the wh.o.r.e that lay sleeping beside him (his mistress) stank of his own corruption; and the prisoners he had been charged to find, in the most demanding terms, still eluded him. In the chill of early morning, he felt every day of the fifty-three years he bore.

Of all these circ.u.mstances, the quarrel with his son troubled him most deeply. It was not so much the fact of a dispute, all too common between them, as the disturbing revelation which had come from it.

Because no man, no matter how far he has strayed from the path of wisdom, wants to appear low and cowardly in the eyes of his son. And no man, retaining from childhood the slightest memory of loving female attention, can wantonly desecrate the altar of motherhood without a latent stab of conscience. Yet both these things had now risen up to haunt him, in the form of a daughter he had never seen.

If the b.a.s.t.a.r.d child had been a boy (as he had vaguely imagined, when he thought of it at all), the problem might have been more easily reconciled and acted upon, one way or the other. But a young woman, and still more, a young woman who had evidently sparked some feeling of affection in his son---the only person he cared for in the world---this was far more complicated.

Sending his mistress to the floor with a savage kick, he bellowed for his servants, ordered her dismissed, then sent for his son to learn the particulars of the MacCain girl. He was a man of action, and action would be taken.

One way or the other.

It was the widow Scott who woke them. A premonition of danger had come to her, and whether real or imagined, she would take no chances so long as her son remained a wanted man. She knocked on their door as the mantle clock struck eleven, and asked them to dress quickly and come out, that they might formulate precautions in the event that mounted soldiers, or other unwanted strangers appeared at the house.

When the two emerged and sat down to breakfast, and again as they moved to sit by the fire to hold counsel, the woman was struck by the seriousness of both faces. Caution and determination she expected from her son, who had spoken to her the day before of the hards.h.i.+ps and dangers he had already faced, and must face again, until he won his way to true freedom.

But Mary seemed to understand as well as he the risks and perils of their position, and acted not at all the happy, naive bride-to-be. And now, as Michael built up the fire and drew the curtains tight, she found that the girl would not even look at her, would not return her questioning gaze.

"Mary? What is it, girl, what's wrong?" Michael, who now returned to stand before her, intervened.

"Mother," he said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. "My fears for James Talbert have been realized. He died yesterday, defending those he loved. He has been given Christian burial, and as soon as may be, we will place a stone over the grave. I'm sorry."

The woman looked searchingly into his face, then lowered her head and wept silently. But when she raised it again, though her eyes still glistened, their look was firm and determined.

"I will notify my brother tonight. It will be hard for him, and for his wife, because he meant as much to them..... Nay, do not try to comfort me. I am a proud Scottish woman, and not rendered helpless in my grief. The times are hard, and the living must look to their own devices.

"That is why we are here," she went on. "Painful as it may be, we must now turn our attention to our own precaution. We must be prepared for the worst. We must vow to protect your union to the last. And if it comes to it, you must be willing to sacrifice my safety for your own.

Do not argue with me, Michael! I have had a full life, thank G.o.d, for all its latter hards.h.i.+p. I am determined that you shall have the same.

The blood of Scott and Talbert, our family, must endure."

Having said this, she put one hand to the other, and slowly removed her wedding ring. She then placed it solemnly in her son's hand. No further explanation was needed.

"Thank you, Mother. It means a great deal to me."

Michael returned to stand by his betrothed, who looked up at him in awe and astonishment, feeling for the first time the full import of what was happening between them. They were to be man and wife, as surely, and unalterably, as he now stood before her.

"Give me your hand, Mary." She did. "With this ring, on the day of November 2, 1749, I pledge to you my life, in the eyes of G.o.d and man.

Mary. Will you have me as your husband?"

She nodded fiercely, then all at once burst into tears.

"You remember then," he added gently, "that this is your seventeenth birthday as well? I have not forgotten. It is the date I set long ago, when you were but a child, to speak openly of my love for you. I tell you now, if you did not already know it, that you have been my beacon and guiding star, the hope which I held fast to my heart, when all others deserted me. I love you, Mary, with every drop of my mortal blood. I'll love you in this world, and if there is a G.o.d, then surely I will love you in the next."

He kissed her, long and full. Then began to pace, as if to master his own emotions.

"All right then," he said, moving still. "Our safety.

"The immediate danger---that of a sudden search---has already been addressed by my mother and myself. Our good steward, as the times grew dark, had the foresight to install a trap door with a small, stone-lined cellar beneath it. It has been checked, and with minor repairs, put in good working order. The cellar itself has been furnished with blankets, food and water. This occupied the better part of yesterday afternoon, the first of my return. I had determined to go in search of you this morning, when fortunately for both of us (I am still far from well, and had risked the daylight once already), you came to me first.

"So far, until we've heard your story, I remain the princ.i.p.al danger to us all. If trouble does come, I can be hidden away in thirty seconds time. The door is here." He rolled back the threadbare carpet.

"And the latch, here." He bent down and lifted the square trap on its hinges. When he let it down again, except by close scrutiny the wooden floor seemed of a piece, the door itself invisible. He replaced the carpet and came towards her, seeming calmer.

"You see, my girl, Anne and I have already had a chance to talk. From what she told me of her meeting with young Purceville---and I expect that for my sake she did not tell all---I wonder if you are not in danger as well. We need to know fully who our enemies are, or are likely to be, and who can be trusted to come to our aid. I have one ally, a fisherman from the village of Kroe, and the beginnings of a plan, though it is still far from ripe. The first step, as it must always be, is survival. Can you tell us then, in as much detail as possible, what has happened in the time since you left the cottage?"