Stephen Purceville rose early the next morning. He had slept alone
that night, something of a rarity, and woke feeling both cleansed and
restless. Cleansed because, like all men who give and take love too
freely, he knew in his heart how meaningless the endless procession of
women had become. Restless because he fancied, and simultaneously
feared it was not true, that he had at last found the woman who would
make it all real, and still the inner turmoil which had haunted him
time out of mind.
He got up and stretched his lean, hard-muscled frame, calling for his
valet, who came at once and began helping him dress. This act was by
now such a matter of ritual that it left his mind soft and dreamlike,
free to think again of that mystical creature of beauty and innocence,
so unlike the others, that he would woo, and take as his wife.
That he had done nothing to earn, and therefore to deserve such a
blessing, that real love could not possibly find him until he stopped
using and hurting all who came within his reach---these were thoughts
which could never occur to him. Rather, it seemed unlikely that he
would ever wake from the dream of dominance and superiority in which
he had been raised. For he had been born into wealth, and taught
(though not by his father, who in fact had taken little hand in his
upbringing) that his noble birth entitled him to both material
satisfaction, and the subservient respect of all around him. And
because the world could not possibly live up to this contrived and
irrational viewpoint, he was forever angry, feeling cheated, though by
whom he could not say, of the peace and happiness that were rightfully
his.
Sending the servant from him, he splashed cold water across his face
and neck, brushed and pomaded his strong, raven locks, then set about
to shaving with especial care. Toweling away the remaining lather he
finished dressing, buckled on his sword and walked briskly down the
corridor, roughly pushing aside the butler, who in the semi-darkness
had failed to descry his young master's approaching form, and
deferentially stand aside.
Entering at length the high, majestic dining room, he was oblivious to
the opulent splendor all around him. His one thought, as he seated
himself brusquely, was a mild gratitude that his father, whom he
despised, had not yet risen. For in the aging baron he saw what he
considered an unfair reflection of himself---what he was, and would
become---and he judged most harshly in his father those shortcomings
which he himself possessed.
But on a more human level, and in the open book to which all save
murderers (and he was not yet that) are entitled, the `brooding hunger
of the eyes' which the old woman had described in him as a child, was
in fact a true window into his innermost self---his deep-seated need
for womanly care and affection. His only memories of his mother, who
had died so young, were of an angelic being in a long white gown, who
stood in the twilit doorway of his bedroom. . .then entered softly,
and kissed and petted him good-night. And without realizing it, he
longed with all his soul for that gentle, reassuring touch, so
suddenly and irrevocably lost.
He remembered more distinctly his first governess, the widow MacCain,
whose patient affection he had begun to return when his father, for
reasons he would never make clear, had sent her away in disgrace. In
later life he had solved the bitter puzzle for himself, after his own
fashion and understanding, and hated them both for it.
Back to the present, he set to his breakfast with a will. He ate not
because he was hungry---genuine, limb-weakening hunger was something
he had never known---but because he had a long ride ahead of him, and
wished to retain a good measure of strength at the end of it, when he
saw, and would meet.....
Her.
He abruptly pushed away his plate. And for perhaps the second time in
his adult life (the first being the morning of the Battle, in which he
had served as an adjutant) he felt a kind of fear and nervous awe of
what lay ahead. Wiping his mouth mechanically, he threw aside the
napkin, strode down the long hallway, and made his way out toward the
stables, buttoning his crimson officer's coat against the early
morning chill.
The great irony of his existence, and of his current fixation on a
woman he had never met, was that the same restless hunger which drove
him to her, and which was so transparent in his eyes, had acted as
both a heart-throb and aphrodisiac on a score of beautiful women,
English and Scottish alike, and he could have picked from their number
anyone he wished. Servant girls, ladies, wives and mistresses of other
men, all were quite helpless before his sharp and demanding emerald
gaze, enhanced as it was by his high position and rakish good looks.
At any moment there were always two or three jewel-like creatures who
considered themselves deeply in love with him, and would gladly have
forsaken all others to be his wife. But of these he wanted none.
Beyond the plunder of their willing bodies (and this very willingness
made him look upon them with contempt), he thought of them, and cared
for them, not at all.
The groom, who had been warned of his master's mood and early
approach, stood ready, holding the reins of the saddled stallion.
Again the young man took no particular notice of his good
fortune---that here was arguably the finest horse in the countryside,
sleek and tireless, worth more in stud alone than many of the country
folk could hope to earn in a lifetime. He knew only that it was his,
and that this, at least, was as it should be. In a rare show of
affection, he went so far as to pat its beautiful neck before
mounting. But this did not keep him from upbraiding the groom for a
loose strand on the saddle-blanket. And no sooner had he mounted the
animal than it ceased to be for him a living creature, and became
instead a vehicle, existing merely to carry him to a desired end. He
rode off, leaving the groom to shake his head, and spit disparagingly
in the dirt.
Such was the love he inspired in men.
Mary sat at the bare table, drinking tea and chewing a hard biscuit,
while her mother peered narrowly out of the window. Both had been
silent since waking---there seemed little left to say---but at last
her mother broke the stillness.
"Mary. What will you do if Stephen Purceville comes to call on you
today?" Mary knew better than to ask why he would. So far as her
mother was concerned, there was no such thing as coincidence. She
thought for a moment, then replied honestly.
"I don't know. He is, after all, my brother."
"Half-brother," the old woman hissed. "And not the better half,
remember that." The girl did not like, and could not understand, her
mother's tone.
"Margaret," she said flatly. "If you did not want us to meet, you
would not have arranged his coming here. You show me one path, then
chastise me for taking it. At least tell me what it is you want, so I
can make an intelligent choice."
"What I want," she repeated thoughtfully, as if regretting her earlier
outburst. "For now all I want is that you should meet, and let nature
take it's course."
Again Mary felt hostility rising inside her. She wanted to love this
woman, and help her if she could. But not as a puppet, and not
in that way. "Nature's course! Are you suggesting that I---"
"Easy, lass. I'm suggesting no such thing." Her voice was cool and
soothing. "Just get to know him. Do what you feel. Nay, child, that's
not what I mean. I think you'll find he has a certain charm. You may
even like him."
Mary rested her chin on her fists, and let out a deep breath,
bewildered. Of all the strange fates and traps: to be given a set of
natural parents after feeling she had none, only to find that one was
detestable, and the other wanted him dead.
But the son, her half-brother. . .here was a mystery. What was his
guilt, or innocence, and what would he feel towards her? Whereas
Michael had known all along that she was not his sister, Stephen would
have no notion that she was.
Of one thing only was she certain: she had had enough of violence and
hatred. She decided she would judge this man by himself alone. And if
he turned out to be a friend, so much the better. Whatever the case,
she would not take part in any scheme to hurt him. And perhaps..... As
if divining the thought, the old woman broke in upon her reverie.
"Just remember this. You must not tell him that he is your brother,
and you must not use my name."
"But why?"
"Why? Because if his father learns of it he will kill us both."
"I'm sorry, but I don't believe that."
"Believe it!" Again the harsh voice was edged in steel. "By the god,
girl, haven't you been listening? Don't you know yet what kind of man
he is?"
"But to kill two women without pretext? Even a Governor---"
"Oh, he would find a pretext. Harboring a fugitive, spying..... Witch
craft."
Mary was silent. And though she reproached herself for it, her one
desire in that moment was to get as far away from the hate-filled old
woman as possible. She longed to escape from the smouldering darkness
of that place, to find some quiet hillside where she could think it
all through, and decide what must be done. What must be done..... But
at the same time she felt the need, far stronger than she cared to
admit, for some strong and reassuring male presence.
At that moment she heard hoofbeats outside the door. Not waiting to
ask, or consider whether it was right or wrong, she rose from her
place and went to the door. The old woman did not try to stop her. She
went outside.
Stephen Purceville stopped short in the saddle, and for the space of
several seconds, did not move or breathe. Then with an effort to
remain calm he dismounted, for that brief instant losing sight of her,
and telling himself it had not happened.
But when he moved forward around the horse, holding tight the reins as
if trying to keep a dream from fading, he felt again the strange and
forbidding shock of her presence.
The girl was beautiful, yes, but it was far more than that. There was
a depth to her, a genuine suffering..... But that was not the whole of
it, either. What did it mean? What did it mean?
He could not know that part of what he was feeling was an instinctive
sense of kin, the primal recognition of blood and family, a feeling
which jarred against, and at the same time increased, his awed
physical desire, for her.
And alongside this, no less tangible, was an almost spiritual
softening, and unconditional love. . .yes, love, for the beautiful and
innocent child before him. Everything about her, from the gentle eyes
and supple figure, to the long and simple dress she wore, seemed to
him more becoming and picturesque than anything he had ever seen. At
the back of his mind flashed a vision: an angelic being all in
white.....
For her own part, Mary also felt a shock. From the first glimpse there
could be no doubt that he was in fact her brother. She knew this not
by any cold comparison of features, but by the sudden love and pity
that welled up in her own heart. Love because, whatever his faults and
follies (these too she sensed), he was her brother, a fellow orphan
and lonely, wayward soul. Her womanly instinct recognized this at
once. Pity, because she saw in his eyes the rising of a passion that
could never be fulfilled. He was in love with her. This she knew with
equal certainty.
Still holding tightly to the reins, he came forward. Remembering his
pretext for coming, he began to speak stiffly of escaped prisoners and
official duties. She listened, hearing not so much the content of his
words, as reading in his voice and manner the confirmation of what she
had intuitively sensed. And she could not help but feel a certain
thrill that this powerful, aggressive man should find himself groping
for speech, shy and self-conscious before her.
And indeed, the young captain soon felt the emptiness of his words,
which were like banners raised without wind to support them. He
stopped, flushing with anger and embarrassment, and looked at her. As
clearly as if she had spoken, her eyes said to him. "It doesn't
matter. I know why you're here, and it's all right."
She stepped closer, and without fear or hesitation, began to stroke
the white muzzle of the bay, which to his surprise, did not pull away.
"He's never let anyone do that," he said honestly. "A perfect
stranger." He unconsciously stepped back, allowing her greater
freedom. "Have you been around horses all your life?"
"When I was younger, before....." Her face flushed. "But that's not
why. We understand each other."
"Before the war?"
"Yes," she said defensively. She could not understand his persistence,
into a matter that was clearly painful to her.
"Do you hate us all, then?"
Her eyes flashed, then became quiet again. "No. I've seen too much of
hate, and death. I lost..... I lost everything."
And suddenly it came to her. She was standing and talking with a man,
her own flesh, who had been on the other side of the firing, and might
well have given the order to kill---
Her face went pale as an intolerable pain rose in the hollow of her
chest, and the full horror of war loomed before her. She stepped back,
senses failing, and would have fallen if he had not rushed forward and
caught her up.
Horrified at his own actions, which could have caused in her such
pain, he carried her back to a flat stone before the hut, which served
as a bench. She sat woozily for a moment, not knowing where she was,
until she became aware of his voice, and of his strong arm about her
shoulders, supporting her.
"Mary, it's all right," he said. "Please, please forgive me. We won't
speak of it again." And looking up at his troubled countenance, so
full of concern and self-reproach, she could not help but forgive him.
He continued, hardly knowing what he said, trying to mend the breach
that he had caused between them. "I, too, know what it is to lose: my
mother, when I was very young." And in that moment it did not seem
strange to him to speak of this, his greatest secret and
vulnerability, which he hid so tenaciously from others.
"Stephen." She spoke plainly, though she was not sure herself what she
felt, sitting there so close beside him. "You came in the hope of
becoming in some way intimate with me. That has already happened; I
ask you to think of me as your friend. And as a friend, I have
something to ask of you."
"You know that I would do anything." And he colored to hear himself
speak.
"Thank you for saying that just now." She laid her hand lightly on
his, feeling the shiver it caused in him. Half against her will she
left it there, and felt his grateful fingers close around hers. "Would
you take me riding today?" she asked. "Without expecting anything in
return? More than anything right now I want to go somewhere wide open
and free, where I can think, and feel alive. I need someone I can be
alone, with. Do you understand?"
"I think so."
But even as he said this, he realized that in the confusion he had
lost his grip on the stallion. With a catch at his throat he looked
out, and saw that it had moved off, grazing now on a sparse patch of
green perhaps forty yards away. As if sensing his eyes upon it, the
horse looked back at them alertly.
"I've got to catch him!" said the man. And he leapt to his feet. But
at his first running strides toward it, the beast raised its head and
galloped easily out of his reach, a short distance further up the
path. Again the young officer made as if to charge.
"Stephen, wait." Slowly she walked over to him, as to a child who had
not understood his lessons.
"But I've got to---" She shook her head.
"No. What you've got to do is stop grabbing so hard at life, and learn
to caress it---stop trying to make everything your slave. Haven't you
ever just let life come to you?"
"But the horse---"
"Has probably not experienced a moment of true freedom since you've
owned him."
"Mary." His face betrayed deep conflict, and she knew that she had
been right, and struck upon the roots of his character. "That animal
is worth a fortune," he continued desperately. "If he escapes, or is
stolen....."
"He won't escape," she said firmly. "This pass leads nowhere: a
dead-end of stone. But that's not what this is about. What you're
showing me now is that you're afraid, terribly afraid to let go. You
think that if you don't go out and take, by force if necessary, then
life will give you nothing, nothing at all. That is a lie which is
cruel to both yourself and others. And if you want anything to do with
me it must stop, here and now."
"How do you know this?" he demanded. "You're only guessing." But he
realized that by his very vehemence he was admitting the truth of what
she said. Already she knew him. Somehow, she knew. He let out a
breath, and said to her simply. "How would you retrieve my horse?"
"By giving him what he needs. By kindness rather than the noose. No,"
she insisted. "I am not speaking of ideals. I will do it, like this."
Without haste she returned to the door of the hut, and went inside.
Her mother sat staring blankly at the fire, though Mary had little
doubt that she had moved there but recently, and had heard, if not
seen, all that had taken place.
"Mother, may I take some apples?"
"They are in the basket, as you know for yourself."
"Thank you." There was no time to wonder what her mother was feeling,
if anything. She
strode up and kissed her quickly, then took two of the apples and went
outside.
There both man and beast looked back at her. With neither haste nor
hesitation, she took a bite of the first apple, and, as if the man did
not exist, walked directly toward the stallion. It craned its neck at
this, and looked cautiously back at its master. But as he made no
move, it turned its large, animal eyes back to the girl.
She did not hold the apple out enticingly, or make the cooing sounds
of entreaty which she knew it would instinctively mistrust. She simply
advanced, acting as if the reins did not exist, paused, came closer,
then stopped carelessly perhaps ten feet away. She took another bite
of the apple, then laughed as the creature snorted impatiently, and at
last came up to her. She reached below its head with one hand, and fed
it the apples with the other.
The reins were in her hand, and the animal ate greedily. Then all at
once she burst into tears, and hid her face against its long and
beautiful neck.
Together they rode across the wide and wild moors, past stark mountain
ridges, and lochs many thousand feet deep. All beneath a warming sun
and mild, caressing wind. They spoke quietly or not at all, taking in
the broad magnificence around them, each thinking their own thoughts,
alone, and yet in the deepest sense, together.
At least that is how the girl perceived their long ride through
Nature. For her it was poetry and roses, a spiritual as well as
physical reunion with the brother she had never known, and who so
obviously needed her love and softening influence. And to one so
young, knowing so little of men, it was easy to imagine that a sort of
romantic friendship was also possible, had in fact already been
established, and that all of this was understood between them.
Having been so long without the company of men, and in her life being
close to only one---a man of exceptional virtue and character---she
could not help but think the best of her new-found brother, and to
believe, with her heart rather than her mind, that whatever injustices
he may have committed, were over and in the past. Further, she
reasoned, the world had need of such aggressive leaders: men who got
things done.
She could not know that in following this naive and wishful train of
thought she was making a classic mistake, indeed, the same mistake her
mother had made before her. She was yielding to a woman's instinctive
attraction and submission to raw strength, which clouds the
conscience, and hampers honest judgment.
Michael had been strong and good; Stephen was merely strong. She was
too young, and too needful, to see the difference.
So riding back with the setting sun, feeling fatigued but at the same
time warm and secure in his presence, it did not seem out of place for
her to rest her head on his shoulder and let her arms, which were
wrapped about his waist for support, squeeze him affectionately. And
if she felt inclined to add, "Thank you, Stephen, I feel wonderful,"
where was the harm?
And as they reached the steep and narrow final passage, his actions
seemed to confirm all the noble, underlying qualities which she had
begun to read into his character. Sensing that his horse was tired he
dismounted, and taking hold of the bridle, led it the rest of the way
on foot, displaying both a firm, sure tread, and surprising physical
stamina. Of his virility, had she known the word, there could be no
question.
When they reached the hut, the sky seemed to hover in a peaceful and
many-hued twilight. Everything around them was hushed and still, with
no light showing from within. Stephen reached up to help her dismount,
and as her feet lightly touched ground, took her in his arms.
Her eyes looked up at him searchingly, his face so close to hers. Then
he was kissing her, and before she could turn away she felt his right
hand glide across her ribs.
She tried to pull away, but he only brought her body more firmly
against his. And she felt a part of herself yield as they kissed
again, her lips parting expectantly. Once more she felt the hand
kneading toward her breast.
But as it touched, and she felt the growing insistence of his
movements she came back to herself, and with a shock realized what she
was doing, and with whom.
"No!" she gasped, trying to break free. Still he held her, but she
persisted. "It's not right."
At last he released her. With this action he too seemed to remember
himself, and to refrain,
though his reasons were vastly different.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "I'm afraid you quite carry me away." She
gazed back at him, his features half hidden in the gloom, trying to
understand the source and meaning of his words. It was impossible.
"Oh," she said in despair. "I didn't want it to end like this.
Couldn't you just embrace me, as you would a friend, and say
good-night?"
"As a friend
?" So sharp and demanding was his voice, his whole bearing, that she
found herself saying, quite against her will:
"Please, just give me a little more time. I'm not ready....."
And these words, like so many other innocent acts, seemed to achieve
an end of their own, altogether separate from what she had intended.
Stephen was strangely soothed, and gratified, as if hearing exactly
what he wanted to. She felt, as much as saw him smile. He came to her,
and embraced her gently.
"Oh, Mary," he whispered, as he kissed her cheek. "Thank you for this.
Thank you for not giving in. I've been waiting all my life for a
feeling, like this." And he kissed her again with heart-breaking
softness.
Then he stepped away and swiftly mounted. "I'll be back three days
hence. We will ride again, and make our love in the fields." And he
rode off, leaving her bewildered and unable to reply.
And all at once the last light of day was gone. The breeze which had
seemed so gentle, now fled before the cold and chilling airs of Night.
She retreated into the woeful shelter of the hut, and lay down on the
bed in confusion.