The man called Jamie spent the night, and the two days following, at
the cottage of the fisherman. This had in no way been planned. But he
had woken trembling and feverish, and with a deep cough that would not
be silenced. It was as if only now, when it had reached a safe haven,
that his body could tell him of its many ills and deprivations.
The old man insisted that he remain in bed, at least until the high
fever broke. As to thoughts of his own safety, he had none; and with
the heavy overcast and clinging fog he deemed it prudent, and a
necessary risk, to keep him from the cold and damp of out-of-doors.
The younger man at length agreed, not because it seemed wise, but
because it was inevitable. He had no choice. Once so healthy and
robust, he now felt a dull ache in the very marrow of his bones, and a
chill that would not be abated. So he remained in bed, and with forced
patience, passed the two hard days.
But on the succeeding morning---perhaps two hours before Mary fled in
panic from the hut---he felt again the deep restlessness which had
troubled him three days before. Something was wrong. Someone dear to
him was in danger. He could not have said how he knew this; but know
it he did, and resolved then and there to pay call upon those he
loved. Though he was still far from well, and fully realized the risk,
this instinctive sense would not be overruled. He now found it as
impossible to remain in the cottage as it had previously been to
leave.
He thanked the fisherman for all that he had done, and promised to
send word to him, or come himself, as soon as he knew that all was
well. And he promised to be careful. The veteran was concerned: his
experience had taught him the inadvisability of haste. But seeing the
intensity of the younger man's face he could only wish him well, and
after he had gone, say a silent prayer for him in his own fashion.
The wheels of fate were turning. Events were in God's hands now.
* * *
Mary wandered aimlessly across the high plateau toward the sea,
feeling lost and miserable. As she walked she watched the fog rise
slowly and evaporate, along with all faith in herself. Vaguely she
told herself that she would never again live with her mother in the
dark, dismal hut, where everything was smoke and confusion. But even
this seemed a wavering resolve. How could she promise herself
anything, when she had been so weak.....
A single tear broke from the stillness of her face, as she realized
that in all the haste of her flight she had nonetheless seized the
heavy cloak from its peg by the door, the same which she now wrapped
about her. She cried because this instinctive action showed her, more
even than the painful workings of her mind, that a part of her still
wanted to live. As much as she had loved Michael, and loathed the
thought of a world without him. . .still, she desired life. It was in
that moment an unbearable anguish.
She heard hoofbeats approaching from the west. This did not at first
seem to register, except perhaps for a dim realization that it could
not be the man she feared, who would have to approach from the
east---behind her.
The plateau had gradually sunk and narrowed, until now it was little
more than a rough gully between the two rocky shoulders which pressed
upon it. It occurred to her that the riders, still hidden by the rise
and fall of the track ahead, would soon be upon her, and that there
was nowhere to hide. But the same nightmare logic that says not to
fear, it is only a dream, told her now that this could not be what in
fact it was: a dangerous meeting in a place far from help. It all
seemed so inevitable. And she was tired of fighting.
Two horsemen appeared on the track below her as she reached the crown
of the rise, which occurred at the very point where the opposing walls
were highest, rising in serrated levels to a height of sixty feet,
several yards to either side of her.
The riders were dressed in red.
She looked quickly about her for a sheltering shadow or place to hide,
as all the warnings that she had been raised on began to torment her.
But the noon sun was hidden by a cloud, as if it had not the heart to
watch: there were no shadows. And they had seen her.
The two men rode easily, lazily in their fine English saddles. Young
cavalrymen, they had been sent to investigate reports that one of the
escaped prisoners believed to be in the area had been sighted.
But if their superiors placed a high importance on the capture of
these elusive wretches, clearly they did not. For them it was a
tedious duty; and without their captain to oversee them they were
merely pretending to search, killing time and half looking for
trouble. Like much of the English military of that time they were not
volunteers, but had been pressed into service as an alternative to
prison. They were neither dedicated nor high-minded, and had been
assigned to this remote desert (as they thought of it) because they
were fit for little else. In fact, they were hooligans, representing
not the best of their country, but the worst. As for compassion, they
had little enough for their own kind. For the kin of these stubborn
Highland fools, they had none.
So when they saw the girl it was not a question of what they wanted
from her, but only, would there be anyone to witness the act? Their
eyes searched ahead and behind, to either side, then fixed resolutely
on the girl.
Mary observed all of this, but stood rooted to the spot in fear and
disbelief. Surely they could not want her like this, pale and
distraught. Surely they had some conscience. The two riders stopped
just in front of her, addressing each other as if she did not exist.
"What d'ya think?" said the first in a heavy cockney. He was a
smallish, heavy-set man with a nondescript face and yellow teeth.
"Would be a fine catch, and no mistake." His companion, a lean,
dour-looking man with drooping red moustaches, did not at first reply,
but only continued to stare at the object in question.
"I think," he said at length, dismounting. "That I want you to hold my
horse." The smaller man laughed harshly, and spurred his own steed
forward to take hold of the reins.
"Just be sure ya save some for me," he said. "I don't fancy ridin' a
dead horse." The red-haired man began to advance, as Mary backed away
in rising horror.
"Please," she said in a pathetic voice. "Don't do this." But her words
had no effect. The man seized her by the arms, and after a moment's
indecision, threw her to the ground.
And then he was upon her, tearing at the buttons of her dress,
pressing her body hard against the stony track. Writhing in terror,
Mary let out a piercing scream. The man lifted his hand to strike her.
But the blow never fell.
A shadow flashed across her vision, as an indistinct shape flew down
from the rocks above. There was the thud of impact, as the man on top
of her was torn aside. Two men wrestled on the ground beside her. The
one, in rough clothes that fit him badly, quickly gained the upper
hand, pinning the other beneath him. He raised a long knife in his
hand, and with a savage cry, drove the blade home.
But an instant later there came a shot from behind, and the prisoner
fell forward across the man that he had stilled. The second
cavalryman, still mounted, had draw his pistol as soon as he regained
his senses, and waited only for a clear shot at the Highlander.
In the confusion he had lost his grip on the other's horse, which
bolted at the sound. And taking quick stock of the situation, the
cavalryman seemed to feel much the same panic. For he too rode away,
as if the Devil rode behind him. His hoofbeats died slowly in the
distance.
Recovering somewhat from the shock, Mary rose and went to the crumpled
form of her deliverer, to see if anything could be done. The ball had
pierced his back, but perhaps.....
Raising his upper body carefully, she drew him clear of the other.
Then kneeling, she slowly laid him down, causing the fair, curly head
to loll weakly into her lap. She let out a gasp as a familiar face
looked up at her, and said her name with a smile.
"My Mary."
It was James Talbert, her cousin, and companion of her youth. And
though he lay dying, there was yet a look of strained happiness on his
worn, still boyish face.
"James!" she choked through her tears. "You should have just let
them..... Oh. Don't die!"
"Hush, my girl. I don't mind." His words were quiet but distinct. "You
don't know it---" His face clouded with pain, and for a time he was
unable to speak.
"You've done me a kindness," he said finally. "You've given my death
meaning." With this he stiffened, and gave a convulsive shudder. She
feared he was already gone; but after a pause the blue eyes opened
again, and he spoke. "Will you do something for me?"
"Anything," she wept. "Anything."
"Kiss me, Mary." Brushing the tear-stained hair from her face, she did
as he asked.
"Thank you, love..... You're so very sweet..... Too bad you're in love
with that other one, eh?" He tried to wink at her, but his face was
suddenly changed, as crestfallen as the moment before it had been
triumphant. His muscles convulsed from the pain of his mortal wound.
"Kiss me, Mary. I'm gone to a better world."
Trembling, she bent once more to press her lips to his. And when she
rose again, he was gone.
"No
. Dear God, please! It should have been me," she sobbed. "It should
have been me."
She rocked him slowly back and forth, for the second time in her young
life crying the bitter tears of a loved one lost. A heavy silence
reigned about her, and the birds in the heath would not sing.
Fifteen
So it was that Stephen Purceville found her. He had knocked twice on
the door of the hut, with growing impatience until, receiving no
answer to his summons, he kicked it in. There he had found her gone,
the place empty but for a filthy hag who hid her face and said
nothing.
Yet for all his indifference and haste, the momentary glimpse of her
eyes had struck a chord of memory inside him, though he was far too
angry to puzzle it out. His woman (he thought of everything he desired
as his) had betrayed him, gone off, when she knew that he wanted to
see her.
Riding off in a storm of emotion, he came across Sergeant Billings as
he rejoined the main track, who with a scared face spoke of ambush and
treachery, and pointed back along the way he had come. Angered still
further by the intrusion of duty (and reality) upon his romantic
dreams, he forced out of the man what information he could, then
bluntly ordered him to be silent, and follow.
So the two rode west together, and found her still in the same
attitude, holding the body as she would a sick child. She did not at
first seem to hear them approach, till with a vehemence which startled
them both, the young Purceville screamed at her:
"What is the meaning of this!"
Mary turned, as if not understanding what was wanted of her. Her eyes
focused on him with an effort, and she replied slowly, in a voice that
seemed to come from far away: from the bottom of a well.
"Two men are dead, who perhaps desired life. And one who desired death
still lives. What meaning would you have?"
The blankness of her face astonished him. For a brief instant he felt
something akin to genuine horror. What could have happened to
transform the lithe, innocent creature of so few days before? But the
thought could not penetrate deeply, for now the smaller man had begun
to speak.
"You see, Captain, it's just as I told you." He spoke rapidly, eyes
wide and shifting with the obvious lie. "She `ates us. Set a trap for
us she did, acting all seductive like. Then her man jumps down from
the rocks---"
"You shut your mouth!" cried Purceville bitterly. He had seen Mary's
torn dress, and knew how much faith to place in the character of these
men. "Get out of here," he said. "Back to the barracks. And God help
you when I return."
The small man rode off in haste, but did not go where he was sent. As
he struck the high road he turned to the south instead, and fled into
obscurity.
The Englishman dismounted and came closer. His face was a study of
inner conflict, as rage and compassion warred inside him. Mary had
little doubt (nor was she wrong) which side would win.
"Why?" he asked flatly, stopping a few feet away. "Why didn't you wait
for me? If you had. . .none of this would have happened."
The girl slowly lowered the body, then stood to face him. "In the name
of God, Stephen, is there any part of you that isn't utterly cruel? Do
you think I don't know that?" This was too much. Her patience expired,
and she no longer cared for the consequences.
"Am I supposed to feel worse because I also hurt your feelings?
Am I supposed to equate that with the death of two men, one of them my
cousin? Damn you! If you possessed the least sensitivity you'd have
known three days ago there could be nothing romantic between us. And
today. If I had thought for one moment that you would listen to
reason, and let me
explain---"
"What would you explain!" he cried hotly. "That you have been sleeping
with a traitor? That you prefer his filthy Scottish bed to mine? That
you are a whore, like all the others? Well? Why don't you speak!"
"I am very sorry for you," she said at last. "You are blind, as no man
I have ever known. You will never learn, and you will never change."
And with that she turned her back on him.
For a single moment he stood transfixed, loving, and at the same time
hating. . .her
. She knew him as no one else, and had always spoken the truth. But
the words she spoke now were not soothing, were not the gentle words
of comfort he sought. Instead they burned, like salt on an open wound.
Pure, blind hatred rose up inside him, devouring all else. He seized
her by the shoulders, and with the heat of the primal hunger, turned
her towards him. If love would not be gratified, then he would at
least have lust. For the second time that day, Mary looked into the
unseeing eyes of rape. Terror was no longer possible. All she could
feel was despair, and pity. This would be the final, unbearable shame
for them both.
"Stephen, I beg you. In the name of what you once felt for me, and I
for you. Don't do this. Forgive my hard words. I do not hate you. But
this..... This can never be."
"Why not? Why can't it?" He pressed her hard against him. "You know
you want me." His mouth engulfed hers, then moved greedily to the skin
of her throat.
"Stephen, don't
. It's not right!" She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. She
felt his left hand drag her downward, as his right hand worked to free
the remaining buttons.
"Stephen. . .no!" She was on the ground, and he had flung aside his
coat, looming on one knee beside her. Then with a swift movement of
both hands he tore open her slip, the widening V of her dress. Still
further, till the treasures of her body lay exposed. His mouth was
upon her breast, as his hand swept low to engulf her.
"Stephen! For God's sake. . .I'm your sister!"