THE BEND IN THE ROAD
“‘Brave Derwentwater he is dead;
From his fair body they took the head:
But Mackintosh and his friends are fled,
And they’ll set the hat upon another head’”--
chanted the Fair View storekeeper, and looked aside at Mistress
Truelove Taberer, spinning in the doorway of her father’s house.
Truelove answered naught, but her hands went to and fro, and her eyes
were for her work, not for MacLean, sitting on the doorstep at her feet.
“‘And whether they’re gone beyond the sea’”--
The exile broke off and sighed heavily. Before the two a little yard,
all gay with hollyhocks and roses, sloped down to the wider of the two
creeks between which stretched the Fair View plantation. It was late of
a holiday afternoon. A storm was brewing, darkening all the water, and
erecting above the sweep of woods monstrous towers of gray cloud. There
must have been an echo, for MacLean’s sigh came back to him faintly, as
became an echo.
“Is there not peace here, ‘beyond the sea’?” said Truelove softly.
“Thine must be a dreadful country, Angus MacLean!”
The Highlander looked at her with kindling eyes. “Now had I the harp of
old Murdoch!” he said.
“‘Dear is that land to the east,
Alba of the lakes!
Oh, that I might dwell there forever’”--
He turned upon the doorstep, and taking between his fingers the hem
of Truelove’s apron fell to plaiting it. “A woman named Deirdre, who
lived before the days of Gillean-na-Tuaidhe, made that song. She was
not born in that land, but it was dear to her because she dwelt there
with the man whom she loved. They went away, and the man was slain;
and where he was buried, there Deirdre cast herself down and died.”
His voice changed, and all the melancholy of his race, deep, wild, and
tender, looked from his eyes. “If to-day you found yourself in that
loved land, if this parched grass were brown heather, if it stretched
down to a tarn yonder, if that gray cloud that hath all the seeming of
a crag were crag indeed, and eagles plied between the tarn and it,”--he
touched her hand that lay idle now upon her knee,--“if you came like
Deirdre lightly through the heather, and found me lying here, and found
more red than should be in the tartan of the MacLeans, what would you
do, Truelove? What would you cry out, Truelove? How heavy would be thy
heart, Truelove?”
Truelove sat in silence, with her eyes upon the sky above the dream
crags. “How heavy would grow thy heart, Truelove, Truelove?” whispered
the Highlander.
Up the winding water, to the sedges and reeds below the little yard,
glided the boy Ephraim in his boat. The Quakeress started, and the
color flamed into her gentle face. She took up the distaff that she had
dropped, and fell to work again. “Thee must not speak to me so, Angus
MacLean,” she said. “I trust that my heart is not hard. Thy death would
grieve me, and my father and my mother and Ephraim”--
“I care not for thy father and mother and Ephraim!” MacLean began
impetuously. “But you do right to chide me. Once I knew a green glen
where maidens were fain when paused at their doors Angus, son of
Hector, son of Lachlan, son of Murdoch, son of Angus that was named for
Angus Mor, who was great-grandson of Hector of the Battles, who was son
of Lachlan Lubanach! But here I am a landless man, with none to do me
honor,--a wretch bereft of liberty”--
“To me, to all Friends,” said Truelove sweetly, halting a little in her
work, “thee has now what thee thyself calls freedom. For God meant not
that one of his creatures should say to another: ‘Lo, here am I! Behold
thy God!’ To me, and my father and mother and Ephraim, thee is no bond
servant of Marmaduke Haward. But thee is bond servant to thy own vain
songs; thy violent words; thy idle pride, that, vaunting the cruel
deeds of thy forefathers, calls meekness and submission the last worst
evil; thy shameless reverence for those thy fellow creatures, James
Stewart and him whom thee calls the chief of thy house,--forgetting
that there is but one house, and that God is its head; thy love of
clamor and warfare; thy hatred of the ways of peace”--
MacLean laughed. “I hate not all its ways. There is no hatred in my
heart for this house which is its altar, nor for the priestess of the
altar. Ah! now you frown, Truelove”--
Across the clouds ran so fierce a line of gold that Truelove, startled,
put her hand before her eyes. Another dart of lightning, a low roll of
thunder, a bending apart of the alder bushes on the far side of the
creek; then a woman’s voice calling to the boy in the boat to come
ferry her over.
“Who may that be?” asked Truelove wonderingly.
It was only a little way to the bending alders. Ephraim rowed across
the glassy water, dark beneath the approach of the storm; the woman
stepped into the boat, and the tiny craft came lightly back to its
haven beneath the bank.
“It is Darden’s Audrey,” said the storekeeper.
Truelove shrank a little, and her eyes darkened. “Why should she
come here? I never knew her. It is true that we may not think evil,
but--but”--
MacLean moved restlessly. “I have seen the girl but twice,” he said.
“Once she was alone, once--It is my friend of whom I think. I know
what they say, but, by St. Kattan! I hold him a gentleman too high of
mind, too noble--There was a tale I used to hear when I was a boy. A
long, long time ago a girl lived in the shadow of the tower of Duart,
and the chief looked down from his walls and saw her. Afterwards they
walked together by the shore and through the glens, and he cried her
health when he drank in his hall, sitting amongst his tacksmen. Then
what the men whispered the women spoke aloud; and so, more quickly
than the tarie is borne, word went to a man of the MacDonalds who
loved the Duart maiden. Not like a lover to his tryst did he come. In
the handle of his dirk the rich stones sparkled as they rose and fell
with the rise and fall of the maiden’s white bosom. She prayed to die
in his arms; for it was not Duart that she loved, but him. She died,
and they snooded her hair and buried her. Duart went overseas; the man
of the MacDonalds killed himself. It was all wrought with threads of
gossamer,--idle fancy, shrugs, smiles, whispers, slurring speech,--and
it was long ago. But there is yet gossamer to be had for the gathering;
it gleams on every hand these summer mornings.”
By now Darden’s Audrey had left the boat and was close upon them.
MacLean arose, and Truelove hastily pushed aside her wheel. “Is thee
seeking shelter from the storm?” she asked tremulously, and with her
cheeks as pink as a seashell. “Will thee sit here with us? The storm
will not break yet awhile.”
Audrey heeded her not, her eyes being for MacLean. She had been
running,--running more swiftly than for a thousand May Day guineas.
Even now, though her breath came short, every line of her slender
figure was tense, and she was ready to be off like an arrow. “You are
Mr. Haward’s friend?” she cried. “I have heard him say that you were
so--call you a brave gentleman”--
MacLean’s dark face flushed. “Yes, we are friends,--I thank God for it.
What have you to do with that, my lass?”
“I also am his friend,” said Audrey, coming nearer. Her hands were
clasped, her bosom heaving. “Listen! To-day I was sent on an errand
to a house far up this creek. Coming back, I took the short way home
through the woods because of the storm. It led me past the schoolhouse
down by the big swamp. I thought that no one was there, and I went
and sat down upon the steps to rest a moment. The door behind me was
partly open. Then I heard two voices: the schoolmaster and Jean Hugon
were inside--close to me--talking. I would have run away, but I heard
Mr. Haward’s name.” Her hand went to her heart, and she drew a sobbing
breath.
“Well!” cried MacLean sharply.
“Mr. Haward went yesterday to Williamsburgh--alone--without Juba. He
rides back--alone--to Fair View late this afternoon--he is riding now.
You know the sharp bend in the road, with the steep bank above and the
pond below?”
“Ay, where the road nears the river. Well?”
“I heard all that Hugon and the schoolmaster said. I hid behind a
fallen tree and watched them leave the schoolhouse; then I followed
them, making no noise, back to the creek, where Hugon had a boat. They
crossed the creek, and fastened the boat on this side. I could follow
them no farther; the woods hid them; but they have gone downstream to
that bend in the road. Hugon had his hunting-knife and pistols; the
schoolmaster carried a coil of rope.” She flung back her head, and
her hands went to her throat as though she were stifling. “The turn
in the road is very sharp. Just past the bend they will stretch the
rope from side to side, fastening it to two trees. He will be hurrying
home before the bursting of the storm--he will be riding the planter’s
pace”--
“Man and horse will come crashing down!” cried the storekeeper, with a
great oath “And then”--
“Hugon’s knife, so there will be no noise.... They think he has gold
upon him: that is for the schoolmaster.... Hugon is an Indian, and he
will hide their trail. Men will think that some outlying slave was in
the woods, and set upon and killed him.”
Her voice broke; then went on, gathering strength: “It was so late, and
I knew that he would ride fast because of the storm. I remembered this
house, and thought that, if I called, some one might come and ferry
me over the creek. Now I will run through the woods to the road, for
I must reach it before he passes on his way to where they wait.” She
turned her face toward the pine wood beyond the house.
“Ay, that is best!” agreed the storekeeper. “Warned, he can take the
long way home, and Hugon and this other may be dealt with at his
leisure. Come, my girl; there’s no time to lose.”
They left behind them the creek, the blooming dooryard, the small
white house, and the gentle Quakeress. The woods received them, and
they came into a world of livid greens and grays dashed here and there
with ebony,--a world that, expectant of the storm, had caught and was
holding its breath. Save for the noise of their feet upon dry leaves
that rustled like paper, the wood was soundless. The light that lay
within it, fallen from skies of iron, was wild and sinister; there was
no air, and the heat wrapped them like a mantle. So motionless were all
things, so fixed in quietude each branch and bough, each leaf or twig
or slender needle of the pine, that they seemed to be fleeing through a
wood of stone, jade and malachite, emerald and agate.
They hurried on, not wasting breath in speech. Now and again MacLean
glanced aside at the girl, who kept beside him, moving as lightly as
presently would move the leaves when the wind arose. He remembered
certain scurrilous words spoken in the store a week agone by a knot of
purchasers, but when he looked at her face he thought of the Highland
maiden whose story he had told. As for Audrey, she saw not the woods
that she loved, heard not the leaves beneath her feet, knew not if the
light were gold or gray. She saw only a horse and rider riding from
Williamsburgh, heard only the rapid hoofbeats. All there was of her was
one dumb prayer for the rider’s safety. Her memory told her that it
was no great distance to the road, but her heart cried out that it was
so far away,--so far away! When the wood thinned, and they saw before
them the dusty strip, pallid and lonely beneath the storm clouds, her
heart leaped within her; then grew sick for fear that he had gone by.
When they stood, ankle-deep in the dust, she looked first toward the
north, and then to the south. Nothing moved; all was barren, hushed,
and lonely.
“How can we know? How can we know?” she cried, and wrung her hands.
MacLean’s keen eyes were busily searching for any sign that a horseman
had lately passed that way. At a little distance above them a shallow
stream of some width flowed across the way, and to this the Highlander
hastened, looked with attention at the road-bed where it emerged from
the water, then came back to Audrey with a satisfied air. “There are no
hoof-prints,” he said. “No marks upon the dust. None can have passed
for some hours.”
A rotted log, streaked with velvet moss and blotched with fan-shaped,
orange-colored fungi, lay by the wayside, and the two sat down upon it
to wait for the coming horseman. Overhead the thunder was rolling, but
there was as yet no breath of wind, no splash of raindrops. Opposite
them rose a gigantic pine, towering above the forest, red-brown trunk
and ultimate cone of deep green foliage alike outlined against the dead
gloom of the sky. Audrey shook back her heavy hair and raised her face
to the roof of the world; her hands were clasped upon her knee; her
bare feet, slim and brown, rested on a carpet of moss; she was as still
as the forest, of which, to the Highlander, she suddenly seemed a part.
When they had kept silence for what seemed a long time, he spoke to her
with some hesitation: “You have known Mr. Haward but a short while; the
months are very few since he came from England.”
The name brought Audrey down to earth again. “Did you not know?” she
asked wonderingly. “You also are his friend,--you see him often. I
thought that at times he would have spoken of me.” For a moment her
face was troubled, though only for a moment. “But I know why he did
not so,” she said softly to herself. “He is not one to speak of his
good deeds.” She turned toward MacLean, who was attentively watching
her, “But I may speak of them,” she said, with pride. “I have known Mr.
Haward for years and years. He saved my life; he brought me here from
the Indian country; he was, he is, so kind to me!”
Since the afternoon beneath the willow-tree, Haward, while encouraging
her to speak of her long past, her sylvan childhood, her dream
memories, had somewhat sternly checked every expression of gratitude
for the part which he himself had played or was playing, in the drama
of her life. Walking in the minister’s orchard, sitting in the garden
or upon the terrace of Fair View house, drifting on the sunset river,
he waved that aside, and went on to teach her another lesson. The
teaching was exquisite; but when the lesson for the day was over,
and he was alone, he sat with one whom he despised. The learning was
exquisite; it was the sweetest song, but she knew not its name, and
the words were in a strange tongue. She was Audrey, that she knew; and
he,--he was the plumed knight, who, for the lack of a better listener,
told her gracious tales of love, showed her how warm and beautiful was
this world that she sometimes thought so sad, sang to her sweet lines
that poets had made. Over and through all she thought she read the name
of the princess. She had heard him say that with the breaking of the
heat he should go to Westover, and one day, early in summer, he had
shown her the miniature of Evelyn Byrd. Because she loved him blindly,
and because he was wise in his generation, her trust in him was
steadfast as her native hills, large as her faith in God. Now it was
sweet beneath her tongue to be able to tell one that was his friend how
worthy of all friendship--nay, all reverence--he was. She spoke simply,
but with that strange power of expression which nature had given her.
Gestures with her hands, quick changes in the tone of her voice, a
countenance that gave ample utterance to the moment’s thought,--as one
morning in the Fair View library she had brought into being that long
dead Eloïsa whose lines she spoke, so now her auditor of to-day thought
that he saw the things of which she told.
She had risen, and was standing in the wild light, against the
background of the forest that was breathless, as if it too listened,
“And so he brought me safely to this land,” she said. “And so he left
me here for ten years, safe and happy, he thought. He has told me that
all that while he thought of me as safe and happy. That I was not
so,--why, that was not his fault! When he came back I was both. I have
never seen the sunshine so bright or the woods so fair as they have
been this summer. The people with whom I live are always kind to me
now,--that is his doing. And ah! it is because he would not let Hugon
scare or harm me that that wicked Indian waits for him now beyond the
bend in the road.” At the thought of Hugon she shuddered, and her eyes
began to widen. “Have we not been here a long time?” she cried. “Are
you sure? Oh, God! perhaps he has passed!”
“No, no,” answered MacLean, with his hand upon her arm. “There is
no sign that he has done so. It is not late; it is that heavy cloud
above our heads that has so darkened the air. Perhaps he has not left
Williamsburgh at all: perhaps, the storm threatening, he waits until
to-morrow.”
From the cloud above came a blinding light and a great crash of
thunder,--the one so intense, the other so tremendous, that for a
minute the two stood as if stunned. Then, “The tree!” cried Audrey.
The great pine, blasted and afire, uprooted itself and fell from them
like a reed that the wind has snapped. The thunder crash, and the din
with which the tree met its fellows of the forest, bore them down, and
finally struck the earth from which it came, seemed an alarum to waken
all nature from its sleep. The thunder became incessant, and the wind
suddenly arising the forest stretched itself and began to speak with no
uncertain voice. MacLean took his seat again upon the log, but Audrey
slipped into the road, and stood in the whirling dust, her arm raised
above her eyes, looking for the horseman whose approach she could not
hope to hear through the clamor of the storm. The wind lifted her long
hair, and the rising dust half obscured her form, bent against the
blast. On the lonesome road, in the partial light, she had the seeming
of an apparition, a creature tossed like a ball from the surging
forest. She had made herself a world, and she had become its product.
In all her ways, to the day of her death, there was about her a touch
of mirage, illusion, fantasy. The Highlander, imaginative like all his
race, and a believer in things not of heaven nor of earth, thought of
spirits of the glen and the shore.
There was no rain as yet; only the hurly-burly of the forest, the white
dust cloud, and the wild commotion overhead. Audrey turned to MacLean,
watching her in silence. “He is coming!” she cried. “There is some one
with him. Now, now he is safe!”