BY THE RIVERSIDE
“Yea, I am glad--I and my father and mother and Ephraim--that thee is
returned to Fair View,” answered Truelove. “And has thee truly no shoes
of plain and sober stuffs? These be much too gaudy.”
“There’s a pair of black callimanco,” said the storekeeper reluctantly;
“but these of flowered silk would so become your feet, or this
red-heeled pair with the buckles, or this of fine morocco. Did you
think of me every day that I spent in Williamsburgh?”
“I prayed for thee every day,” said Truelove simply,--“for thee and for
the sick man who had called thee to his side. Let me see thy callimanco
shoes. Thee knows that I may not wear these others.”
The storekeeper brought the plainest footgear that his stock afforded.
“They are of a very small size,--perhaps too small. Had you not better
try them ere you buy? I could get a larger pair from Mr. Carter’s
store.”
Truelove seated herself upon a convenient stool, and lifted her gray
skirt an inch above a slender ankle. “Perchance they may not be too
small,” she said, and in despite of her training and the whiteness of
her soul two dimples made their appearance above the corners of her
pretty mouth. MacLean knelt to remove the worn shoe, but found in the
shoestrings an obstinate knot. The two had the store to themselves;
for Ephraim waited for his sister at the landing, rocking in his boat
on the bosom of the river, watching a flight of wild geese drawn like
a snowy streamer across the dark blue sky. It was late autumn, and the
forest was dressed in flame color.
“Thy fingers move so slowly that I fear thee is not well,” said
Truelove kindly. “They that have nursed men with fever do often fall
ill themselves. Will thee not see a physician?”
MacLean, sanguine enough in hue, and no more gaunt of body than usual,
worked languidly on. “I trust no lowland physician,” he said. “In my
own country, if I had need, I would send to the foot of Dun-da-gu for
black Murdoch, whose fathers have been physicians to the MacLeans of
Duart since the days of Galethus. The little man in this parish,--his
father was a lawyer, his grandfather a merchant; he knows not what was
his great-grandfather! There, the shoe is untied! If I came every day
to your father’s house, and if your mother gave me to drink of her
elder-flower wine, and if I might sit on the sunny doorstep and watch
you at your spinning, I should, I think, recover.”
He slipped upon her foot the shoe of black cloth. Truelove regarded it
gravely. “’Tis not too small, after all,” she said. “And does thee not
think it more comely than these other, with their silly pomp of colored
heels and blossoms woven in the silk?” She indicated with her glance
the vainglorious row upon the bench beside her; then looked down at the
little foot in its sombre covering and sighed.
“I think that thy foot would be fair in the shoe of Donald Ross!” cried
the storekeeper, and kissed the member which he praised.
Truelove drew back, her cheeks very pink, and the dimples quite
uncertain whether to go or stay. “Thee is idle in thy behavior,” she
said severely. “I do think that thee is of the generation that will not
learn. I pray thee to expeditiously put back my own shoe, and to give
me in a parcel the callimanco pair.”
MacLean set himself to obey, though with the expedition of a tortoise.
Crisp autumn air and vivid sunshine pouring in at window and door
filled and lit the store. The doorway framed a picture of blue sky,
slow-moving water, and ragged landing; the window gave upon crimson
sumac and the gold of a sycamore. Truelove, in her gray gown and close
white cap, sat in the midst of the bouquet of colors afforded by the
motley lining of the Fair View store, and gazed through the window at
the riotous glory of this world. At last she looked at MacLean. “When,
a year ago, thee was put to mind this store, and I, coming here to buy,
made thy acquaintance,” she said softly, “thee wore always so stern
and sorrowful a look that my heart bled for thee. I knew that thee was
unhappy. Is thee unhappy still?”
MacLean tied the shoestrings with elaborate care; then rose from his
knees, and stood looking down from his great height upon the Quaker
maiden. His face was softened, and when he spoke it was with a gentle
voice. “No,” he said, “I am not unhappy as at first I was. My king is
an exile, and my chief is forfeited. I suppose that my father is dead.
Ewin Mackinnon, my foe upon whom I swore revenge, lived untroubled by
me, and died at another’s hands. My country is closed against me; I
shall never see it more. I am named a rebel, and chained to this soil,
this dull and sluggish land, where from year’s end to year’s end the
key keeps the house and the furze bush keeps the cow. The best years
of my manhood--years in which I should have acquired honor--have gone
from me here. There was a man of my name amongst those gentlemen,
old officers of Dundee, who in France did not disdain to serve as
private sentinels, that their maintenance might not burden a king as
unfortunate as themselves. That MacLean fell in the taking of an island
in the Rhine which to this day is called the Island of the Scots, so
bravely did these gentlemen bear themselves. They made their lowly
station honorable; marshals and princes applauded their deeds. The man
of my name was unfortunate, but not degraded; his life was not amiss,
and his death was glorious. But I, Angus MacLean, son and brother of
chieftains, I serve as a slave; giving obedience where in nature it
is not due, laboring in an alien land for that which profiteth not,
looking to die peacefully in my bed! I should be no less than most
unhappy.”
He sat down upon the bench beside Truelove, and taking the hem of
her apron began to plait it between his fingers. “But to-day,” he
said,--“but to-day the sky seems blue, the sunshine bright. Why is
that, Truelove?”
Truelove, with her eyes cast down and a deeper wild rose in her cheeks,
opined that it was because Friend Marmaduke Haward was well of his
fever, and had that day returned to Fair View. “Friend Lewis Contesse
did tell my father, when he was in Williamsburgh, that thee made a
tenderer nurse than any woman, and that he did think that Marmaduke
Haward owed his life to thee. I am glad that thee has made friends with
him whom men foolishly call thy master.”
“Credit to that the blue sky,” said the storekeeper whimsically; “there
is yet the sunshine to be accounted for. This room did not look so
bright half an hour syne.”
But Truelove shook her head, and would not reckon further; instead
heard Ephraim calling, and gently drew her apron from the Highlander’s
clasp. “There will be a meeting of Friends at our house next fourth
day,” she said, in her most dovelike tones, as she rose and held out
her hand for her new shoes. “Will thee come, Angus? Thee will be
edified, for Friend Sarah Story, who hath the gift of prophecy, will be
there, and we do think to hear of great things. Thee will come?”
“By St. Kattan, that will I!” exclaimed the storekeeper, with
suspicious readiness. “The meeting lasts not long, does it? When the
Friends are gone there will be reward? I mean I may sit on the doorstep
and watch you--and watch _thee_--spin?”
Truelove dimpled once more, took her shoes, and would have gone her way
sedately and alone, but MacLean must needs keep her company to the end
of the landing and the waiting Ephraim. The latter, as he rowed away
from the Fair View store, remarked upon his sister’s looks: “What makes
thy cheeks so pink, Truelove, and thy eyes so big and soft?”
Truelove did not know; thought that mayhap ’twas the sunshine and the
blowing wind.
The sun still shone, but the wind had fallen, when, two hours later,
MacLean pocketed the key of the store, betook himself again to the
water’s edge, and entering a small boat, first turned it sunwise for
luck’s sake, then rowed slowly downstream to the great-house landing.
Here he found a handful of negroes--boatmen and house servants--basking
in the sunlight. Juba was of the number, and at MacLean’s call
scrambled to his feet and came to the head of the steps. “No, sah,
Marse Duke not on de place. He order Mirza an’ ride off”--a pause--“an’
ride off to de glebe house. Yes, sah, I done tol’ him he ought to rest.
Goin’ to wait tel he come back?”
“No,” answered MacLean, with a darkened face. “Tell him I will come to
the great house to-night.”
In effect, the storekeeper was now, upon Fair View plantation, master
of his own time and person. Therefore, when he left the landing, he
did not row back to the store, but, it being pleasant upon the water,
kept on downstream, gliding beneath the drooping branches of red and
russet and gold. When he came to the mouth of the little creek that ran
past Haward’s garden, he rested upon his oars, and with a frowning face
looked up its silver reaches.
The sun was near its setting, and a still and tranquil light lay
upon the river that was glassy smooth. Rowing close to the bank, the
Highlander saw through the gold fretwork of the leaves above him far
spaces of pale blue sky. All was quiet, windless, listlessly fair. A
few birds were on the wing, and far toward the opposite shore an idle
sail seemed scarce to hold its way. Presently the trees gave place to a
grassy shore, rimmed by a fiery vine that strove to cool its leaves in
the flood below. Behind it was a little rise of earth, a green hillock,
fresh and vernal in the midst of the flame-colored autumn. In shape it
was like those hills in his native land which the Highlander knew to be
tenanted by the _daoine shi’_ the men of peace. There, in glittering
chambers beneath the earth, they dwelt, a potent, eerie, gossamer folk,
and thence, men and women, they issued at times to deal balefully with
the mortal race.
A woman was seated upon the hillock, quiet as a shadow, her head
resting on her hand, her eyes upon the river. Dark-haired, dark-eyed,
slight of figure, and utterly, mournfully still, sitting alone in the
fading light, with the northern sky behind her, for the moment she wore
to the Highlander an aspect not of earth, and he was startled. Then
he saw that it was but Darden’s Audrey. She watched the water where
it gleamed far off, and did not see him in his boat below the scarlet
vines. Nor when, after a moment’s hesitation, he fastened the boat to a
cedar stump, and stepped ashore, did she pay any heed. It was not until
he spoke to her, standing where he could have touched her with his
outstretched hand, that she moved or looked his way.
“How long since you left the glebe house?” he demanded abruptly.
“The sun was high,” she answered, in a slow, even voice, with no sign
of surprise at finding herself no longer alone. “I have been sitting
here for a long time. I thought that Hugon might be coming this
afternoon.... There is no use in hiding, but I thought if I stole down
here he might not find me very soon.”
Her voice died away, and she looked again at the water. The storekeeper
sat down upon the bank, between the hillock and the fiery vine, and
his keen eyes watched her closely. “The river,” she said at last,--“I
like to watch it. There was a time when I loved the woods, but now I
see that they are ugly. Now, when I can steal away, I come to the river
always. I watch it and watch it, and think.... All that you give it is
taken so surely, and hurried away, and buried out of sight forever. A
little while ago I pulled a spray of farewell summer, and went down
there where the bank shelves and gave it to the river. It was gone in a
moment for all that the stream seems so stealthy and slow.”
“The stream comes from afar,” said the Highlander. “In the west,
beneath the sun, it may be a torrent flashing through the mountains.”
“The mountains!” cried Audrey. “Ah, they are uglier than the
woods,--black and terrible! Once I loved them, too, but that was long
ago.” She put her chin upon her hand, and again studied the river.
“Long ago,” she said, beneath her breath.
There was a silence; then, “Mr. Haward is at Fair View again,”
announced the storekeeper.
The girl’s face twitched.
“He has been nigh to death,” went on her informant. “There were days
when I looked for no morrow for him; one night when I held above his
lips a mirror, and hardly thought to see the breath-stain.”
Audrey laughed. “He can fool even Death, can he not?” The laugh was
light and mocking, a tinkling, elvish sound which the Highlander
frowned to hear. A book, worn and dog-eared, lay near her on the grass.
He took it up and turned the leaves; then put it by, and glanced
uneasily at the slender, brown-clad form seated upon the fairy mound.
“That is strange reading,” he said.
Audrey looked at the book listlessly. “The schoolmaster gave it to me.
It tells of things as they are, all stripped of make-believe, and shows
how men love only themselves, and how ugly and mean is the world when
we look at it aright. The schoolmaster says that to look at it aright
you must not dream; you must stay awake,”--she drew her hand across her
brow and eyes,--“you must stay awake.”
“I had rather dream,” said MacLean shortly. “I have no love for your
schoolmaster.”
“He is a wise man,” she answered. “Now that I do not like the woods I
listen to him when he comes to the glebe house. If I remember all he
says, maybe I shall grow wise, also, and the pain will stop.” Once more
she dropped her chin upon her hand and fell to brooding, her eyes upon
the river. When she spoke again it was to herself: “Sometimes of nights
I hear it calling me. Last night, while I knelt by my window, it called
so loud that I put my hands over my ears; but I could not keep out the
sound,--the sound of the river that comes from the mountains, that goes
to the sea. And then I saw that there was a light in Fair View house.”
Her voice ceased, and the silence closed in around them. The sun was
setting, and in the west were purple islands merging into a sea of
gold. The river, too, was colored, and every tree was like a torch
burning stilly in the quiet of the evening. For some time MacLean
watched the girl, who now again seemed unconscious of his presence;
but at last he got to his feet, and looked toward his boat. “I must be
going,” he said; then, as Audrey raised her head and the light struck
upon her face, he continued more kindly than one would think so stern a
seeming man could speak: “I am sorry for you, my maid. God knows that I
should know how dreadful are the wounds of the spirit! Should you need
a friend”--
Audrey shook her head. “No more friends,” she said, and laughed as she
had laughed before. “They belong in dreams. When you are awake,--that
is a different thing.”
The storekeeper went his way, back to the Fair View store, rowing
slowly, with a grim and troubled face, while Darden’s Audrey sat still
upon the green hillock and watched the darkening river. Behind her,
at no great distance, was the glebe house; more than once she thought
she heard Hugon coming through the bushes and calling her by name. The
river darkened more and more, and in the west the sea of gold changed
to plains of amethyst and opal. There was a crescent moon, and Audrey,
looking at it with eyes that ached for the tears that would not gather,
knew that once she would have found it fair.
Hugon was coming, for she heard the twigs upon the path from the glebe
house snap beneath his tread. She did not turn or move; she would see
him soon enough, hear him soon enough. Presently his black eyes would
look into hers; it would be bird and snake over again, and the bird
was tired of fluttering. The bird was so tired that when a hand was
laid on her shoulder she did not writhe herself from under its touch;
instead only shuddered slightly, and stared with wide eyes at the
flowing river. But the hand was white, with a gleaming ring upon its
forefinger, and it stole down to clasp her own. “Audrey,” said a voice
that was not Hugon’s.
The girl flung back her head, saw Haward’s face bending over her, and
with a loud cry sprang to her feet. When he would have touched her
again she recoiled, putting between them a space of green grass. “I
have hunted you for an hour,” he began. “At last I struck this path.
Audrey”--
Audrey’s hands went to her ears. Step by step she moved backward, until
she stood against the trunk of a blood-red oak. When she saw that
Haward followed her she uttered a terrified scream. At the sound and at
the sight of her face he stopped short, and his outstretched hand fell
to his side. “Why, Audrey, Audrey!” he exclaimed. “I would not hurt
you, child. I am not Jean Hugon!”
The narrow path down which he had come was visible for some distance
as it wound through field and copse, and upon it there now appeared
another figure, as yet far off, but moving rapidly through the fading
light toward the river. “Jean! Jean! Jean Hugon!” cried Audrey.
The blood rushed to Haward’s face. “As bad as that!” he said, beneath
his breath. Going over to the girl, he took her by the hands and strove
to make her look at him; but her face was like marble, and her eyes
would not meet his, and in a moment she had wrenched herself free of
his clasp. “Jean Hugon! Help, Jean Hugon!” she called.
The half-breed in the distance heard her voice, and began to run toward
them.
“Audrey, listen to me!” cried Haward. “How can I speak to you, how
explain, how entreat, when you are like this? Child, child, I am
no monster! Why do you shrink from me thus, look at me thus with
frightened eyes? You know that I love you!”
She broke from him with lifted hands and a wailing cry. “Let me go! Let
me go! I am running through the corn, in the darkness, and I hope to
meet the Indians! I am awake,--oh, God! I am wide awake!”
With another cry, and with her hands shutting out the sound of his
voice, she turned and fled toward the approaching trader. Haward, after
one deep oath and an impetuous, quickly checked movement to follow
the flying figure, stood beneath the oak and watched that meeting:
Hugon, in his wine-colored coat and Blenheim wig, fierce, inquisitive,
bragging of what he might do; the girl suddenly listless, silent, set
only upon an immediate return through the fields to the glebe house.
She carried her point, and the two went away without let or hindrance
from the master of Fair View, who leaned against the stem of the oak
and watched them go. He had been very ill, and the hour’s search,
together with this unwonted beating of his heart, had made him
desperately weary,--too weary to do aught but go slowly and without
overmuch of thought to the spot where he had left his horse, mount
it, and ride as slowly homeward. To-morrow, he told himself, he would
manage differently; at least, she should be made to hear him. In
the mean time there was the night to be gotten through. MacLean, he
remembered, was coming to the great house. What with wine and cards,
thought might for a time be pushed out of doors.