Highland Ballad Part 5

"But it was more than even that. In his meanness and baseness he knew, in some measure, what it was I felt for him, and it gave him a twisted satisfaction to be admired and cherished by a native la.s.s, who meant to him less than nothing." Again she paused, as if herself overwhelmed by the memory.

"In time I became pregnant," she said, in a voice almost sad. "And all my confused, forlorn affection became the more profound. For he had stirred inside me what even John could not: a child of my own.

"So on the last night that he came to me, as we lay panting side by side---for I had not resisted him..... I looked over at him in the gentle candlelight, and with the trembling emotions of a lifetime, told him that I loved him, loved his son, and now would bear his child. To think that in that moment I half fancied he would take me in his arms, and ask me to marry him.

"He laughed at me! So utterly cold and cruel. Then as he came back to himself he seized me by the wrists, and swore that no child of his would be born to a scheming s.l.u.t---his very words---the likes of me. And he beat me, as if trying to snuff out the lives of both of us. I honestly believe he would have done it, if fear of losing his position had not intervened.

"Then he dragged me by the hair, down the long hallway, and threw me out into the cold Winter night, with only the torn nightdress wrapped about my battered limbs. The last words he said as I ran from the house in tears, were that if anyone ever learned the child was his, he would kill us both. And he meant it."

Mary was crying now for both of them, feeling as if she, too, had been beaten and raped. "How could he?" was all she could manage.

"How?" asked the old woman, half mocking, half in earnest. "For a man like that it was as easy as breathing.

'The shark will strike

and the spider spin,

The mad dog kill, and kill again Until he is killed in his turn.'

Remember that, Mary. It is the way of things."

"But why....." It seemed almost cruel to ask, but she had to. "Why the charade of my being Anne's child? Why couldn't you and I have had each other, at least?"

"Aye, that. Well." And for the first time that night, through all the gruesome details, the woman found herself at a loss, as if this alone still caused in her something akin to remorse. "At first it was the family honor. It was as easy to cloister the two of us, as one. And then.

"I tried to poison myself a short time after you were born, as only your life inside me had prevented my doing before. As much as I wanted to love and care for you, as the innocent babe you were.....

"It all became too much for me, Mary, and my brother's death was the final blow. I just wanted it to end. They say I went quite mad for a time, if endless loss, and a death-like sense of oppression be madness.

"The surviving family, the Talberts, then considered me an unfit guardian. And with the coming of dark times it was difficult to blame them, or disagree..... And so I gave you up---"

She had to stop, because the girl had risen beside her in the bed, and this time in deepest earnest, wrapped her arms about the withered neck, weeping as if there were nothing left in all the world. The old woman (old and haggard at fifty) felt a moment of weakness. She wanted to cry herself, to give, and receive comfort in return. But the tears would not come.

Then she remembered the man, and was silent.

And more than anything else Mary had heard or experienced that night, this simple non-action, and the three words the witch finally uttered.

. . brought home to her the full brutality, and continuing tragedy of her mother's life.

"He will pay."

As the rain beat relentlessly, and the wind howled through the barren pa.s.s.

Nine

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 n.o.ble birth ent.i.tled 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 grat.i.tude 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 ent.i.tled, 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, rea.s.suring 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 fas.h.i.+on 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, b.u.t.toning 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, la.s.s. 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?"