Читать книгу Collected Works (Historical Novel) - D. K. Broster - Страница 77

Next morning had come. There was not a sound from the men and women kneeling in the cold light upon the sand and grass; nothing but the indrawn breath of the sea, now and then a gull’s cry, and that old, clear, steady voice. It was at the Epistle that some intense quality in it first riveted Ewen’s attention: ‘and forgiving one another, if any man have a quarrel against you; even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye’. Had not these simple, reverent people much to forgive their oppressors?

The altar stood in the doorway of a cottage; it was only the rough table of common use covered with a coarse, clean cloth. A fisherman’s lantern had been placed at either end, for it was not yet very light. Mr. Oliphant wore the usual preacher’s black gown and a stole, nothing else of priestly vestment: there were no accessories of any kind, nothing but what was poor and bare and even makeshift—nothing but the Rite itself.

Just before the consecration the sun rose. And when, with the rest, Ewen knelt in the sand before that rude, transfigured threshold, he thought of Bethlehem; and then of Gennesaret. And afterwards, looking round at the little congregation, fisherfolk and crofters all, he wondered when these deprived and faithful souls would taste that Bread again. Not for years, perhaps. And when would he, scarcely in better case—and in whose company?

He was to remember this strange and peaceful Eucharist when that day came and brought one still stranger.

* * * * *

Ardroy could not help Mr. Oliphant in his ministrations, so he went out fishing with some of the men on that sea which for once had none of the violence of winter. Gleams of sunshine chased each other on the peaks of Rum, and all the day seemed to keep the serenity of its opening. That evening, his last there, Mr. Oliphant preached on the Gospel for the day, on the parable of the tares, and this time Ewen was among the congregation. Yes, one had to be denied the exercise of one’s religion truly to value it, to listen hungrily as he found himself listening. He had not so listened to Mr. Hay’s discourses, good man though he was, in the days when Episcopalian worship was tolerated.

Next morning, after a moving scene of leave-taking, the old priest left Kilmory under Ewen’s escort. Many of his temporary flock would have desired to come part of the way with him, but it was judged wiser not to risk attracting attention. Mr. Oliphant now meaning to visit Salen, on Loch Sunart, and Strontian, Ardroy intended to go with him as far as Salen; and he had a further plan, which he developed as they walked, that after he had visited Sunart and Ardgour Mr. Oliphant should follow him into Appin, staying with Mr. Stewart of Invernacree, where, all Stewarts of that region being, as their religious and political opponents put it, ‘madly devoted to the Episcopal clergy’ he would be sure of a most ready welcome.

They were discussing this plan as they went along the side of Loch Mudle, where the road led above the little lake in wild, deer-haunted country. The water had a pleasant air this morning, grey winter’s day though it was, and the travellers stopped to look at it.

“To tell truth,” said Mr. Oliphant, “I was not aware that Ardnamurchan possessed any loch of this size. It minds me a little of——”

He stopped, for Ewen had gripped his arm. “Forgive me, sir; but I heard just then a sound not unlike a groan. Could it be?”

They both listened intently. For a while there was nothing but the silence which, in very lonely places, seems itself to have the quality of noise. Then the sound came again, faint and despairing, and this time Mr. Oliphant too heard it. It was not easy to be sure of its direction, but it appeared to come from the tree-covered slope above them, so Ewen sprang up this and began to search among the leafless bushes, helped after a moment or two by catching sight of a gleam of scarlet. That colour told him what he was going to find. He climbed a little higher, parted the stems, took one look at the figure sprawled in a tangle of faded bracken, and called down to his companion.

“Mr. Oliphant—here he is . . . and it must be the missing officer from Mingary Castle.” Then he pushed his way through and knelt down by the unfortunate man.

It seemed a marvel that he was still alive. One arm was shattered, the white facings of his uniform were pierced and bloodstained, and half his face—not a young face—was a mask of blood. Yet he was semi-conscious, his eyes were partly open, and between the faint moans which had drawn attention to him he uttered again and again the word ‘water’. From the condition of the fern round him it looked as if he had tried to drag himself along to the tiny streamlet which could just be heard whispering down at a little distance. But he had never got there.

“Is this murder, think you?” asked Mr. Oliphant in a horrified voice. “Ah, you have some brandy with you; thank God for that!”

But Ewen had by now caught sight of something lying a little way off. “No, sir, not murder; nor has he been gored by a stag, as I thought at first. ’Tis a burst fowling-piece has done it—there it lies. And he has been here, poor wretch, nearly two days!”

They wetted the dried, blackened lips with brandy and tried to get a little down the injured man’s throat, but he seemed unable to swallow, and Mr. Oliphant feared that the spirit might choke him. “Try water first, Mr. Cameron,” he suggested, “if you can contrive to bring some in your hands from the burn there.”

Holding his hollowed palms carefully together, Ewen brought it.

“We must, by some means or other, inform the garrison of Mingary at once,” said the old priest, carefully supporting the ghastly head. “I wish we had Callum with us; speed is of the first importance. Shall I lower his head a little?”

“Yes, it would be better. But I can reach Mingary as quickly as the lad would have done,” said Ewen, without giving a thought to the undesirability of approaching that stronghold. “I’m spilling this; he’s past drinking, I fear. Certainly if help is not soon——” He gave a sudden violent exclamation under his breath, and, letting all the rest of the water drain away, sank back on his heels staring as though he had come on some unclean sight. For under the trickles of water and brandy the dried blood had become washed or smeared off the distorted face, sufficiently at least to make it recognisable to a man who, even in the mists of fever, and seven years ago, had during twenty-four hours seen more than enough of it.

“What is wrong, then?” asked Mr. Oliphant, but he did not glance up from the head on his arm, for he had begun cautiously to try the effect of brandy again.

Ewen did not answer for a moment. He was rubbing one wet hand upon the ground as though to cleanse it from some foul contact.

“I doubt it is worth going for help,” he said at last in a half-strangled voice. “If one had it, the best thing would be to finish this business . . . with a dirk.”

“I suppose you are jesting, Mr. Cameron,” said the old man in a tone which showed that he did not like the jest. “How far do you think it is to Mingary Castle?”

“The distance does not concern me,” answered Ewen. “I am not going there.”

And at that Mr. Oliphant looked up and saw his face. It was not a pleasant sight.

“What—what has come to you?” he exclaimed. “You said a moment ago that if assistance were not brought——”

“I had not seen then what we were handling,” said Ewen fiercely. He got to his feet. “One does not fetch assistance to . . . vermin!”

“You are proposing that we should leave this unfortunate man here to die!”

Ewen looked down at him, breathing hard. “I will finish him off if you prefer it. ’Tis the best thing that can happen to him and to all the inhabitants of Ardnamurchan. You have heard what his reputation is.” And turning away he began blindly to break a twig off the nearest birch-tree.

Mr. Oliphant still knelt there for another second or two, silent, perhaps from shock. Then he gently laid down the head which he was supporting, came round the prostrate scarlet figure and over to his metamorphosed companion.

“Mr. Cameron, it is not the welfare of Ardnamurchan which you have in your mind. This man has done you some injury in the past—is it not so?”

Ewen was twisting and breaking the birch twig as though it were some sentient thing which he hated.

“But for God’s mercy he had made a traitor of me,” he said in a suffocated voice. “Yet that I could forgive . . . since he failed. But he has my friend’s blood on his hands.”

There was a silence, save for the faint moaning behind them.

“And for that,” said Mr. Oliphant sternly, “you will take his blood on yours?”

“I have always meant to, if I got the chance,” answered Ewen, with dreadful implacability. “I would it had been in fair fight—this is not what I had desired. But I am certainly not going to save his worse than worthless life at the expense, perhaps, of your liberty and mine . . . I am not going to save it in any case. He slew my best friend.”

“You made mention just now, Mr. Cameron, of God’s mercy.”

“Ay, so I did,” said Ewen defiantly. “But God has other attributes too. This,” he looked for a moment over his shoulder, “this, I think, is His justice.”

“That is possible; but you are not God. You are a man who only yesterday received the greatest of His earthly gifts with, as I believed, a humble and a thankful heart. To-day you, who so lately drank of the cup of salvation, refuse a cup of cold water to a dying enemy.”

Ewen said nothing; what was there to say? He stood looking down through the trees on to the loch, his mouth set like a vice.

“Are you going to Mingary, my son?” asked Mr. Oliphant after another brief and pregnant silence.

“No, I am not.”

“Very well then, I must go.” But his voice was not as steady as heretofore when he added, “I would to God that it were you!”

In the grim white face before him the blue eyes darkened and blazed. Ardroy caught hold of the old man’s arm. “There’s one thing that’s certain, Mr. Oliphant, and that is, that you are not going to enter the lion’s den for the sake of that scoundrel!”

“The lion’s den? Is that what is keeping you back—a natural distaste for endangering yourself? I thought it had been something less of man’s weakness . . . and more of the devil!”

“So it is,” retorted Ewen stormily. “You know quite well that I am not afraid to go to Mingary Castle!”

“Then why will you not let me go? I am only an old, unprofitable man whose words are not heeded. If I do not come out again what matter? It is true, I shall not get there near as quick as you, and every minute”—he glanced back—“the faint chance of life is slipping further away. But one of us has to go, Mr. Cameron. Will you loose my arm?” His worn face was infinitely sad.

Ewen did not comply with his request. He had his left hand pressed to his mouth, in truth, his teeth were fixed in the back of it—some help, if a strange one, to mastery of the wild passions which were rending him, and to keeping back, also, the hot tears which stung behind his eyes.

He heard Mr. Oliphant say under his breath, in accents of the most poignant sorrow, “Then appeared the tares also. Such tall, such noble wheat! Truly the Enemy hath done this!” He understood, but he did not waver. He would not go for help.

“Mr. Cameron, time is very short. Let me go! Do not lay this death on my conscience too. Loose me, in the name of Him Whom you are defying!”

Ewen dropped the speaker’s arm, dropped his own hand. It was bleeding. He turned a tempest-ridden face on Mr. Oliphant.

“It shall not be the better man of us two who goes to Mingary,” he said violently. “I will go—you force me to it! And even though he be carrion by the time help comes, will you be satisfied?”

Mr. Oliphant’s look seemed to pierce him. “By the time you get to Mingary, Highlander though you are, your vengeance will be satisfied.”

“As to that——” Ewen shrugged his shoulders. “But you, how will you ever reach Salen alone?”

“Salen? I shall not start for Salen until help has come; I shall stay here.” And as Ewen began a fierce exclamation he added, “How can I, a priest, leave him lying at the gate and go away?”

“And then they will take you?—No, I will not go to Mingary . . . I will not go unless you give me your word to withdraw yourself as soon as you hear the soldiers coming. That might serve, since I shall not say that any is with him, and they will not think of searching.”

Mr. Oliphant considered a moment. “Yes, I will promise that if it will ease your mind. And later, if God will, we may meet again on the Salen road, you overtaking me. Now go, and the Lord Christ go with you . . . angelos!”

For an instant his hand rested, as if in blessing, on Ewen’s breast. The young man snatched it up, put it to his lips, and without a word plunged down the slope to the track below, so torn with rage and shame and wild resentment that he could hardly see what he was doing.

But once on the level he clenched his hands and broke into the long, loping Highland trot which he could keep up, if need were, for miles. He might, in Mr. Oliphant’s eyes, be no better than a murderer and a savage, he might in his own be so weak of will that a few words from an old man whom he scarcely knew could turn him from his long-cherished purpose, he might be so cursed by fate as to have met his enemy in circumstances which had snatched from him his rightful revenge—but at least, if he were forced to play the rescuer, he would keep his word about it. Out of this brief but devastating hurricane of passion that intention seemed to be the only thing left to him—that and the physical capacity to run and run towards the black keep of Mingary Castle which he so little desired to enter.