Читать книгу The Devil's Mistress - J W Brodie Innes - Страница 5

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MY great-great-great-grandfather records that in his boyhood there was an extreme terror that spread over the land, by reason of certain mysterious happenings. In some houses of the lairds, furniture was found in the morning thrown about and disarranged, as though a drunken party had held unholy revels overnight, and strange sounds were heard of knockings and tramplings, whereby the household were so terrified that none dared venture forth from their rooms, yet all the doors were fast locked. The same sometimes is said to occur nowadays, and is by some believed to be caused by the spirits of the dead, who desire in this way to send loving messages to their friends yet alive; and others hold such manifestations to be merely a fraud of professional mediums. But Mr. Patrick Innes, strong in the profession of the Reformed faith, entertained no doubt of the direct interposition of Satan, permitted, as he explained in one of his eloquent pulpit discourses, to vex the elect for a season, on account of the sad lack of zeal among God's chosen people; by which he meant not, of course, the Hebrews, who vaunted that title to themselves, but the Kirk of Scotland. Also beasts died of some strange murrain, and even men sometimes would suddenly fall dead with no visible cause.

No wonder the people were terrified and called on the ministers to deliver them from this awful visitation. But the ministers were powerless. It was the backsliding of their flocks that had brought a curse upon them. Indeed, the Presbytery had pointed to the lamentable falling-off of the offertories as a convincing proof of the decay of faith, which had given occasion to the enemy of mankind to enter.

At the farm of Lochloy two of the cows had gone off their milk; not an uncommon occurrence among cows, I am told, but John Gilbert, without hesitation, ascribed it to the power of the Evil One, allowed to molest him on account of the papistry of his wife. Wherefore he had ordered her to attend at the kirk punctually, and had thoughts of purging her iniquities by penance in a white sheet in the face of the congregation, according to the fashion of the time.

When Isabel wakened from a long and dreamless sleep, after the events already recorded, Gilbert had been gone some time. The head man, usually conversant with all his master's doings, was ignorant or reticent as to his errand--he was going far, would not be back that night, perhaps not the following. Isabel was rested and refreshed, the fever and excitement of the previous night had subsided, but the loneliness that had oppressed her returned with double force. Even John Gilbert, though he jarred on her nerves at every turn, had been something; she had never been without hope of making him even a trifle more presentable, and anyhow the struggle had given a certain zest to life. Now she was utterly alone; life seemed to stretch before her in an interminable dull vista, grey and hopeless. She had longed for power, conscious that she could use it well, but surely never was a creature so helpless. If only some strong man could come into her life! The need for some masculine vitality was almost overpowering; but there was none. She went to the door--the farm-steading was deserted, the men had gone to the fields, for the corn was cut and harvest was in full swing, only the two sick cows remained in the byre. She had never been allowed to take any part in the working of the farm. Gilbert's first ambition to parade her as a lady had failed, and it was now too late for her to assume the place of a working farmer's wife.

The only cure for the blank depression that had settled down on her was to go out, as often before, for a long walk; the loneliness of the dreary farmstead was unendurable. She had some curious instinct not to put on the old homespun gown in whose bosom the little gold crucifix was sewn; a still older and shabbier gown of faded russet, much soiled and frayed, should serve her turn today; for she was not going near the haunts of any living souls; and over her flaming hair she drew a thin old tartan screen of the dark green Urquhart plaid, and sallied forth. She was sensitively conscious of her appearance--she who had been so daintily dressed, so fastidious in every detail. Any if the neighbours who saw her now would surely say that the rough, untidy old farmer had dragged her down to his level, and that without even making her a good household drudge. It only remained now to avoid being seen, to creep past all inhabited places like a shy animal, and seek the friendly shelter of the woods. On her left were the woods of Brodie, but there were many farms and cottages there. Besides, the Brodies of that generation had gotten a turn of the most exemplary piety; several of the girls had married ministers, and the atmosphere seemed alien to her. On her right lay the lands and mansion-house of Park, equally to be avoided. But straight before her, and crossing over a stretch of wet, boggy land, devious footpaths led through a lonely district with few human habitations, away into the great woods of Darnaway. This way then she would go. She would lose herself among the friendly trees and forget for a while the sordid dreariness of life. In spite of the teachings of the holy Kirk, she had deep down in her nature an instinctive belief in the spirits of the woods and streams, which as everyone knows is a gross and heathen superstition, not, it is true, as distinctly pernicious as the belief in saints, which is a damnable error of the papists, but still an error, finding no warrant in Holy Writ, and not to be entertained by the enlightened disciples of the Reformed faith.

Isabel, however, cared little for the Reformed faith or in ministers; the spirits of the woods were kind and friendly and she loved to dream of them, and to pretend to herself that they were sheltering her under their great strong arm. As she walked on, the feeling of loneliness and depression was lifted. After the dark, stagnant atmosphere that seemed to hang round the marshy lands of Lochloy, the clean, pure air of the Darnaway woods flowed into her lungs, and drove the malignant vapours from her blood; she felt the sting of fresh life in all her veins, her pulses tingled with a queer sense of coming adventure. It was half delight, and half a sort of shy shrinking. After all, life might yet hold some brave doings; the world was not all dominated by ministers and elders.

In her youth she had read many poems and romances, even some of Master William Shakespeare's plays, and her fancy, long crushed down and deemed an evil thing, began to plume its wings once more. She spread her tartan screen on the ground and lay down under a great oak, and tried to picture to herself the spirit that dwelt therein. A strong, beautiful man it must be. What a desirable lover he would make! She shut her eyes and tried to fancy him coming to her, holding her in his arms. Her heart beat wildly. Then the sky and the trees grew dim, the interlacing branches ran one into another, and she fell asleep.

When she woke it was high noon; she had dreamed, but could remember none of her dreams, only vague confused images remained. Somehow she had been a person of great power, she had held the words of life and death, she had done justice and redressed wrongs, but how she knew not.

One thing only she was sure of, she was exceedingly hungry. A lonely cottage stood by the side of the path, under a huge ash tree; a black cat sat sunning itself in the window. Here she could surely get a drink of milk and a piece of bread. In the doorway stood a pleasant-faced, comfortable-looking woman with night-black hair.

'Come away in, dearie,' she said, 'I've been waiting for ye.'

'Nay! that you cannot. I only just now found I was hungry, and seeing your cottage, I thought maybe ye could give me a drink of milk.'

'Come away, then, and I'll show ye that I expected ye.'

She led the way into the cottage, where a large jug of milk and a plate of newly baked scones were spread on the table. Isabel looked in wonder.

'I saw ye coming, my dearie! long ago, when ye left your own farmhouse. Ye need not wonder, I have the sight, ye ken. Now sit ye down and eat and drink all ye want to, for it's welcome ye are, and I'm fain to have a bonny lass like yourself to talk to, for it's lonely at times. Ye will know me by name, I'm sure. Margaret Brodie--that am I--and a true daughter of the late laird of Brodie, and half sister to his lordship, though I think he would not have it mentioned, for its unco guid the Brodies are now, outwardly at all events. My mother's a gipsy, that's how I come to have the sight. That, and other things.'

While she talked, Isabel greatly enjoyed the hospitable provisions of milk and scones. Here was another friend with whom she could exchange ideas; life was no longer so dreary as it had seemed that morning.

'Maybe I'll be seeing you at the kirk one of these days,' said Margaret, after a pause.

'Oh aye! My man says I must go, but I'm not caring much for it.'

'Eh, but I was meaning--No! I'll not say--But it's fine to go to the kirk. Ye'll know that some day.'

Isabel fell to wondering a little; her new friend did not seem one who would listen to godly admonitions for the pure love of it, nor had she a husband to take her by force.

A door at the back of the room opened slightly, and a face peered out that smote her with a sick, icy dread. It was the colour of old stained parchment, dark with age and preternaturally wrinkled. Intensely bright eyes glared from beneath bushy eyebrows, and long grizzled wisps of hair hung down on either side. Over the toothless mouth the long nose nearly met the prominent chin.

It was a fearsome face. Isabel started and turned pale as ashes. Then the door closed again and the face disappeared. Margaret Brodie laughed lightly.

'It's only my mother,' she said. 'You would hardly think to see her now that she had been a beauty once. Gipsies age very soon; she has got very morose and solitary, she seems to care for nothing but her old raven. Never mind! you come and see me, you needn't be afraid of mother, she never comes out of her own den.'

Once out again in the free air and among the trees Isabel's spirits soon revived, and she forgot the terrible old woman and remembered only the kind and hospitable Margaret Brodie. Yes, she would go and see her again. Here was another to all appearance as solitary as herself, but taking it with a bright cheerfulness that was infectious. But as she emerged from the woods, and saw the mists creeping over the low-lying lands, the old feeling of nervous depression settled on her once more. She breasted the slight rise by the small farm of Drumduan, and looked eastward over the sullen bogs. Towards these lay her way.

These flat dreary fields had seemed to her before the material presentment of her own dreary existence, and now after the short escape and the gleams of hope of the day they oppressed her more unbearably than ever. Oh, for an adventure of any kind whatsoever! Oh, for some strong man in whom she could confide! who would help her, one who would bring her joy, and would not vex her. Not even to herself did she say a lover, yet had she been practised in self-analysis, and closely examined, she might have realised that this was in effect what she really meant.

Coming round a turn in the road she was not surprised to see a man walking towards her some distance off. Not surprised, because in a sense she saw him before she saw him; she knew he was there, yet her heart gave a great bound when she realised that he was actually there. And yet there was nothing specially remarkable about him. Grey clothes and knee-breeches, a very dark blue Scotch bonnet after the fashion of the time--so much she noticed; also that he walked with an even, dignified gait that was neither a slouch nor a swagger.

There was a moment of exultation. Here was an adventure. The man was none of the known people about the district, he was a stranger, maybe from some town, a cultured man evidently. Her opportunity had come. Then came a sudden fear of the unknown; the old familiar life at Lochloy looked sheltered and safe. Should she--could she--break it? If she met this man she felt he must speak to her, he would come into her life. Nothing would be the same again. A nervous shrinking came over her. No! she would not. Resolutely and definitely she turned to the right between some tall trees towards the Muir of Inshoch, where a little rise hid the road from sight. She would go round this way until the man should have passed, and then return to the farmstead.

But no sooner was she out of sight of the road than the sense of loss came over her. What a fool she was! her opportunity had come, and she like a craven feared to take it; the chance might never come again. She stood irresolute, weighing and debating, her heart was throbbing painfully. Could she face the endless dreary years at Lochloy? And after all, what was this man? A harmless, probably a courteous, stranger. Suppose she did exchange a greeting with him, a few words on general topics. Easy enough then to bid him farewell, and return to the farm, and no harm done. Easy enough, if he should presume, to treat him as she had treated Hay of Lochloy and Park. But he would not presume, of that she was sure; and to be treated as a lady once more, to converse on equal terms with a man of refinement and courtesy! Surely she was a fool to lose such a chance, though it were but for five minutes' conversation.

She trusted he had not passed, and then half hoped he had. She turned back to the road, walking slowly, as though dragged against her will, then quickening her pace almost to a run, then almost standing still, as she saw he was still there, walking towards her with the same dignified deliberate pace. Mechanically she threw back her tartan screen, the low sun at her back flamed on her bright hair. He should see her thus, she knew not why, but thus this man must see her. She looked curiously at him. He was scrupulously neat, his grey clothes fitted him perfectly, his grey stockings showed a well-turned leg and a slender ankle, bright silver buckles gleamed on his shoes, his hair was dark, and slightly touched with grey; his face was that of a student, grave and somewhat sad, but his eyes were piercingly bright with a strange magnetic attraction.

She felt weird thrills run through her limbs. He was now close to her; he raised his bonnet in courteous salutation.

'Give you good day, Mistress,' he said, and his voice was low and musical. 'You seem in some trouble.'

'No, sir! no trouble. Only I am so lonely. So terribly lonely.'

That he should thus open her grief to a total stranger surprised herself even as she said it. But she could not think of him as a stranger.

'Nay, I cannot think so fair a lady could be lonely. Methinks you cannot know your own power.'

'Power! What would I give for power! I am helpless as a poor mouse caught in a trap, and I could do so much. I am young still, and I am married, and I have never known love. Oh, why do I talk to you like this? I know not what you must think of me.'

'Nay, Mistress! I prithee look on me as one who has known the world for more years than I care to remember. I have known men and women, and I can sympathise. Maybe I can help. As for power, ye would use it well. A beautiful woman always has power if she will. Yet I could teach ye more. Knowledge is power, and I have studied every science, and won power for myself, and this I can give to you if so be ye will.'

'How good you are,' she murmured softly. 'I never saw you before, yet I feel I trust you more than any man I ever met.'

'I can do somewhat for you. I think I partly know your trouble. Tell me, ye are baptised, is it not so?'

'They baptised me when I joined the Reformed faith, sorely against my will. Why do ye ask this?'

'There is the source of much of your trouble. Ye know how men speak of luck. It is a foolish word. It is themselves that attract power and happiness. This foolish rite of baptism repels all that is pleasant or desirable. Indeed, your Reformed kirk looks on all pleasure as wrong.'

'Oh, I know, and I hate it! If you only knew how I hate it. But it's done and I can't undo it.'

'Nay, I think you can. What you have taken on you, you can renounce. If once you renounce this silly vain form of baptism, you can draw to yourself all that you desire.'

'And can I really do this? Can I win power so easily? Have ye got power yourself?'

'See now, ye desire a proof. Look out there to the east. You know they are gathering the harvest in the lands of Culben. To-morrow the farmer is to hold a great festivity for all men and his neighbours to celebrate the ingetting of the best harvest he has ever had. Now mark--he will never hold that feast. His lands shall be buried and all that is upon them shall be lost, and thus or thus wise may it be with all your enemies and all who hurt you, if only you will it to be so.'

'But this is amazing! Are ye then such a miracle worker?'

'No! a poor student, who has learned a few things.'

'And can you--will you--really teach me to do the same? Oh! I would give anything to have such power. But why should you take such interest in me? I am an utter stranger to you.'

'See ye, Mistress! When the Lords of this world give great beauty to a woman, it is intended that she shall have great power, for beauty is a supreme source of power. If ye are, as you say, helpless, you are not fulfilling your destiny. All my studies have taught me that the enabling of any to fulfil their destiny will help me as much as the person I help. Ye are born for greatness, for power, and for happiness. This I can give you if you will. If you will dare to meet me to-morrow night at midnight, when the moon is full at the kirk of Aulderne, I will show you more.'

'I will, I will. But how can I? My husband--' she said with a sudden recollection. Gilbert would never permit her to be out at midnight.

'He will still be away. Ye need have no fear.'

'I will come! I never wanted that baptism. But stay one moment. I was baptised before as a Catholic.'

'With that I have nothing to do,' he said gravely. 'Fare ye well, Mistress, until to-morrow night. Then ye shall see whereunto a beautiful woman is born.'

He turned and was gone. Whether he passed up the by-lane, where she had undergone such doubts and hesitations before she could summon courage to meet him, or vanished in any other way, she could not tell.

But concerning that enigmatical last sentence of his, there was later on much disputation among the learned. For the Presbytery, whereon my great-great-great-grandfather was a shining light, maintained, and set forth a most learned pronouncement on the subject, that the papistical baptism, being a mere heathen ceremony, and a gross superstition, was of no account whatsoever. But Father Bernard Angelico of Florence stated in an elaborate Latin treatise, with much citation of authority, that baptism into the Holy Catholic Church was a sacrament of such high power and efficacy that it could never be renounced under any circumstances whatsoever, and therefore that any attempt to do so was of no avail. Whence we see that the stranger who accosted Mistress Isabel between the township of Drumduan and the Bogheads must have been a personage of some considerable importance, since his utterances were the subject of so much learned disputation.

Isabel, however, walked back to the farm of Lochloy in strange exultation, but mixed with other thoughts and feelings filling her mind with a strange medley. The man had been courteous and deferential, he had promised her power, which was what she craved for; and indeed her whole sensation of him was one of power, he radiated power. He spoke of the spell of her beauty. But it seemed powerless on him. Not by one single look or word had he suggested making love to her. She had been alertly ready to resent any such suggestion. Now she was half conscious of a vague disappointment, that no such suggestion had been made. Half acknowledged to herself, but gradually growing, was the wish that he would make love to her, that she could bring him under the spell he had spoken of. Was he then after all merely a talker with nothing behind him, merely passing an idle quarter of an hour in chatting with a chance-met woman, and beguiling her with foolish boasts of what he could do? She grew mightily curious about him. Well, Gilbert would be at home the following night, so there was no good in thinking more about it. The thing was past and done with; she would hear no more of the stranger.

Still, if Gilbert did not return, it would be some sort of a proof that the stranger knew more than ordinary folk. It might be worth while to go to the kirk of Aulderne and see what happened; there could be no harm in going; she could just find out what it all meant; she need do nothing, would in fact do nothing, and would come away again, and no one would be any the wiser.

Curious, too, how she was pushed to go to the kirk of Aulderne. Gilbert had ordered her to go. Margaret Brodie had said she would be sure to meet her there, and now this stranger had trysted her to meet him in the same place.

Then there was that wild story about the lands of Culben. That was surely the most empty boast. But what could he mean by making such an assertion which a few hours would conclusively refute?

On the whole it was an adventure. It had served to break the dreary monotony of her life; it was something to look back on, a story to tell Janet Broadhead, and quite as thrilling as many of hers; but she was glad it was over and done with.

The sun was setting luridly in piles of blood-red cloud, torn and lashed into a thousand fantastic shapes behind the great purple mass of Wyvis, but over Lochloy brooded an almost deathlike calm. The sea lay dark and sullen looking, and the rays of the setting sun gleamed redly on the enormous hills of sand that had accumulated on the old bar. It was a weird and extraordinary scene. Isabel with her quick poetic fancy looked at it with delight. She watched the flaming colours of sunset gradually fade to a dull leaden grey, as the sun sank out of sight. She listened to a low moan as though of wind, though the trees stirred not a single leaf. A sudden chill came over the low-lying lands. The water-fowl on the loch were strangely disturbed and flew inland with wild discordant crying. A pair of owls hooted from a dead tree behind the farmhouse.

Isabel shivered and went in, and in a very short time had crept between the blankets and buried her head to seek for sleep. Visions of the stranger still haunted her. He stood where they had met, and there was a sort of fiery halo round him; his raised his arm in a commanding attitude, and thunder clouds and wild lightnings seemed to follow his gestures. She woke trembling. Then she said to herself: 'What nonsense! I am just dreaming of the absurdities he talked.' She shook herself impatiently, and turned over to dream again. The rising wind was moaning round the house. She dozed and woke again as the little window rattled and the walls shook. She was thankful she was in shelter, for the storm was clearly increasing. The blasts howled and moaned round the farm; the chimney fell with a crash, a stinging shower of sand dashed against the window. Isabel lay and trembled, waiting for the dawn; sleep was impossible until, just as grey streaks were beginning to throw a wan gleam on the wall opposite to the window, the wild wind dropped as suddenly as it rose, and a profound stillness fell, and then wearied out she fell into a sound dreamless sleep, from which she was only aroused an hour after her usual time by one of the herd girls who ran into the room crying: 'Oh, Mistress, waken! Here is terrible news indeed. The whole of the farm of Culben is buried in sand by last night's storm.'