Now, a thief, if the cloak galls him, may restore it. That I could not do without telling her the whole story; and the story I could not tell, since it was not I alone whose honour was concerned in it, but a woman with me. Or the thief may drop the cloak by the roadside without a word, and get him into the night. Over that alternative I pondered a long, dreary while.
But while I was yet tossed amidst these perplexities, news came to hand which quite turned the current of my thoughts. It was the 18th day of September, and Mr. Curwen, I remember, had left Applegarth early that morning on horseback, and, though it was now past nightfall, had not yet returned; the which was causing both his daughter and myself no small uneasiness at the very time when Tash rapped upon the door. He brought me a letter. I mind me that I stood in the hall staring in front of me, holding the open letter in my hand. It seemed that I saw the lock fall from a door, and the door opening on an unimagined dawn.
“What is it?” cried Dorothy, and for a second she laid a gentle hand upon my arm.
“It is,” I exclaimed, drawing in a breath, “it is that the Earl of Mar—the duke, God bless him! for now one may give him his proper title—has raised King James’s standard at Kirkmichael in Braemar.”
Dorothy gave a cry of delight, and I joined in with it. For if the duke did but descend into England, if England did but rise to welcome him—why, there would be the briefest imprisonment for those lying under charge, whether true or false, of conspiring for King James.
Through the open doorway sounded the tramp of a horse.
“My father!” said Dorothy.
I crammed the letter into my pocket without a glance at its conclusion, and ran down the pathway to the gate. As I opened the gate Mr. Curwen rode up to it.
“I am glad to have this chance of speaking to you alone,” said he, as he dismounted. “I have been to-day to Whitehaven. My ship, the Swallow, is is fitting out I have given orders that the work should be hurried, and the crew shipped with the least delay. The Swallow will sail the first moment possible, and lie off Ravenglass until you come. It is an arduous journey from here to Ravenglass, but safe.”
A farm-servant came up and led away the horse.
“The Swallow should be at Ravenglass in six weeks from to-day,” he continued.
“But, sir,” said I in a whisper, though I felt an impulse to cry the news out, “there will be no need, I trust, for the Swallow. There is the grandest news to tell you;” and I informed him of the contents of my letter.
Mr. Curwen said never a word to me, but dropped upon his knees in the pathway.
“God save the King!” he cried in a quavering voice, and the fervour of it startled me. His hands were clasped and lifted up before him, and by the starlight I saw that there were tears upon his cheek. Then he stood up again and mopped his face with his handkerchief, leaning against the palings of the garden fence. “Mr. Clavering, I could add with a full heart, ‘Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace,’ but that there is work even for an arm as old and feeble as mine.” At that he stopped, and asked, in a very different tone of trepidation, “Does Mary Tyson know?”
“Miss Dorothy does.”
“Ah, of course, of course,” he said with resignation, “It is all one;” and he walked slowly up the path. At the door he turned to me, and set a hand on my shoulder. “There is work, Mr. Clavering, for the feeblest arm?” he asked wistfully.
Now, all my instincts urged me to say “Yes,” but, on the other hand, I remembered certain orders which had been given to me in a very decided voice, so that I stood silent. With a sorrowful shake of the head, Mr. Curwen passed through the door.
“Maybe you are right,” said he, disconsolately; and then, “But the question is worth proving” this bracing his shoulders and making a cut in the air with an imaginary sabre. However, Mary Tyson bustled forward to help him off with his great-coat, and scolded all the boldness out of him in the space of a minute, drawing such a picture of the anxiety into which his early outgoing and late home-coming had thrown the household, as melted him to humility.
“It was to do me a service,” said I, interposing myself.
“And the more shame to you,” says she, bluntly; “white hairs must wait on young legs!” and off she flung to the kitchen.
It was not until the following morning that Dorothy made allusion to his absence.
“I went on business to Whitehaven,” he replied with a prodigious wink at me, which twisted the whole side of his face—his daughter could not but have observed it—“though the business might have waited;” and he added hurriedly, “However, I bring a message for you, my dear, for I chanced to meet old Mr. Aislabie in the street, and he sent his love to Miss Cherry-cheeks.”
“Cherry-cheeks! “cried she, indignantly, “Cherry-cheeks! How dare he? Is it a bumpkin, a fat country milk-maid he takes me for?”
“My dear,” said Mr. Curwen, with the gentlest spice of raillery, “you certainly deserve the charming title now.”
She said no more concerning the journey to Whitehaven, being much occupied with her indignation. Once or twice I heard her mutter, “Cherry-cheeks!” to herself, but with a tone as though her tongue was too delicate for the gross epithet, and, as if to disprove its suitability, she sailed in to dinner that day with her hair all piled and builded on the top of her head under a little cap of lace, and a great hoop petticoat of silk, and the funniest little shoes of green and gold brocade with wonderful big paste buckles and the highest heels that ever I saw. Nor was that the whole of her protest. For though, as a rule, she was of a healthy, sensible appetite, now she would only toy with her meat, protesting that she could not eat a bit.
“I have no doubt,” says I, “but what you are troubled with the vapours,” and got a haughty glance of contempt for my pains. And after dinner what does she do but sit in great state in the drawingroom, with her little feet daintily crossed upon a velvet cushion, fanning herself languidly, and talking of French gowns, as the latest Newsletter represented them, and the staleness of matrimony, and such-like fashionable matters.
“But no doubt,” says she with a shrug of the shoulders, and a pretty voice of insolence, “Mr. Clavering will marry;” she paused for a second. “And what will the wife be like?”
I was taken aback by the question, and from looking on her face, I looked to the ground or rather to the velvet cushion by which I happened to be sitting. It was for that reason, that not knowing clearly what I should say, I answered absently—
“She must have a foot.”
“I suppose so,” she replied, “and why not two?”
“Yes! “I continued slowly, “she must certainly have a foot.”
“And maybe a head with eyes and a mouth to it,” says she; “or does not your modesty ask so much?”
“I wonder you can walk on them at all,” said I.
The heels were popped on the instant demurely under the hoop petticoat.
“Owl,” she said in a very soft, low, reflective voice, addressing the word in a sort of general way to the four walls of the room.
“Miss Cherry-cheeks,” said I, in as near the same tone as I could manage.
She rose immediately, the very figure of stateliness and dignity, swam out of the room, without so much as a word or a nod, and, I must suppose, went hungry to bed; for we saw no more of her that night.
For the next few days, as may be guessed, we lived in a great excitement and stress of expectation at Applegarth. Mr. Curwen would get him to his horse early of the morning, now rather encouraged thereto than dissuaded, and ride hither and thither about the country side, the while his daughter and I bided impatiently for his return. I cannot say, however, that the information which he gleaned was a comfort to compensate us for the impatience of our waiting. From Scotland, indeed, the news was good. We heard that the Earl of Mar was gathering his forces at the market-town of Moulin, and that the sixty men who proclaimed King James at Kirkmichael were now swelled to a thousand. But of England—or rather of those parts of it which lay about us—it was ever the same disheartening story that he carried back, a story of messengers buzzing backwards and forwards, betwixt a poor handful of landlords, and, for the rest, of men going quietly about their daily work. Once or twice, indeed, he returned uplifted with a rumour that the towns of Lancashire were only waiting for the Scottish army to march into England, before they mounted the White Cockade; on another occasion he satisfied us with a fairy-tale that the insurgents had but to appear before the walls, and Newcastle would forthwith open its gates; and at such times the old panels of the parlour would ring with laughter, as doubtless they had rung in the old days after Atherton Moor, and I would sit with a heart unworthily lightened by a thought that I might escape the payment which was due. But for the most part I had ever in my mind Lord Derwentwater’s word about the pawns, and those yet earlier forebodings of my kinsman Bolingbroke. It seemed to me, indeed, that in this very rising of the Earl of Mar’s, I had a proof of the accuracy of his forecasts. For he had sent word that the rebellion would be deferred, and here were the orders reversed behind his back. Moreover, we heard that the French King had died upon September 1st, and that I counted the most disheartening of calamities.
In this way, then, a week went by. On the evening of the eighth day, being the 25th September, I was leaning my elbows on the gate of the little garden, when I heard a heavy step behind me on the gravel. I turned, and there was Mary Tyson. It seemed to me that she was barring the path.
“Good-evening, Mary,” said I, as pleasantly as possible.
“I am wishing for the day,” said she, “when I can say the same to you, Mr. Clavering.”
“And why?” said I, in astonishment. “It is no doing of mine that Mr. Curwen rides loose about the country-side.”
“It is not of the father I am thinking,” she interrupted; and I felt as though she had struck me.
“What do you mean?” I asked shortly.
“I know,” she said, “this is no way for a rough old serving-body to speak to the likes of you. But see, sir,” and her voice took on a curiously gentle and pleading tone, “I remember when she couldn’t clinch her fist round one of my fingers. It’s milk of mine, too, that has fed her, and it’s honey to my heart to think she owes some of her sunshine to it. I’ve seen her here at Applegarth grow from baby to child, and from child to woman. Yes, woman, woman,” she repeated; “perhaps you forget that”
“No, indeed,” said I, perplexed as to what she would be at; “it was the first thought I had of her.”
“Then the more blame to you,” she cried, and speech rushed out of her in a passion. “What is it that you’re seeking of her—you that’s hunted, with a price on your head? What is it? what is it?” And she stretched out her great arms on either side of her as though to make a barrier against myself. “Ah, if I were sure it would bring no harm on her, you should have the soldiers on your heels to-morrow. Many and many’s the time I’ve been tempted to it when I’ve spied you in the orchard or on the lake. I have been sore tempted to it—sore tempted! What is it you want of her? It’s the brother’s clothes you are wearing, but is it the brother’s heart beneath them?”
“Good God, woman!” I cried, dumfounded by her words.
She stood in the dusk before me, her grotesque figure dignified out of all knowledge by the greatness of her love for Dorothy. The very audacity of her words was a convincing evidence of that, and at the sight of her the anger died out of my heart. If she accused me unjustly, why, it was to protect Dorothy, and that made amends for all. Nay, I could almost thank her for the accusation, and I answered very humbly—
“I am like to get little good in my life, but may I get less when that is done if ever I had a thought which could disparage her.”
“And how will I be sure of that?” asked Mary Tyson.
“Because I love her,” said I.
An older man would have made, and a more experienced woman would have preferred, perhaps, a different answer; but I suppose she gauged it by the depth of her own affection. It struck root in a responsive soil.
“Ay, and how could you help it!” she cried, with a little note of triumph in her voice. But the voice in an instant deadened with anxiety. “You will have told her?”
“Not a syllable,” says I. “I am, as you say, a man with a price on his head. I may be mated with an axe, but it is the only mate that I can come by.”
She drew a deep breath of relief, and hearing it I laughed, but with no merriment at my heart. She took a step forward on the instant.
“Well, and I am sorry,” said she, “for you are not so ill-looking a lad in the brother’s clothes.” It was a whimsical reason, but given in a voice of some tenderness. “Not so ill-looking,” she repeated, and at that her alarm reawakened. “But there’s a danger in that!” she cries. “Miss Dorothy has lived here alone, with but a rare visitor once or twice in the twelvemonths. Maybe you speak to her in the same voice you use to me.”
“Nay,” I interposed, and this time my laugh rang sound enough. “Miss Curwen treats me with friendliness—a jesting friendliness, which is the very preclusion of love.”
She bent forward a little, peering at me,
“Well, it may be,” said she, “though I would never trust a boy’s judgment on anything, let alone a woman.”
Dorothy’s voice called her from the house. She looked over her shoulder, and went on, lowering her tone—
“Look,” said she, “at these boulders here,” and she pointed to the darkening hillside. “They are landmarks to our shepherds in the mist. But when the snow lies deep in winter, they will cross them and never know until they come to something else that tells them. It’s so with us. We cross from this friendliness into love, thinking there are landmarks to guide us; but the landmarks may be hid, and we do not know until something else tells us we have crossed. And with some,” and she nodded back towards the house, “there will be no retracing of the steps. Suppose you left your image with her. A treasure she will think it. It will prove a curse. You say you care for her?”
I saw what she was coming to, and nodded in assent
“There is the one way to show it—not to her. No, not to her. That is the hardest thing I know, but the truest proof, that you will be content, for your love’s sake, to let her think ill of you.”
Dorothy’s voice sounded yet louder. She came out into the porch. Mary Tyson hurried towards her, and receiving some order, disappeared into the house. Dorothy came slowly down the path towards me.
“You were very busy with Mary Tyson,” said she.
“She was talking to me of the landmarks,” said I.
“But one cannot see them,” said she, looking towards the hillside.
I stood silent by her side. It was not that Mary Tyson’s words had so greatly impressed me. I believed, indeed, that she spoke out of an overmastering jealousy for the girl’s welfare. But I asked myself, since she had said so much, knowing so little of me, what would she have said had she known the truth? The temptation to set the sheriff on my path would long ago, I was certain, have become an accomplished act. Nor could I have blamed her. I was brought back to my old thought that I was wearing this girl’s friendship as a thief may wear a stolen cloak.
“There is something I ought to tell you,” said I suddenly, and came to a no less sudden stop, the moment that the sound of the words told me whither I was going. “But at this time,” I continued in the lamest of conclusions, “I have no right to tell it you,” and so babbled a word or two more.
She gave a little quiet laugh, and instead of answering me, began to hum over to herself that melody of “The Honest Lover.” In the midst of a bar she broke off. I heard her breath come and go quickly. She turned and ran into the house.
That night, at all events, I acted upon an impulse of which I have never doubted the rectitude. Since I could not restore to her the stolen cloak, I took that other course, and dropped it by the wayside. I wrote a brief note of thanks to Mr. Curwen, and when the house was quiet, I crept from my room along the passage, and dropping out of that window which my host had shown me on the night of my coming to Applegarth, betook me under the starshine across the fells.