Highland Ballad | Page 7

said more than she intended. But perhaps this much of the truth was for the best. She would have to know soon enough, anyway. "There are other powers, closer to hand, that give the strong a reason to go on living."
The younger woman studied her in silence, and all the awe and fear of her that she had felt since childhood returned. She remembered the chant, the flaming branch. And now the callous determination..... Toward what end? She recalled the words that had seemed so innocent the day before:
Just open the door for me; I'll walk through it. But what door was she to open? What vengeance?
But first there was one more question, which rose in sudden fullness before her.
"My God. Margaret. Who was my father?"
"The Lord Purceville, though it was not willingly I took him to my bed."
There was no need to say more. Her mother went back to the hearth, and after a cheerless meal, told her to remain in bed until the fever broke. Then went out on some errand of her own.
Five
Mary remained in the bed as she was told until, between her natural vigor and childlike curiosity, she began to feel better, and then, quite restless. Putting more wood on the fire and dressing warmly (she was not incautious), she began to look around her for something to do, or perhaps, something to read. It was impossible yet to think through all that had happened in just these twenty-four hours, or to know what she must do in answer. She felt like a shipwrecked swimmer, far from shore on a dark night: that the water around her was much too deep, that she must rest, and wait for some beacon to lead her again to solid ground.
But for all this, she could not help feeling drawn to the ancient chest from which her mother had taken the hemlock. She told herself to forget it, but could not.
That her mother practiced in the black arts was apparent; and a vague feeling that perhaps through witchcraft she might reach the troubled spirit of her beloved, drove her in the end to hard courage, overriding all other considerations.
She went to the window and peered out, then moved to the door. Stepping beyond it furtively, like a young rabbit outside the den, she looked about her. The sun hung motionless almost exactly at the noon, and the chill of night had passed. There was no sign of her mother, nor any other creature save a solitary hawk, which soared watchful high above.
She went inside again and rolled back the corner of the carpet, as in quick glances she had seen her mother do. The chest lay beneath. The thick belt was easily undone, and there was no other lock or latch. It occurred to her briefly that this was what the old woman wanted, and at the same time that she would be furious, and fly into a terrible rage. But this did not matter. Nothing mattered except that Michael had come to her, and touched her, and called out to her in living dream. She lifted the wide lid, and set it back against the wall.
Somewhere outside a raven spoke, and a sudden blast of wind shook the door. She started, and whirled about, but did not waver in her resolve.
Inside the trunk were many grim and grotesque articles which appalled her, and which she would not touch. But to the extreme left, pushed together with their bindings upward, were four large manuscript books, bound in leather. Her eyes, and seeking spirit, were drawn to these.
They were alike untitled and unadorned, yet to one she was unmistakably drawn. Her hand moved toward it almost without conscious thought: the smallest, burnished black. It was thinner than the others as well. And so, growing wary of the witch's return, she lifted it quickly and moved to the bed. There she slid it beneath her mattress, then returned to the chest, which she closed and bound as before. She had only just rolled back the carpet when she heard, muffled but distinct, the cry of the hawk high above. And she knew, somehow she knew, that her mother was coming back up the path.
She undressed again quickly, down to the slip, and was careful to set the dress back on the chair as it had lain before. Climbing back into the bed she was acutely aware of two sensations: the lump at the small of her back made by the book, and the pounding of her heart.
The door-latch was lifted, the hinges creaked, and her mother stepped into the room. She looked exhausted and grim, and seemed to take no notice as her daughter sat up in the bed and addressed her.
"I'm feeling much better," she said, trying to sound bright