Fifteen
So it was that Stephen Purceville found her. He had knocked twice on the door of the hut, with growing impatience until, receiving no answer to his summons, he kicked it in. There he had found her gone, the place empty but for a filthy hag who hid her face and said nothing.
Yet for all his indifference and haste, the momentary glimpse of her eyes had struck a chord of memory inside him, though he was far too angry to puzzle it out. His woman (he thought of everything he desired as his) had betrayed him, gone off, when she knew that he wanted to see her.
Riding off in a storm of emotion, he came across Sergeant Billings as he rejoined the main track, who with a scared face spoke of ambush and treachery, and pointed back along the way he had come. Angered still further by the intrusion of duty (and reality) upon his romantic dreams, he forced out of the man what information he could, then bluntly ordered him to be silent, and follow.
So the two rode west together, and found her still in the same attitude, holding the body as she would a sick child. She did not at first seem to hear them approach, till with a vehemence which startled them both, the young Purceville screamed at her:
“What is the meaning of this!”
Mary turned, as if not understanding what was wanted of her. Her eyes focused on him with an effort, and she replied slowly, in a voice that seemed to come from far away: from the bottom of a well.
“Two men are dead, who perhaps desired life. And one who desired death still lives. What meaning would you have?”
The blankness of her face astonished him. For a brief instant he felt something akin to genuine horror. What could have happened to transform the lithe, innocent creature of so few days before? But the thought could not penetrate deeply, for now the smaller man had begun to speak.
“You see, Captain, it’s just as I told you.” He spoke rapidly, eyes wide and shifting with the obvious lie. “She ‘ates us. Set a trap for us she did, acting all seductive like. Then her man jumps down from the rocks---”
“You shut your mouth!” cried Purceville bitterly. He had seen Mary’s torn dress, and knew how much faith to place in the character of these men. “Get out of here,” he said. “Back to the barracks. And God help you when I return.”
The small man rode off in haste, but did not go where he was sent. As he struck the high road he turned to the south instead, and fled into obscurity.
The Englishman dismounted and came closer. His face was a study of inner conflict, as rage and compassion warred inside him. Mary had little doubt (nor was she wrong) which side would win.
“Why?” he asked flatly, stopping a few feet away. “Why didn’t you wait for me? If you had. . .none of this would have happened.”
The girl slowly lowered the body, then stood to face him. “In the name of God, Stephen, is there any part of you that isn’t utterly cruel? Do you think I don’t know that?” This was too much. Her patience expired, and she no longer cared for the consequences.
“Am I supposed to feel worse because I also hurt your feelings? Am I supposed to equate that with the death of two men, one of them my cousin? Damn you! If you possessed the least sensitivity you’d have known three days ago there could be nothing romantic between us. And today. If I had thought for one moment that you would listen to reason, and let me
explain---”
“What would you explain!” he cried hotly. “That you have been sleeping with a traitor? That you prefer his filthy Scottish bed to mine? That you are a whore, like all the others? Well? Why don’t you speak!”
“I am very sorry for you,” she said at last. “You are blind, as no man I have ever known. You will never learn, and you will never change.” And with that she turned her back on him.
For a single moment he stood transfixed, loving, and at the same time hating. . .her. She knew him as no one else, and had always spoken the truth. But the words she spoke now were not soothing, were not the gentle words of comfort he sought. Instead they burned, like salt on an open wound.
Pure, blind hatred rose up inside him, devouring all else. He seized her by the shoulders, and with the heat of the primal hunger, turned her towards him. If love would not be gratified, then he would at least have lust. For the second time that day, Mary looked into the unseeing eyes of rape. Terror was no longer possible. All she could feel was despair, and pity. This would be the final, unbearable shame for them both.
“Stephen, I beg you. In the name of what you once felt for me, and I for you. Don’t do this. Forgive my hard words. I do not hate you. But this..... This can never be.”
“Why not? Why can’t it?” He pressed her hard against him. “You know you want me.” His mouth engulfed hers, then moved greedily to the skin of her throat.
“Stephen, don’t. It’s not right!” She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. She felt his left hand drag her downward, as his right hand worked to free the remaining buttons.
“Stephen. . .no!” She was on the ground, and he had flung aside his coat, looming on one knee beside her. Then with a swift movement of both hands he tore open her slip, the widening V of her dress. Still further, till the treasures of her body lay exposed. His mouth was upon her breast, as his hand swept low to engulf her.
“Stephen! For God’s sake. . .I’m your sister!”
He froze instantly, then lifted his head with a jerk. “You’re lying.”
“No,” she said bitterly. “My mother is the widow MacCain. Your father raped her, then sent her away when he found she was with child. Your father. . .is my father, too.” She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. And the pain in her eyes was more than he could face. Because he knew that it was true.
Then for the first time he seemed to see the bodies, and to realize that they had once been men. And he saw her, his gentle sister, ravaged and distraught by the work of his own hands. He did not feel remorse, which was beyond him. But sorrow he could feel, and even, in that moment, a halting compassion.
“I’m sorry. Mary. I didn’t know..... There’s really nothing more I can say.” He rose, shifted uncomfortably, trying to reconcile himself to his actions. It was impossible.
“Is there anything I can do now,” he said stiffly. “To make it better.”
“No. Just go away.”
He turned, and started to leave.
“Wait,” she said, half against her will. She could not look at him. “Help me to bury him. Both
of them.”
He put on his jacket, pawed the ground with his boot. “.....I’ll need a shovel.”
“Ride back to the hut. My mother will give you one.” She finally looked up at him, and the tears would not stop. “Please leave now. I’m not that strong.”
He remounted slowly, and with one last look at her, rode off. Mary was left to prepare her cousin’s body, and to seeping thoughts of death and earth.
When Stephen returned, they buried James Talbert. And then the other, placing stones over the mounds to keep the wolves off. There were no other adornments to give them. And even as they worked, the clouds thickened and turned to rain, as if Nature wept, to see the unending tragedy of Man.