Summer Of Love Part 12

Sat.u.r.day, he stayed in his room on the first floor of the inn, watching people come and go until well into the afternoon. Again, he felt that something was missing. Except for an occasional colorful tartan jacket worn by a few women, it was impossible to tell what clan the people claimed.

Finally, the sound of the music drew him to the green. Leaning against the trunk of an oak on a small rise, he observed the couples dancing in pairs and in groups. Some faces looked familiar, but n.o.body seemed to recognize him. A few young women and la.s.ses walking by cast curious glances at the stranger. Suddenly, he spotted a young woman whirling around among the dancers. She looked like the Helen he knew. The same blaze of red hair. The same smile. His heart missed a beat. His left hand reached for the chest, as if trying to calm his heart, to comfort it. It cannot be Helen. She would look older. He remembered her features cut more boldly, more defiant. Betty, flashed through his mind. So Helen might be here too. He searched the dancing couples nearby. There! That's my Helen!

She smiled at the young man with her. Something he said made her laugh. How well he remembered those smiles, the way her eyes opened wide for a short moment and then became narrow slits. After the dance, the young man led her away, a hand resting on her shoulder, a possessive expression on his face. Was this her husband? No, she would be wearing a mutch-a bonnet, nor would he hold her in such a possessive manner anymore, letting everybody know that she was to be his. So, it must be her betrothed. A numbing ache gripped his heart. Had he hoped deep down that she remained unattached? Wouldn't she have forgotten him years ago already?

Observing their gay interaction, he felt pained, foolish that all these years he had held on to her, that he had never really let go. But this must be the end. It was more final than the belief that she was his half-sister. Now that he could put a face to the man whom she had given her favor, antipathy born in jealousy rose in him. Giving in to the sudden urge to run, to leave town right away, he pushed himself brusquely away from the trunk and headed for the inn. He vaguely heard the musicians announce a creel, and before he was fully aware he paired up with a young woman at the edge of the green.

"New in town?" she asked, a provocative smile playing on her pretty face.

"Yes," he answered, trying hard to return her smile, but not succeeding convincingly.

As the creel went on, he worked himself down to the middle of the green, where he had seen Helen earlier. Unexpectedly, Betty was his partner.

"h.e.l.lo, Betty," he greeted her, forcing a smile that he didn't feel.

They turned a figure eight, and, as they faced each other again, her face lit up: "Master Andrew! You've come back?"

"Only to say farewell to the Highlands. I'm going to America!"

Again they turned around each other.

"You've become a pretty la.s.s, Betty!"

She blushed, smiling bashfully.

Andrew moved to his next partner. And then his hand held Helen's.

"Helen," he whispered, as his eyes locked onto hers.

For a moment her face kept the noncommittal smile she would give to any stranger at a dance. Suddenly, a flash of recognition made her falter. His firm grip held her steady as they turned around each other.

"Andrew," she replied and locked eyes with him again. There was no smile in either face. Hers showed bewilderment, his hurt. Their hands touched again. She responded to his light pressure. They separated, and he moved on. He saw her gaze search for him, but worked himself to the edge.

Turning his back to the dance, the feelings that he had kept suspended during that brief interlude now overwhelmed him. His vision blurred, he b.u.mped into a young man, excused himself in English, and got sworn at in Gaelic as "a b.l.o.o.d.y Sa.s.senach" or Englishman. Back in his room he threw himself on the narrow bed. What a fool he had been to come back, pouring jealousy into old wounds! Nothing had changed over these four years. He had opened the lid and found his love for Helen burning as fiercely as ever.

"I saw master Andrew," whispered Betty to Helen.

So it was Andrew! The emptiness that had gripped her when she saw Andrew got darker. "Did he talk to you?"

"Yes, I asked him if he had come back-"

"And?"

"-he said no. He said he only came to say goodbye. He's going to America." Her face took a dreamy expression. "I envy him. I would like to go there, leave this b.l.o.o.d.y country where folks like us never have any hope of getting ahead ... not being poor all our lives. I heard you can get land there, lots of land very cheap, and own it forever, do with it what you want, run your own cattle on it. Not be at the mercy of our lords who can kick us out at their whim, and take away the land to run thousands of sheep, as they did last year to Angus McNabb... And get away from the strife between the clans." She got carried away.

Helen wasn't listening. Her eyes were unfocused, gazing inside. Vaguely, she felt Betty's hand touch hers, saw her face as if she wanted to ask a question. Her emptiness turned into turmoil.

She had resigned herself to never see him again. She hadn't thought of him since last March when Robert, her cousin who after the Argyle ambush, now almost four year ago, had come to live with her clan and had asked her father for her hand in marriage. Then she had searched her heart and confirmed that she still couldn't think of Andrew without a sense of loss, although the hurt was largely gone. And now he showed up again, just weeks away from her wedding. The box that she had locked away deep inside her soul, that she thought she had buried for good, without warning sprung open again, and the memories of their short summer of love came all flooding back.

At first, she hadn't recognized him with his dark beard. It had only been the touch of his hand that made her look again. She knew of no other man whose palms were so soft and silky. It triggered a fleeting smile. Why did he talk to Betty and not to her? But would she have been able to respond? She didn't know. Her eyes were driven to search the crowd again.

"Come, Helen, dance!" Robert's voice felt like an intrusion. For a moment she looked at him without comprehension.

"What's the matter, la.s.s?" He did not wait for an answer and grabbed her hand, trying to pull her up. "Come, people are lining up."

"Take Betty! I'll sit this one out."

He shrugged and took Betty's hand. She followed reluctantly, looking at her sister with a worried face.

"Just go, Betty! I'm all right."

All this time, Mary MacGregor had watched her intensely. After Robert and Betty were out of hearing, she asked: "That young man? It was master Andrew, wasn't it?"

Helen nodded.

"Why's he back? What does he want?" Her mother's voice sounded anxious.

"I don't know, mother. We didn't speak."

"La.s.s, you stay away from him and you know why! His coming back can only spell trouble! And you know father swore that he will kill any Argyle man to revenge his brother."

"I'm almost married, mother. Don't tell me what to do anymore! ... And as to father, it has only been words so far."

Her mother did not respond, just looked at her sternly.

Helen caught herself time and again searching the crowd for Andrew all afternoon, but to no avail. She tried hard to get back into the dancing. She returned Robert's smiles, made an effort to laugh at his banter. However, it was all a facade. Her heart was not in it. Her thoughts invariably strayed back to Andrew. Why did he come back? Why didn't he talk to her? Why didn't he greet her with a smile? She had no answers, just the ominous feeling that her mother might be right, that his coming back could only spell trouble. It had already upset the fragile inner peace she had fought so hard to find and keep these last three years.

On their way back home, Robert asked her pointedly: "What was the matter with you all afternoon? Mad at me or something?"

"No, Robert, I'm not. Nothing's the matter... I don't know, maybe I'm just a bit preoccupied about our wedding... How's our cottage coming along? Is there much left to do?"

"You saw it yesterday. So why ask? It'll be ready for our wedding." He eyed her suspiciously. "You'll come for a walk with me tonight." It wasn't a question, more a command.

Out of habit, she almost said 'yes'. She had learned that with Robert it was simplest to say yes. He took a 'no' almost as a personal affront. He needed to dominate everybody around him. It was best to reserve the 'no's' for really important things. But now she hesitated. She didn't feel like kissing and cuddling with Robert today-his only reason for enticing her on a walk. They rarely talked. They didn't have much to talk about, and then it was mainly Robert who talked. He didn't know how to listen. Not like Andrew! ... Why did she compare them? She had never done this so far.

"Why don't you answer? See, you're mad!"

"No, Robert, I'm not mad at you. But tonight I would rather not go for a walk. I feel tired. We can go another day."

"See! I knew you're mad at me or else you'd come. I know you like it too! ... There's something the matter. Why were you always looking around at the dance? ... Searching for somebody?"

"No, I wasn't."

He stopped, grabbing her arm roughly. "Yes, you were... It's another man, I know!"

She tried to pull her arm free. His grip tightened. "Robert, let go! You're hurting me!"

His eyes narrowed to threatening slits, his face reddening. He raised his voice: "Who is it? ... Answer, I asked you a question!"

"Don't be silly, Robert. Now you really make me mad." She again tried to wrestle her arm free. "Robert, this hurts!" she cried.

The others ahead of them turned to see what was happening. He let go, throwing her arm down, and stormed ahead. She rubbed the painful spot above the wrist and linked arms with Betty who had waited for her.

"Are you going to see him?" whispered Betty.

"How could I? ... I don't know where he stays. Anyway, I couldn't get away without raising suspicions."

"He'll be at the lochan."

"How do you know? Did he tell you?"

"No, he didn't... I just know that he'll be there tomorrow, waiting for you." Betty smiled. "I never told you that I had a crush on him... And I never thanked him."

Helen looked at her sister in surprise. "I never thanked him either. He didn't expect any thanks."

"Will you go and see him then?"

A paralyzing battle was already raging inside her. After a while, she murmured: "I shouldn't, not after what happened between our clans... And I'm promised to Robert."

"But you never stopped loving him... I know, even if you never told me." Betty squeezed her arm.

She's right, but I must be strong, she admonished herself.

Helen didn't go for a walk with Robert that evening. Sunday morning the whole clan went to church in Killin. She hoped that Andrew might be there too, fearing it at the same time, but he wasn't. Back in the glen by early afternoon, she selected a book and told her mother that she was going up to the terrace behind the clachan to read for the rest of the afternoon. Once out of sight, she hurried up the path to the lochan. When she came over the crest, she saw a horse grazing. She looked up to the promontory, but could not see anybody. What did I come up here for? she asked herself suddenly. Wouldn't it be better to leave? She dithered. But knowing Andrew was up on the promontory irresistibly drew her up the path. At the corner, she paused. He sat against a boulder at the back of the rock, his elbows resting on his pulled-up knees, his face hidden in his palms. She watched him for a while. He sensed her presence and raised his head, a sad smile greeting her. He got up and walked slowly to her, locking eyes.

"h.e.l.lo, Helen!" he murmured, stopping in front of her, and taking both her hands. "I hoped you would come."

So Betty was right. "h.e.l.lo, Andrew."

She tried to withdraw her hands, but he held firmly on to them.

"You look well, Helen."

His green eyes penetrated hers. She wanted to look away, but couldn't, feeling herself sliding deeper into his. With a major effort, she broke eye contact. He let go of her hands.

"Come, Helen, will you sit with me for a while?"

She followed him to his pouch. They sat, facing each other. Smiling, he murmured: "I brought a few delicacies."

He opened a little jar, broke off a small piece of a bun, and heaped salted roe on it. He pa.s.sed it to her. "For old times sake," he whispered.

Helen waited for him to prepare a second one. They both took a bite at the same time, chuckling embarra.s.sed.

"Tell me about yourself, Helen."

For a while she did not answer. She didn't want to tell him that she was getting married soon.

"You're getting married, aren't you?" he asked softly.

She met his gaze and murmured: "Yes, Andrew."

"I wish that you'll be happy, Helen."

How can I? Maybe if you hadn't returned, maybe if I had never known you I could have found some happiness. She said nothing, keeping her eyes to the ground. Then she asked reproachfully: "Why have you come back, Andrew?"

"I'm going to America. I wanted to see the Highlands for a last time."

"But why did you come back here? To the lochan?"

"I don't know... I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't help it. I had to see you once more, Helen." A sad smile lingered on his face. "Why have you come to the lochan, Helen?"

She blushed for having the question thrown back at her. "So this is the last time?"

"Yes, tomorrow I'll leave for Glasgow and then south to Liverpool."

The conversation faltered. Helen experienced again that familiar urge to flee. Self-conscious, a tinge of desperation, she asked: "Where have you been, Andrew?"

"I traveled... London, France, Switzerland, Italy, Greece... I was trying to forget us..." The sentence remained suspended. Their eyes met briefly before each broke away. "I want to make a new start in America, away from the quarrels of Europe."

Away from me, echoed Helen's mind.

Andrew reached for her book which she had placed next to her. "Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, by Samuel Richardson," he read aloud. "I don't know this one. What's it about?"

Helen was glad that their talk shifted away from their own unspoken, but ever present summer of love. "It's a story told in the form of letters by a young maidservant to her parents and ..."

"And?"

"-and how she struggled against the attempts by the young gentleman of the house to seduce her with promises."

"And is she successful in defending her virtue?"

Helen smiled at the choice of words. "Yes, she remains virtuous and strong."

"But it can hardly end just like that."

"No. In the end the young man proposes to her-"

"-and they lived happily ever after," he interrupted with a hint of sarcasm.

"The letters end before that. It's well written," she said defensively.

"And what's your view? Was the young woman truly virtuous or was she extremely clever and scheming, making sure that the young man would possess her only in marriage and not simply for his pleasure."

"That's maybe a rather cynical view of her motives."