The Eye of Dread

That night two letters went out from Leauvite, one to Hester Craigmile at Aberdeen, Scotland, and one to the other end of the earth, where Larry Kildene waited for news of Harry King, there on the mountain top. On the first of each month Larry rode down to the nearest point where letters could be sent, making a three days’ trip on horseback. His first trip brought nothing, because Harry had not sent his first letter in time to reach the station before Larry was well on his way back up the mountain. He would not delay his return, for fear of leaving the two women too long alone.

After Harry’s departure, Madam Manovska had grown restless, and once had wandered so far away as to cause them great alarm and a long search, when she was found, sitting close to the fall, apparently too weak and too dazed to move. This had so awakened Amalia’s fears that she never allowed her mother to leave the cabin alone, but always on one pretext or another accompanied her.

The situation was a difficult one for them all. If Amalia took her mother away to some town, as she wished to do, she feared for Madam Manovska’s sanity when she could not find her husband. And still, when she tried to tell her mother of her father’s death, she could not convince her of its truth. For a while she would seem to understand and believe it, but after a night’s rest she would go back to the old weary repetition of going to her husband and his need of her. Then it was all to go over again, day after day, until at last Amalia gave up, and allowed her mother the comfort of her belief: but all the more she had to invent pretexts for keeping her on the mountain. So she accepted Larry’s kindly advice and his earnestly offered hospitality and his comforting companionship, and remained, as, perforce, there was nothing else for her to do.

CHAPTER XXXIII

HESTER CRAIGMILE RECEIVES HER LETTER

The letters reached their opposite destinations at about the same time. The one to Amalia closely buttoned in Larry’s pocket, and the short one to himself which he read and reread as his horse slowly climbed the trail, were halfway up the mountain when the postboy delivered Hester Craigmile’s at the door of the sedate brick house belonging to the Craigmiles of Aberdeen.

Peter Junior’s mother and two elderly women–his grandaunts–were seated in the dignified parlor, taking afternoon tea, when the housemaid brought Hester her letter.

“Is it from Peter, maybe?” asked the elder of the two aunts.

“No, Aunt Ellen; I think it is from a friend.”

“It’s strange now, that Peter’s no written before this,” said the younger, leaning forward eagerly. “Will ye read it, dear? We’ll be wantin’ to know if there’s ae word about him intil’t.”

“There may be, Aunt Jean.” Hester set her cup of tea down untasted, and began to open her letter.

“But tak’ yer tea first, Hester. Jean’s an impatient body. That’s too bad of ye, Jean; her toast’s gettin’ cold.”

“Oh, that’s no matter at all, Aunt Ellen. I’ll take it as soon as I see if he’s home all right. Yes, my friend says my husband has been home for three days and is well.”

“That’s good. Noo ye’re satisfied, lay it by and tak’ yer tea.” And Hester smilingly laid it by and took her tea, for Mary Ballard had said nothing on the first page to startle her friend’s serenity.

Jean Craigmile, however, still looked eagerly at the letter as it lay on a chair at Hester’s side. She was a sweet-faced old lady, alert, and as young as Peter Junior’s father, for all she was his aunt, and now she apologized for her eagerness by saying, as she often did: “Ye mind he’s mair like my brither than my nephew, for we all used to play together–Peter, Katherine, and me. We were aye friends. She was like a sister, and he like a brither. Ah, weel, we’re auld noo.”

Her sister looked at her fondly. “Ye’re no so auld, Jean, but ye might be aulder. It’s like I might have been the mither of her, for I mind the time when she was laid in my arms and my feyther tell’t me I was to aye care for her like my ain, an’ but for her I would na’ be livin’ noo.”

“And why for no?” asked Jean, quickly.

“I had ye to care for, child. Do ye no’ understand?”

Jean laughed merrily. “She’s been callin’ me child for saxty-five years,” she said.

Both the old ladies wore lace caps, but that of Jean’s was a little braver with ribbons than Ellen’s. Small lavender bows were set in the frill all about her face, and the long ends of the ribbon were not tied, but fell down on the soft white mull handkerchief that crossed over her bosom.

“I mind when Peter married ye, Hester,” said Ellen. “I was fair wild to have him bring ye here on his weddin’ journey, and he should have done so, for we’d not seen him since he was a lad, and all these years I’ve been waitin’ to see ye.”

“Weel, ’twas good of him to leave ye bide with us a bit, an’ go home without ye,” said Jean.

“It was good of him, but I ought not to have allowed it.” Hester’s eyes glistened and her face grew tender and soft. To the world, the Elder might seem harsh, stubborn, and vindictive, but Hester knew the tenderness in which none but she believed. Ever since the disappearance of their son, he had been gentle and most lovingly watchful of her, and his domination had risen from the old critical restraint on her thoughts and actions to a solicitous care for her comfort,–studying her slightest wishes with almost appealing thoughtfulness to gratify them.

“And why for no allow it? There’s naething so good for a man as lettin’ him be kind to ye, even if he is an Elder in the kirk. I’m thinkin’ Peter’s ain o’ them that such as that is good for–Hester! What ails ye! Are oot of ye’re mind? Gi’e her a drap of whuskey, Jean. Hester!”

While they were chatting and sipping their tea, Hester had quietly resumed the reading of her letter, and now she sat staring straight before her, the pages crushed in her hand, leaning forward, pale, with her eyes fixed on space as if they looked on some awful sight.

“Hester! Hester! What is it? Is there a bit o’ bad news for ye’ in the letter? Here, tak’ a sip o’ this, dear. Tak’ it, Hester; ’twill hairten ye up for whatever’s intil’t,” cried Jean, holding to Hester’s lips the ever ready Scotch remedy, which she had snatched from a wall cupboard behind her and poured out in a glass.

Ellen, who was lame and could not rise from her chair without help, did not cease her directions and ejaculations, lapsing into the broader Scotch of her girlhood under excitement, as was the way with both the women. “Tell us what ails ye, dear; maybe it’s no so bad. Gie me the letter, Jean, an’ I’ll see what’s intil’t. Ring the bell for Tillie an’ we’ll get her to the couch.”

But Hester caught Jean’s gown and would not let her go to the bell cord which hung in the far corner of the room. “No, don’t call her. I’ll lie down a moment, and–and–we’ll talk–this–over.” She clung to the letter and would not let it out of her hand, but rose and walked wearily to the couch unassisted and lay down, closing her eyes. “After a minute, Aunt Ellen, I’ll tell you. I must think, I must think.” So she lay quietly, gathering all her force to consider and meet what she must, as her way was, while Jean sat beside, stroking her hand and saying sweet, comforting words in her broad Scotch.

“There’s neathin’ so guid as a drap of whuskey, dear, for strengthnin’ the hairt whan ye hae a bit shock. It’s no yer mon, Peter? No? Weel, thank the Lord for that. Noo, tak ye anither bit sup, for ye ha’e na tasted it. Wull ye no gie Ellen the letter, love? ’Twill save ye tellin’ her.”

Hester passively took the whisky as she was bid, and presently sat up and finished reading the letter. “Peter has been hiding–something from me for–three years–and now–”

“Yes, an’ noo. It’s aye the way wi’ them that hides–whan the day comes they maun reveal–it’s only the mair to their shame,” exclaimed Ellen.

“Oh, but it’s all mixed up–and my best friend doesn’t know the truth. Yes, take the letter, Aunt Ellen, and read it yourself.” She held out the pages with a shaking hand, and Jean took them over to her sister, who slowly read them in silence.

“Ah, noo. As I tell’t ye, it’s no so bad,” she said at last.

“Wha’s the trouble, Ellen? Don’t keep us waitin’.”

“Bide ye in patience, child. Ye’re always so easily excitet. I maun read the letter again to get the gist o’t, but it’s like this. The Elder’s been of the opeenion noo these three years that his son was most foully murder’t, an–”

“He may ha’e been kill’t, but he was no’ murder’t,” cried Jean, excitedly. “I tell ye ’twas purely by accident–” she paused and suddenly clapped both hands over her mouth and rocked herself back and forth as if she had made some egregious blunder, then: “Gang on wi’ yer tellin’. It’s dour to bide waitin’. Gie me the letter an’ lat me read it for mysel’.”

“Lat me tell’t as I maun tell’t. Ye maun no keep interruptin’. Jean has no order in her brain. She aye pits the last first an’ the first last. This is a hopefu’ letter an’ a guid ain from yer friend, an’ it tells ye yer son’s leevin’ an’ no murder’t–”

“Thank the Lord! I ha’e aye said it,” ejaculated Jean, fervently.

“Ye ha’e aye said it? Child, what mean ye? Ye ha’e kenned naethin’ aboot it.”

But Jean would not be set down. She leaned forward with glistening eyes. “I ha’e aye said it. I ha’e aye said it. Gie me the letter, Ellen.”

But Ellen only turned composedly and resumed her interpretation of the letter to Hester, who sat looking with dazed expression from one aunt to the other.

“It all comes about from Peter’s bein’ a stubborn man, an’ he’ll no change the opeenion he’s held for three years wi’oot a struggle. Here comes his boy back an’ says, ‘I’m Peter Junior, and yer son.’ An’ his feyther says till him, ‘Ye’re no my son, for my son was murder’t–an’ ye’re Richard Kildene wha’ murder’t him.’ And noo, it’s for ye to go home, Hester, an’ bring Peter to his senses, and show him the truth. A mither knows her ain boy, an’ if it’s Peter Junior, it’s Peter Junior, and Richard Kildene’s died.”

“I tell ye he’s no dead!” cried Jean, springing to her feet.

“Hush, child. He maun be dead, for ain of them’s dead, and this is Peter Junior.”

“Read it again, Aunt Ellen,” said Hester, wearily. “You’ll see that the Elder brings a fearful charge against Richard. He thinks Richard is making a false claim that he is–Peter–my boy.”

Jean sat back in her chair crying silently and shrinking into herself as if she were afraid to say more, and Ellen went on. “Listen, now, what yer frien’ says. ‘The Elder is wrong, for Bertrand’–that’s her husband, I’m thinkin’–?”

“Yes.”

“‘Bertrand and Betty,–’ Who’s Betty, noo?”

“Betty is their daughter. She was to–have–married my son.”

“Good. So she would know her lover. ‘Betty and I have seen him,’ she says, ‘and have talked with him, and we know he is Peter Junior,’ she says. ‘Richard Kildene has disappeared,’ she says, ‘and yet we know he is living somewhere and he must be found. We fear the Elder will not withdraw the charge until Richard is located’–An’ that will be like Peter, too–‘and meanwhile your son Peter will have to lie in jail, where he is now, unless you can clear matters up here by coming home and identifying him, and that you can surely do.’–An’ that’s all vera weel. There’s neathin’ to go distraught over in the like o’ that. An’ here she says, ‘He’s a noble, fine-looking man, and you’ll be proud of him when you see him.’ Oh, ’tis a fine letter, an’ it’s Peter wi’ his stubbornness has been makin’ a boggle o’ things. If I were na lame, I’d go back wi’ ye an’ gie Peter a piece o’ my mind.”