46
The Lady and the Seeker

Logan had not expected to find three women seated thus. And to the usurper, the man who had come in guile and deceit, they appeared not as three women merely having tea and pleasant conversation, but rather as the mighty first line of defense to their ancestral home. Indeed, his reaction was not far off the mark. For something of a delicate glow yet hovered in the air, which he could feel rather than see, a sense that he had stumbled unknowingly onto holy ground. As indeed he had. For where healing, forgiveness, and new birth are at work, there the Lord surely is. It put him immediately in an exposed position, and he hesitated momentarily.

His eyes strayed toward Allison. He quickly jerked them away, but not before he had caught a glimpse of her smile. There was something different in her face; that much he could see. In so many of her previous smiles he had detected traces of motive or cunning; today her face shone with a purity he had not seen there before.

Why had she chosen this moment to smile at him like that? It nearly undid his resolve to play out this last hand and get away from here. But he had to keep his wits and not melt, smile or no smile. These people were not going to get to him any more!

He yanked on his composure. He had business here. Nothing but business.

He had come directly to the house after leaving Ramsey Head. Entering through the kitchen, as was his custom now that he was accepted about the grounds as an employee, he had hoped to find a servant whom he might send after Lady Margaret, inquiring if he might beg a moment of her time. Though disconcerting, this unexpected turn would at least save time.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to barge in.”

“The kitchen belongs to everyone!” said Joanna cheerily. “There are plenty of places to go in this old house if we expected privacy. What can we do for you?”

“I had hoped to speak with Lady Margaret.”

Allison’s disappointment, though she tried to hide it, was apparent.

“Certainly, Logan, what is it?” the lady asked.

Logan hesitated. Somehow he would have felt safer if he could have gotten the old lady alone. She was cagy enough. But he wasn’t sure he was up to braving a series of questions from all three. The women of this family, after all, were a pretty stalwart breed. He didn’t like to cross them with unfavorable odds.

Joanna, perhaps sensing his misgivings, quickly rose.

“If I’m not needed,” she said, “I have a few things to attend to. Please excuse me.” Then turning to Allison, she added, “I could use your help, Allison . . .”

Allison moved back her chair and retreated with her mother. In the shyness of her change and the uncertainty of her true feelings, she had not uttered a word to Logan.

“Would you like some tea, Mr. Macintyre?” asked Lady Margaret when they were alone. “It’s still quite hot.”

But before he could say anything, she was on her feet and taking a cup and saucer from the cupboard. Why did she have to be so hospitable?

“Now . . .” said the lady, seated again, and pouring the steaming tea from the pot into Logan’s cup.

Logan had carried the board from Ramsey Head into the kitchen with him, setting it against his chair as he sat down. He now picked it up and held it out to his hostess.

“I found this today on the top of Ramsey Head.”

She took the wood and examined it with gradually dawning wonder spreading over her face.

“Raven and Maukin . . .” she murmured.

She laid it on the table, still gazing at the carved names. “Where on the Head did you find it?”

“At the very top, right on the crest.”

“How very like him.”

“You think it was Digory who put this up there?”

“Who else? It would have been so like him to do such a thing. And I think I even recognize a trace of his hand in the letters. He knew how Raven and I loved to romp along the beach and up and down the shore for miles. It was only natural for him to place a memorial to the animal where the view of the sea was the most spectacular.”

“Of course! I see it now,” said Logan, in a detached tone as if a great discovery had suddenly come upon him. He was just then thinking of Digory’s letter and the reference to the girl Maggie riding along the sea.

“Pardon me?”

“Oh . . . nothing . . . it just makes sense when you put it that way. Tell me, Lady Margaret, do you think it possible that the horses are actually buried there? Could that be what this plaque signified?”

“Hmmm . . . that would be something indeed. Quite an undertaking. But he was reasonably strong for his age. He and I dug big holes before.”

“What?”

“Nothing of significance. I was just thinking out loud. I was just reflecting on how it would be the sort of thing he would do, the sentimental old dear! Did it for me, no doubt.” She dabbed her eyes. Thoughts of Digory always brought tears.

“And in his mind it would be only fitting that Maukin should be laid to rest there also,” she concluded.

“I don’t mean to sound disrespectful of the dead, Lady Margaret,” ventured Logan, “but the whole thing does seem rather bizzare. I mean, they were only animals.”

“Very special animals. He knew what they symbolized to Ian and me. They were almost a symbol of our love. We rode those two horses everywhere. And too, it was our mutual love for horses that strengthened the bond between Digory and me.”

She stopped and smiled that peculiar smile of hers, which Logan had yet to fathom. Filled with mystery, wisdom, and sympathy, it was always disconcerting to him, especially today.

“Digory was a man of hope,” she went on. “Perhaps he felt that in keeping alive the memory of the animals which had been so dear to me, he was also keeping alive the hope that I might one day return.”

“It seems rather an absurd and sentimental gesture for a man who was supposed to have faith in God. If he wanted you to return, why didn’t he just pray for it instead of carrying dead horses around the countryside and erecting memorials to a life that was gone and past?”

Logan could see that his statement pierced the lady’s heart. He hadn’t intentionally tried to hurt her. Yet in his present mood, impertinence was but one more tool to insure his isolation, and thus his survival.

When she replied with gracious calm, he had to admire her, though it almost made him angry at the same time. Could nothing rankle this lady?

“I did not know you were an authority on the subject of how men of faith live out their hope, Mr. Macintyre,” she said, with just the merest hint of a challenge in her tone.

“You know very well I make no claim to be!” rejoined Logan, prepared to accept the challenge. “But even to an infidel like me, it sounds like the good Digory MacNab had more faith in a couple of dead horses than in that God he was so fond of.”

Suddenly Logan was sick of the whole lot of them, and their prattle about God. The new air of belligerence in his attitude felt good. It made what he was going to do that much easier. The religious sops! He’d had enough.

Lady Margaret smiled, only this time it was an open smile and filled with amusement.

“I have the impression, Logan,” she said, the smile gone from her lips but lingering in her lively eyes, “that you are trying to strike up an argument with me.”

“Why should I want to do that?” he replied rather too hastily. He was noticeably on the defensive, the cool aplomb of the confidence man wearing thin as his battle to hang on to his past identity increased.

“That’s exactly what puzzles me. I sense that a change has come over you, but I don’t know why.” She fingered her cup thoughtfully. “You are struggling with something, aren’t you?”

Logan barked out a sharp, hollow laugh. “I can’t imagine what would give you that idea. I only want to understand my distant relative better.”

“I only wish that were so. But there’s more to it. Something else is on your mind.” Margaret sipped her tea, then set the cup softly on its saucer. “If you were simply seeking to know your uncle Digory,” she went on, “then I think you would try to understand his faith and not ridicule it—for to understand Digory you must understand his faith. They are too much bound up in one another even to be considered separately.”

“Then to ridicule his faith is to ridicule him?” queried Logan, “and that angers you?”

“You take me wrong, Logan. It doesn’t anger me—rather, it hurts me. But not for Digory’s sake, nor even for mine. It hurts me for your sake.”

“Mine!”

“You are afraid, Logan. You are afraid to understand Digory’s God.”

She was challenging him! However sweet and charming, this was still a boldfaced challenge.

“I think you are running from God,” she went on. “I once knew a man who tried to run from God. But he knew no peace until the moment he stopped.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Lady Margaret. But perhaps it is hard for you to understand someone who has no need for religious crutches. Your faith may be fine for people like you and Digory. I won’t belittle you for it. But so far I’ve left God alone, and He’s been kind enough to return the favor.” Even as Logan spoke the words, the memory of his hastily spoken vow on the flooded road shot through his mind. He hadn’t wanted to be left alone then.

Well, that was then—he had been caught up in the moment. It had been a foolish and sentimental reaction. He could take care of himself.

Yet the words reverberated through his brain with a hollow and foreign sound. He was lying even to himself. What about all the times in his life when he hadn’t been able to make it alone? The time his mother had helped him out of the jam over the Fairgate fiasco, and later when Skittles had taken him in as a fifteen-year-old who knew no more about the streets of London than an innocent babe. And how many times when his luck had run sour would a friend lend him a quid?

But that had nothing to do with God! That was people—he had done the same thing for his friends! It had nothing to do with God or Digory or Lady Margaret or any of it!

But she was speaking again. “Many people consider religion a crutch, Logan. But that’s because they don’t grasp that what it really boils down to is a relationship, an intimate friendship. I have not chosen to live my life as a Christian primarily because I am weak and He is strong and I am unable to get through life on my own. Though of course that is true—we all are weak, and can’t make it on our own, and we do need His help. And someday you will see those truths in your own life. But primarily, Logan, something even greater draws me: simply the fact that He is the God who made me, who knows me, who loves me . . . and I can know Him intimately! Oh, Logan, I hate to think where I would be if He left me alone!”

“I haven’t done too badly,” he said steeling himself against her passionate words of truth.

“You are entirely satisfied with your life?”

“Completely!” His voice sounded firm and confident. Who besides Logan could have been aware of the stark hypocrisy behind it?

“You are a very fortunate young man,” she answered, and Logan knew that she saw through him as if his very soul had been naked.

But rather than feeling a sense of conviction, he withdrew yet further into the fortress he was trying to build around himself. It angered him to sit there exposed and foolish before the self-righteous old woman! She had no right to do this to him!

“Yes . . . very fortunate!” he repeated, glaring at her. Then stood quickly and strode from the kitchen without another word.

He didn’t have to take insults like that from anyone, even the grand Lady of Stonewycke. For the moment the irony was lost on Logan that she had not insulted or belittled him in any way. She had, in fact, been nothing but kindly in her tone. It would have made it easier on him in that moment had she responded in kind and tried to crush him beneath her noble heel. He could have taken that . . . understood it. But not this, not kindness in exchange for his rudeness.

The crisp air of the early evening jolted him like a slap to a man in panic. That was one thing he couldn’t do—panic. He had to pull himself together. He had to think clearly. He had given himself one more day, and he needed to make the best use of it.

He crossed the lawn in the direction of the stable when a figure came striding toward him, arm raised in a wave.

“Logan, there ye are!” It was Jesse Cameron.

“Jesse,” he said without enthusiasm. Here was a friend who had saved his life, to whom he had pledged his loyalty. But now he wanted no friends in Strathy, no ties.

“I’ve got a telegram fer ye.” Her voice was grave and in her eyes was a look of deep concern.

“I suppose you’ve read it,” snapped Logan as he whipped the envelope from her hand.

“That ’tisna my habit,” she replied, and Logan could see he had hurt her. “Telegrams ’most always bring bad news, ye ken.”

He wished he had the guts to say he was sorry. Her friendship had meant something to him. But he could not flinch now. This was no time for repentant deeds like apologies. No time even for smiles. He let her turn and walk away just as he had left Lady Margaret—saying nothing, giving nothing. As she went he watched her—sadly, but with resolve.

When she had walked dejectedly out of sight, he turned his attention to the telegram. He looked at it for a long and agonizing moment. No one knew he was here except his mother. And only one or two of his London friends knew how to get in touch with her.

With a shaking hand he ripped open the flap. He would not be able to cope with it just now if something had happened to his mother. But the telegram was not from Frances Macintyre.