Heather Song

by Michael Phillips

  The news stunned Alicia and Cora especially. They had grown up with Max and had once known him well. As often as I had been in the Urquhart home, however, I had actually never met Olivia’s husband. He had always been a mysterious shadow-man lurking behind the scenes.

  “We knew nothing about it,” I said. “Is Olivia alone now, or— How is she handling it? I didn’t have the idea they were especially close. Has it been difficult for her?”

  “Na, they werena close,” Adela went on. “I dinna doobt she did the same tae puir Max she did wi’ ilka body she met. She hadna shown him muckle o’ the love o’ a wife these mony a lang year, I’m thinkin’, gien ye ken my meanin’. But nae lang after that I began tae see a change in her. At first I thocht ’twas jist on account o’ losin’ Max, ye ken, but as time gaed on, she was pale an’ weak—no’ like hersel’. She went till the doctor an’ that’s fan we learned she had the cancer.”

  The dreaded word fell like a bomb. Again, we all took in the news with momentary silence.

  “She went for treatment,” Adela continued, “but it only made her mair an’ mair angry an’ bitter, an’ I couldna bide it. She had nae right tae gae blamin’ me for her ills, me wha’s stood by her these lang years mair nor I sud hae dune, an’ I regret it noo. She blamed ilka body, especially yersel’, Marie…an’ Alasdair, the duke, I’m meanin’, God rest his soul. She e’en blamed ye for her cancer. ’Tis whan it began tae dawn on me— Did I want tae become like her—a miserable bitter wretch o’ a woman? She was sick, but I didna pity her for that, but for bein’ sae decrepit an’ lonely an’ accusin’ the whole rest o’ the worl’, but ne’er lookin’ intil her ain sel’. Nae, I said tae mysel’—I didna want tae become like her. ’Tis whan I gie her my notice. I suppose it may hae been an ill thing o’ me tae du, but jist bein’ aroun’ her was drainin’ the life right oot o’ me. I couldna bide it nae mair. She was angert mair nor I hae seen in man nor beast—cursin’ at me, accusin’ me o’ desertin’ her in her time o’ need, callin’ me dreadfu’ names—me, after a’ the years I gie her, an’ she ne’er gie me no’ so much as a brass farthin’ extra, nae on Christmas, nae fan I was sick, an’ then she refused tae pay me my last week wages on account o’ desertin’ her, she said.

  “She’s like ane o’ them fa’s got mair siller nor maist folk, but is always frettin’ ower’t like she was a pauper. Always talkin’ aboot siller, she was, as gien she had nane, angert that she didna git mair o’ the duke’s, ken. I dinna ken whaur it went, but I dinna think she had muckle left at the end, an’ she wadna e’en gie me fit she owed. Then she shouted ane o’ her evil rhymin’ spells at me like I hadn’t heard oot o’ her mouth in mony a lang year, spittin’ the words at me like she was shoutin’ oot fae the veery pit o’ hell itsel’. It made me shudder wi’ a chill colder nor the snaws on Ben Nevis, an’ filled me wi’ dread. But no’ for mysel’…’twas like her words was a curse on her ain sel’. Her cancer isna in her banes, ’tis a cancer in her soul. She’s aye dyin’ twa deiths, an’ I didna want tae dee wi’ her. An’ I left an’ ne’er looked back. She showed me fit she was, an’ I saw hoo wrang I had aye been aboot the rest o’ ye.”

  We all were sitting with mouths open and eyes wide.

  “Is she dying, Adela?” I asked.

  “I dinna ken,” said Adela, shaking her head. “I left her four month syne. I went tae Glasgow tae live wi’ my sister for a spell, ken. I lost touch wi’ Olivia. I didna want tae ken a thing aboot her. But I kennt I had tae come back. I had tae tell ye a’ hoo sorry I was, an’ I thocht ye maun ken aboot her gien ye didna on account o’ her bein’ the duke’s sister, ye ken.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Difficult Decision

  Nae partin’ words were spoken,

  That nicht, lang syne,

  But twa aged hearts were broken,

  In the lang, lang syne.

  —J. S. Skinner, “The Lang, Lang Syne”

  I went to the Elms in Crannoch that same day and told them that Adela would be staying with me at the castle, and paid them for the night she had already booked.

  Adela remained with us a week before returning to her sister’s. It was as if the past had never happened. Cora and Tavia, and Fia and Alicia as well, took her back to their hearts with complete forgiveness. The five together found great healing simply in being able to talk freely with one another about their own experiences and the different ways Olivia had been able to control and influence their thought patterns and how they had each learned to overcome its effects in their own lives. She spent a good deal of time in my studio, too, playing quietly on the Shamrock and humming softly to herself.

  Something else, however, was on my mind. I mentioned it to Iain, then he and I went to consult Ranald. He took in the news of Max’s death and Olivia’s cancer soberly, sadly, and with grave concern.

  “The puir woman,” he said. “I only haup she hasna waited too lang.”

  “Too long for what?” I asked.

  “Tae repent,” replied Ranald. “I haup she hasna burned the veery life oot o’ her conscience wi’ the flames o’ her ain selfishness an’ evil.”

  “I can hardly imagine Olivia repenting of anything,” I said. “The idea of it would be hateful to her. She would resist it with the last ounce of her strength, I hate to say it, but right up till her dying day.”

  “Aye, but repentance is the only door tae life. We maunna call ony time too late.”

  “Do you think,” I said, “I mean, could there be a chance that Olivia might at last…Maybe it is wishful thinking, but could she be ready to be reconciled with us—with me, with you, Ranald…and to put her animosities behind her?”

  I could tell my question struck deep in Ranald’s heart and mind. Iain and I waited.

  “I wud tak the puir woman straight intil my arms,” said Ranald at length. “I wud sit at her bedside an’ spoon the milk o’ kindness intil her wi’ my ain hand. I wud sooth an’ stroke her hair wi’ the love o’ a father till his child, e’en kennin’ as I du that she took the life o’ my ain Maggie— I’d du my best tae love her wi’ the love o’ God the Father o’ us a’…gien she’d only luik intae her ain soul tae see fit God wants us a’ tae see. But wi’oot repentance, there’s nae place tae git a haud, nae place tae drop the anchor o’ forgiveness intil the harbor o’ love sae that the Father-hert can find its way intil her. A body’s got tae repent. She maun face the evil’s she’s dune tae sae many. She winna git aff wi’oot payin’ the last farthin’ o’ the debts o’ conscience, nae mair nor will I, an’ woe till her gien she winna du’t. But tae repent’s an ill thing for ane such as her. There’s mony a consequence tae be faced, mony a debt tae be paid. Whether she’ll see the need o’ it in this life, nae livin’ man can say.”

  As he had been listening, I noticed a strange look on Iain’s face.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Ranald?” he said.

  “We’ve a’ been through too muckle ower the years, laddie, for ye tae be spierin’ sich a thing.”

  Iain smiled. “Don’t answer if you would rather not,” he said. “But your forgiving heart toward Olivia is such an example to me. If it’s not presuming too greatly, I would like to know what happened to Maggie.”

  An expression of deep emotion passed through Ranald’s eyes. He sat for some time, obviously reliving what was a very painful memory.

  “I ne’er told anither livin’ soul,” he said at length, “aboot what took place that day. But perhaps ’tis time at last wi’ the twa closest frien’s o’ my hert.”

  He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “I had suspected ill motives afoot,” he began, “all that day lang. I kennt Olivia’s evil, an’ I kennt that my Maggie couldna leave weel enouch alane, bless her. ’Tis why I followed her, but I reached Findlater too late. They were already arguin’ an’ yellin’ at ane anither fan I was still a long way aff. I heard the curses fae Olivia’s foul mouth ower the wind. ’Twas like naethin’ I hae heard syne my days
in the military, which isna a place whaur pureness o’ hert is athegither honored. An’ the instant I heard her sweerin’ wi’ sich abandon, I kennt the evil had grip o’ her. I couldna rin like I once did for I was gettin’ auld in the knees for it wasna sae lang syne, but I hurried as fast as I could. But I was too late. I saw them scufflin’, then my Maggie screamed an’ disappeared ower the cliff. My hert smote me wi’ terror. ‘God, oh God,’ I cried. ‘Dinna let it be! God, preserve her!’ I ran on, wi’ tears pourin’ doon my face an’ cryin’ oot tae the Lord, hardly noticin’ that Olivia was nae mair tae be seen. Whether she had fallen hersel’, or had gone after Maggie tae help her, I didna ken.

  “I reached the cliff an’ Olivia was jist disappearin’ alang the path doon tae Sunnyside. She ne’er looked back nor once kennt what I had seen. As for the thocht o’ helpin’, ’twas clear she wasna thinkin’ ony sich thing. An’ straight below me on the rocks at the water’s edge I saw my puir Maggie, lyin’ still and lifeless.”

  I gasped in shock. “Oh, Ranald!” I said as I began to cry.

  “Aye, lass—’twas the moment o’ truth o’ my life, whan I had tae see what I was made o’, an’ gien I really believed in the goodness o’ oor Father’s hert. Weepin’ an’ crying oot till her, I scrambled doon the lang way roun’, winnin’ my way at last doon till the rocks near the Doo’s Cave. She was jist breathin’ her last whan I reached her, moanin’ but faintly wi’ her dyin’ breath. I didna ken gien she was in pain or no, but her een were closed an’ she seemed at peace. Babblin’ an’ weepin’, horror-struck at the sight, I sat beside her an’ took her gently in my arms an’ kissed her face an’ whispered till her a’ the words o’ a lifetime o’ a man’s love.

  “‘I was right, Ranald,’ she said, sae, sae saft. ‘She did it…jist like I said. She kennt a’ aboot Winny.’ Her voice was jist a whisper. ‘Aye, but ’tis nae maitter noo,’ I said till her. ‘Winny’s waitin’ for ye.’ My Maggie sighed and seemed to smile. ‘Aye, ye’re in the richt…There she is…she’s comin’ oot o’ the licht, jist there…I can see her, she’s aye been waitin’ for me…’ But her voice was already too saft for me tae hear mair. And those were her last words tae me. She was gane tae Winny.”

  I burst into sobs. I couldn’t help it. What the poor man had endured!

  “I carried her in my arms back tae Crannoch. ’Twasna easy, for I wasna a yoong man. But I wasna aboot tae leave my Maggie alane, no’ then. All the way the anger o’ man battled wi’ the Speerit tae git the upper hand. An’ anger an’ guilt to mysel’ for no’ gaein’ sooner. I kennt weel enouch that one word fae me wud put Olivia in jail, an’ I was sair put upon by the de’il tae tell what my een had seen. But afore I saw anither human face, the word o’ the Lord had burned intil my soul—‘Vengeance is mine,’ the Lord said. ‘Dinna prevent me doin’ my ain wark wi’ yer sma’ revenge o’ the flesh. My wark’s bigger nor ye ken nor can see. Keep yer ain hand awa’ fae her; Olivia’s mine tae du what I can wi’ her.’

  “An’ so I told naebody what I had seen, only that my Maggie had fallen an’ I had foun’ her on the rocks. An’ by-an’-by, oot o’ that obedience, the Lord softened my hert e’en toward Olivia hersel’, an’ I grew tae pity the puir woman, for I began tae see what was in store for her gien she didna repent. An’ I said nae word tae her nor onyone aboot it, until that day in court, ye min’, Marie, lass, whan I kennt the Lord was givin’ me leave t’ speik at last till her an’ tell her what I saw, tae mak’ her stop her lies aboot yersel’.”

  Iain and I sat listening, more moved than at anything we had heard in our lives. Iain’s eyes and cheeks were as wet as mine. And after all that, Ranald was now suggesting going in search of Olivia, to extend forgiveness and compassion toward her!

  Much more serious discussion and prayer passed between us.

  “None of us can know Olivia’s heart,” said Iain. “But we know that it is often the Lord’s way to use sickness to probe the conscience in areas that have not before lain open to the heavenly light or yet yielded themselves to the divine scalpel. Who can say—perhaps it might indeed finally be time.”

  “I hate the thought of her suffering with cancer alone,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “I wish we could do something for her.”

  “Maybe we can, lass,” mused Ranald thoughtfully.

  “It is probably the last thing anyone would expect of me, but if she is dying, and if you can forgive her a sin far worse than anything she has done to me, I cannot hold a grudge,” I said. “It’s not easy, but I know that God wants us to have compassion for her. Especially after what Adela said—that she is frail and bitter and lonely. In spite of what you’ve told us, I do feel sorry for her. She is Alasdair’s sister, and I owe her my forgiveness in the way that you have forgiven her. I am the only family she has left. Why could we not bring her here and nurse her—who knows, maybe back to health, or, if not, help ease her dying if that is where it is leading?”

  I thought a moment more.

  “I wonder if I should go to Aberdeen and try to see her,” I suggested.

  “It winna be enouch tae see her, lass,” said Ranald. “She maun be confronted wi’ what she is an’ has dune. Dinna forgit, it wasna sae lang syne that she tried her best tae kill ye, too. Invitin’ her back an’ tryin’ tae minister tae her’s a fine thing, an’ I honor ye for it wi’ a’ my hert. But the Lord’s aye got her complete healin’ in mind. The prodigal’s got tae come a’ the way back.”

  “Do you think I shouldn’t go look for her, then?” I asked.

  Ranald thought again. He was obviously turning many things over in his mind. At length he began nodding his head as if in decision.

  “Her chief antagonism has always been wi’ me,” he said slowly. “’Tis me that maun gae till her. I’m the one she’s sinned agin’ wi’oot repentance. Gien she’s tae return, it maun be by comin’ tae terms wi’ her sin toward me an’ her hatred o’ me first. I’ll gang tae Aberdeen.”

  “What will you do?” I asked.

  “I will gie a’ oor condolences aboot puir Max. Then I will tell her ’tis time, that she has waited lang enouch, an’ spier gien she’s ready tae repent o’ what’s in her hert. Gien she’s aye facin’ deith, there’s nae sense playin’ games wi’ her soul. She’s got tae repent. Ilka body’s got tae repent. Then I will tell her that I’ve come on a mission fae the duchess, her brither’s wife, tae spier gien she’d be happier in the hame o’ her childhood, an’ tell her that she’s welcome an’ that there’s mony hands waitin’ tae love her an’ serve her.”

  Iain listened seriously, nodding all the while as Ranald was speaking. When he was through and we had prayed and reached a consensus, both Iain and I offered again to go ourselves, or drive him into the city. But Ranald insisted this was something he had to do alone.

  “Then go, Ranald,” I said. “Go and bring her back to us. This is her home. We need to try to minister life and God’s love and forgiveness to her.”

  Ranald left on the Bluebird two mornings later for Aberdeen. He was gone three days.

  On the afternoon of the second day, Ranald telephoned me from his hotel.

  “I need tae confer wi’ ye, lass,” he said, “an’ see what ye’ll be thinkin’ I ocht tae du.”

  “Did you find Olivia?” I asked.

  “Aye. It took me mair nor a day—she wasna at the hoosie nor a sign o’ her. But spierin’ aroun’ wi’ neighbors an’ wi’ visits tae a handfu’ o’ hospitals an’ clinics finally led me till her at a private ward for cancer patients fa canna tak care o’ themsel’s but fa’s got siller tae pay for private care. But her siller’s maist gane an’ hoo lang they’ll keep her, I dinna ken.”

  “How is she?”

  “She disna luik good, lass. I hardly kennt her wi’ her yellow skin an’ sunken eyes an’ shrunken frame. She luiked older nor me.”

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  “She jist luiked up at me wi’ her dark een wi’ nae sign o’ feelin’. ‘What div ye want?’ she s
aid. ‘Gien ye came tae ease yer conscience, ye can leave me be. I dinna need yer pity.’”

  “She said that!” I exclaimed.

  “Aye, lass. For a’ her sufferin’, she isna humbled for’t.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I spiered gien she was ready tae repent.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She jist lauched in my face, a bitter, hard, cold, raspin’ lauch—it was the lauch o’ the veery de’il himsel’. ‘Repent!’ she spat back. ‘I’ll repent whan I stand on yer grave an’ curse yer soul! What hae I tae repent o’?’”

  “She said that!” I repeated. “I can’t believe it. What is she thinking? Didn’t she care that you had come to visit her?”

  “It meant naethin’ till her. She’s still full o’ the venom o’ hate.”

  “Did you tell her I would like her to come home?”

  “Aye. That silenced her. She sat glowerin’ doon at the floor, staring wi’ her dark, sunken een intil whate’er cesspool o’ memories sich like stare intil. I saw that she was revolving the thing ower in her mind fae ilka direction.”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “Finally I left her wi’oot anither word an’ cam tae talk tae ye an’ spier what ye want me tae du.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Div ye want me tae try tae bring her?”

  “Will she come?”

  “I dinna ken. I left after tellin’ her fit ye said, an’ she was thinkin’ hard.”

  “Do you think she might come?”

  “I dinna ken, lass. ’Tis a dangerous thing tryin’ tae coax the prodigal hame afore he’s ready. Wi’oot repentance there’s nae hamecomin’. ’Tis like tryin’ tae befrien’ a snake fa’s still got its fangs an’ its poison. The prodigal’s got tae repent, an’ then arise an’ gang till his father, no’ jist gang hame till his warm bed an’ meals an’ a’ his comforts fan there’s been nae change in his hert. Sae we maun tak care o’ takin’ her in an’ thinkin’ we’re helpin’ her gien the viper’s still in her.”