"Where did they go?" I said; "by what way? Quick, tell me."
"They took the road doun to the ferry," said he, in great amazement.
"It's no an 'oor since they gaed."
Thereupon I flung him his lawing, and we rushed from the house.
CHAPTER V
EAGLESHAM
It was dawning morn, grey and misty, with a thaw setting in on the
surface of the snow. Down the narrow, crooked streets, with a wind
shivering in our teeth, we went at a breakneck gallop. I lashed my
horse for its life, and the poor brute, wearied as it was by the toils
of the night, answered gallantly to my call. Sometimes, in a steep
place, we slipped for yards; often I was within an ace of death; and at
one street-turning with a mighty clatter Nicol came down, though the
next minute he was up again. A few sleepy citizens rubbed their eyes
and stared from their windows, and in the lighted doorway of a tavern, a
sailor looked at us wonderingly.
In less time than it takes to tell, we were at the water-edge. Here
there is a rough quay, with something of a harbour behind it, where lie
the sugar-boats from the Indies, when the flood-tide is too low to
suffer them to go up stream to the city. Here, also, the ferry four
times daily crosses the river.
Before us the water lay in leaden gloom, with that strange, dead colour
which comes from the falling of much snow. Heavy waves were beginning
to roll over the jetty, and a mist was drooping lower and ever lower.
Two men stood by an old anchor coiling some rope. We pulled up our
horses and I cried out in impatience where the ferry might be.
"Gone ten meenutes syne," said one, with no change on his stolid face.
"There she is gin ye hae een i' your heid to see."
And he pointed out to the waste of waters. I looked and saw a sail
rising and sinking in the trough of the waves.
"When does she return?" I cried out, with many curses on our laggard
journey.
"Whiles in an 'oor, whiles in twae. She'll be twae the day ere she's
back, for the ferryman, Jock Gellatly, is a fou' as the Baltic wi' some
drink that a young gentleman gave him."
So we turned back to the harbour tavern, with all the regrets of
unsuccess.
The man had said two hours, but it was nearer three, ere that wretched
shell returned, and, when it came, 'twas with a drunken man who could
scarce stagger ashore. I was in no mood for trifling.
"Here, you drunken swine," I cried, "will you take us across and be
quick about it?"
"I maun hae anither gless o' Duncan's whusky," said the fellow, with a
leer.
"By God, and you will not," I cried. "Get aboard and make no more
delay, or, by the Lord, I'll throw you into the stream."
The man hiccuped and whined. "I canna, I canna, my bonny lad. I had
ower muckle guid yill afore I sterted, and I maun hae some whusky to
keep it doon. I'm an auld man, and the cauld air frae the water is bad
for the inside. Let me be, let me be," and he lay down on the quay with
the utter helplessness of a sot.
"Here is a devil of a mess," I cried to Nicol. "What is to be done?"
"I'll hae to tak the boat mysel', Laird," said my servant, quietly. "If
I droon ye, dinna complain."
Indeed, I was in no mood for complaining at anything which would carry
me further on my quest. With some difficulty we got the horses aboard
and penned them in the stalls. Then Nicol hoisted the sail, and we
shoved off, while I kept those at bay with a boat-hook who sought to
stop us. Once out on the stormy waters I was beset with a thousand
fears. I have ever feared the sea, and now, as we leaped and dived
among the billows, and as the wind scoured us like a threshing floor,
and, above all, as the crazy boat now almost lay sideways on the water,
I felt a dreadful sinking of my courage, and looked for nothing better
than immediate death. It was clear that Nicol, who knew something of
seamanship as he knew of most things, had a hard task to keep us
straight, and by his set face and white lips, I guessed that he, too,
was not without his fears. Nevertheless, the passage was narrow, and in
less time than I had expected, we saw a dim line of sand through the
fog. Running in there, we beached the coble, and brought the horses
splashing to shore.
The place was dreary and waste, low-lying, with a few huts facing the
river. Beyond the land seemed still flat, though, as far as the mist
suffered me to see, there seemed to be something of a rise to the right.
My feet and hands were numbed with cold, and the wound in my wrist,
which I got in scaling the wall, smarted till it brought the water to my
eyes. I was so stiff I could scarce mount horse, and Nicol was in no
better plight.
We rode to the nearest cottage and asked whither the folk had gone who
landed with the last ferry. The woman answered gruffly that she had seen
none land, and cared not. At the next house I fared little better; but
at the third I found a young fisher lad, who, for the sake of a silver
piece, told me that they had headed over the moor about three hours ago.
"And what lies beyond the moor?" I asked.
"Beyond the muir," said he, "is a muckle hill they ca' Mistilaw, a'
thick wi' bogs, and ayont it there are mair hills and mosses, and syne
if ye ride on ye'll come to Eaglesham, whaur the muirs end and the guid
lands begin. I yince was ower there wi' my faither, aboot a cowt, and a
braw bit place it is, and no like hereaways."
So Nicol and I, with dogged hearts and numbed bodies, rode into the
black heath where there was no road. The snow had lost all hardness and
was thick and clogging to our horses' feet. We made as good speed as we
could, but that, after all, was little. About midday we had crossed the
first part of our journey and were clambering and slipping over the
shoulder of Mistilaw. This hill is low and trivial contrasted with our
great Tweedside hills, but it well deserves its name, for it is one vast
quagmire, where at all seasons mists and vapours hang. Beyond it, and
all through the afternoon, we struggled among low hills and lochs. We
halted at a solitary shepherd's hut among the wilds, and ate a vile meal
of braxy and oaten-cake. Then again we set forth, and, in the
darkening, came to the wide moor which is the last guard of the wastes
and borders the pleasant vale of the Cart.
Now here I fell into a great fit of indecision. It was clear that
Gilbert and Marjory were but a little way off in the House of Eaglesham,
and I had almost reached the end of my travels. But here my plans came
to a sudden end. Was I to ride forward and boldly demand my cousin to
let her go? I knew my cousin's temper; he could make but one reply, and
at last some end would be placed to our feud. But with this came
another thought. Gilbert was not a man of one device but of many. If I
sought to wrest my lady from his hands by force, it was most likely that
he would be the winner. For he was ever ripe for high, bold and
dastardly policies, and at such a time was little likely to be
punctilious.
So in my extremity I fell to consulting with Nicol, and between us we
devised a plan. I liked it so well that I lost all dismal forebodings
and proceeded to put it in action. Night fell just as we came to the
meadows above the village, and the twinkling lights of the place served
as our guides. There was an inn there which I remembered of old time,
for the innkeeper had come originally from Tweeddale. At first I would
shun the place, but then I remembered that the man was dead these
half-dozen years, and all the place so changed that I was secure from
recognition, even had I not been so disguised and clad. So without any
fear we rode up to the door and sought admittance.
The place was roomy and wide; a clean-swept floor, with a fire blazing
on the hearth, and a goodly smell of cooked meat everywhere. They
brought us a meal, which we ate like hungry men who had been a long
day's journey in a snow-bound world. Then I lay back and stared at the
firelight, and tried hard to fix my mind on the things which were coming
to pass. I found it hard to determine whether I was asleep or awake, for
the events of the past hours were still mere phantasmagoria in my
memory. Through all the bewildering maze of weariness and despair, and
scrupulosity of motive, there was still that one clear thought branded
on my mind. And now, as I sat there, the thought was alone, without any
clear perspective of the actors or the drama to be played. I scarce
thought of Marjory, and Gilbert was little in my mind, for the long
series of cares which had been mine for so many days had gone far to
blunt my vision, and drive me to look no further than the next moment or
the next hour. I was dull, blank, deadened with this one unalterable
intention firm in my heart, but, God knows! little besides.
About nine or ten, I know not rightly, my servant roused me and bade me
get ready. He had ordered the landlord to have the horses round to the
door, giving I know not what excuse. I mounted without a thought, save
that the air was raw and ugly. We rode down the silent street out on to
the heath, where the snow was deeper, and our steps all but noiseless.
The night was clear and deadly chill, piercing to the marrow. A low
snow-fog clothed the ground, and not a sound could we hear in that
great, wide world, save our own breathing and our horses' tread. A sort
of awe took me at the silence, and it was with solemn thoughts that I
advanced.
In a mile we left the heath, and, dipping down into the valley of the
stream, entered a wood of pines. Snow powdered us from the bare boughs,
and a dead branch crackled underfoot. Then all of a sudden, black and
cold and still, from the stream-side meadows and all girt with dark
forest, rose the house. Through the tree trunks it looked ghostly as a
place of the dead. Then I remembered that this was the hill-front, where
no habitable rooms were; so, marvelling no more at the dearth of light,
we turned sharp to the left and came on the side looking to the river.
Two lights twinkled in the place, one in the basement, and one in the
low, first story. I cast my memory back over old days. One was from
the sitting-parlour where the old Gilbert Burnet had chosen to spend his
days, and the other--ah, I had it, 'twas from the sleeping-room of the
old Mistress Burnet, where she had dragged out her last years and drawn
her last breath. But for these there was no other sign of life in the
house.
We crossed the snowy slope to the black shadow of the wall, where we
halted and consulted. By this time some life and spirit had come back
to my movements, and I held myself more resolutely. Now I gave my
servant his orders. "If so happen we get Mistress Marjory safe," said
I, "you will ride off with her without delay, down the valley to the
Clyde and then straight towards Tweeddale. You will get fresh horses at
Hamilton, and till then these will serve your purpose. Once in her own
countryside there remains nothing for you save to see that you do her
bidding in everything. If God so will it, I will not be long in
returning to you."
Then, with no more words, we set our faces to our task.
The light in the window above us still shone out on the white ground.
Many yards to our left another patch of brightness marked where the
other lamp burned. There was need of caution and stillness, else the
master of the place would hear. I kicked my shoes from my feet, though
it was bitter cold, and set myself to the scaling the wall. The
distance was little, scarce twenty feet, and the masonry was rough-hewn
and full of projecting stones, yet I found the matter as hard as I could
manage. For my hands were numbed with the excessive chill, and the cut
in my wrist still ached like the devil. I was like to swoon twenty
times ere I reached the corner of the window. With a sob of exhaustion
I drew myself up and stared at the curtained window.
Very gently I tapped on the pane, once, twice, three times. I heard a
quick movement of surprise within, then silence once more, as if the
occupant of the room thought it only the snow drifting. Again I rapped,
this time with a sharp knock, which men use who wait long outside a gate
in a windy night. Now there could be no doubt of the matter. A hand
drew the curtains aside, and a timid little face peered out. Then of a
sudden the whole folds were swept back and my lady stood before me.
She wore her riding-dress still, but a shawl of some white stuff was
flung around her shoulders. There she stood before my sight, peering
forth into the darkness, with surprise, fright, love, joy chasing one
another across her face, her dear eyes sad and tearful, and her mouth
drawn as with much sorrow, and her light hair tossed loosely over her
shoulders. It was many lone and dismal months since I had seen her,
months filled with terrors and alarums, and heart-sickening despair.
And now, as she was almost within my reach at last after so many days,
my heart gave a great bound, and with one leap the burden of the past
shook itself from my shoulders.
"Open the window, dear," I cried, and with trembling hands she undid the
fastenings and swung the lattice open. The next moment I had her in my
arms, and felt her heart beating close to mine, and the soft, warm touch
of her neck. "Marjory lass," I cried, "how I have missed you, dear!
But now I have you and shall never leave you more." And I drew her
closer to me, while she could only sob the more.
Then, with a mighty effort, I recalled myself to the immediate
enterprise. The sound of the horses shuffling the snow without forced
on me the need of action.
"My servant is without with horses," I said. "You must go with him,
dear. It is our only safety. By to-morrow you will be in Tweeddale, and
in a very little while I will come to you."
"But do you not go just now?" she cried, in anxiety, still clinging to
me.
"No, Marjory dear," said I, soothing her as best I could, "I cannot come
yet. There are some things which need my special care. If you think
yourself, you will see that."
"Is it aught to do with Gilbert Burnet? Oh, I dare not leave you with
him. Come with me, John, oh, come. I dare not, I dare not." And the
poor child fell to wringing her hands.
"Marjory," I said, "if you love me do as I bid you. I will come to no
scaith. I promise you I will be with you at Dawyck ere the week is
out."
So she put a brave face on the matter, though her lips still quivered.
I went to the window and looked down to where Nicol stood waiting with
the horses. Then I thought of a plan, and, finding none better, I cried
to him to mount to the window-sill, for I knew his prowess as a climber,
and the uncommon toughness of his arm. The horses were too jaded and
spiritless to need any watching.
I caught up my lady in my arms and stepped out upon the ledge. Then
very carefully and painfully I lowered myself, still clinging to the
sill, till I found a foothold in a projecting stone. Below us were
Nicol's arms and into them I gave my burden. I heard him clambering
down by degrees, and in a very little, for the height was small, he had
reached the ground. Then I followed him, slipping the last few feet,
and burying myself in a bank of snow.
I had brought a heap of warm furs from the room, and these I flung round
my love's shoulders. My heart ached to think of her, weary from the
day's hard riding, setting forth again into the cold of a November
night.
"Oh, John," she said, "no sooner met than parted. It is ever our fate."
"It will be the last time, dear," I said, and I kissed her face in her
hood.
Then, with many injunctions to my servant, I bade them good-bye, and
watched the figure which I loved best in all the world, disappear into
the darkness. With a sad and yet cheerful heart I turned back and
clambered again into the chamber.
There were Marjory's things scattered about, as of one who has come from
a long journey. Something on a table caught my eye, and, taking it up,
I saw it was a slip of withered heather. Then I minded how I had given
it her one summer long ago on the Hill of Scrape.
I kicked off my boots, and in utter weariness of body and mind, I flung
myself on the bed and was soon asleep.
CHAPTER VI
I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET
I slept till dawn the dreamless sleep of those who have drowned care in
bodily exertion. It was scarce light when I awoke, and, with the
opening of the eyes, there came with a rush the consciousness of my
errand. I leaped out of bed, and sitting on the edge considered my
further actions.
First I sought to remove from my person some of the more glaring stains
of travel. There was water in the room, bitter cold and all but frozen,
and with it I laved my face and hands.
Then I opened the chamber door and stepped out into one of the long
corridors. The house was still, though somewhere in the far distance I
could hear the bustle of servants. I cast my mind back many years, and
strove to remember where was the room where the morning meal was served.
I descended the staircase to the broad, high hall, but still there were
no signs of other occupants. One door I tried, but it was locked;
another, with no better fate, till I began to doubt my judgment. Then I
perceived one standing ajar, and, pushing it wide, I looked in.
Breakfast was laid on the table, and a fire smoked on the hearth. I
entered and closed the door behind me.
There was a looking-glass at the far end, and, as I entered, I caught a
glimpse of my figure. Grim as was my errand, I could have laughed aloud
at the sight. My hair unkempt, my face tanned to the deepest brown, my
strange scarlet clothes, marred as they were by wind and weather, gave
me a look so truculent and weird that I was half afraid of myself. And
then this humour passed, and all the sufferings of the past, the hate,
the despairing love, the anxious care came back upon me in a flood, and
I felt that such garb was fitting for such a place and such a season.
I warmed my hands at the blaze and waited. The minutes dragged slowly,
while no sound came save the bickering of the fire and the solemn
ticking of a clock. I had not a shade of fear or perturbation. Never in
all my life had my mind been so wholly at ease. I waited for the coming
of my enemy, as one would wait on a ferry or the opening of a gate,
quiet, calm, and fixed of purpose.
At last, and it must have been a good hour, I heard steps on the stair.
Clearly my cousin had slept long after his exertions. Nearer they came,
and I heard his voice giving some orders to the servants. Then the door
was opened, and he came in.
At first sight I scarcely knew him, so changed was he from the time of
our last meeting. He was grown much thinner and gaunter in countenance,
nor was his dress so well-cared for and trim as I remembered him. The
high, masterful look which his face always wore had deepened into
something bitter and savage, as if he had grown half-sick of the world
and cared naught for the things which had aforetime delighted him. His
habit of scorn for all which opposed him, and all which was beneath him,
had grown on him with his years and power, and given him that look as of
one born to command, ay, and of one to whom suffering and pain were less
than nothing. As I looked on him I hated him deeply and fiercely, and
yet I admired him more than I could bear to think, and gloried that he
was of our family. For I have rarely seen a nobler figure of a man. I
am not little, but in his presence I felt dwarfed. Nor was it only in
stature that he had the preeminence, for his step was as light and his
eye as keen as a master of fence.
He had expected a very different figure to greet him at the other side
of the table. In place of a lissom maid he saw a grim, rough-clad man
waiting on him with death in his eyes. I saw surprise, anger, even a
momentary spasm of fear flit across his face. He looked at me keenly,
then with a great effort he controlled himself, and his sullen face grew
hard as stone.
"Good morning to you, Master John Burnet," said he. "I am overjoyed to
see you again. I had hoped to have had a meeting with you in the past
months among your own hills of Tweedside, but the chance was denied me.
But better late than never. I bid you welcome."
I bowed. "I thank you," I said.
"I have another guest," said he, "whom you know. It is a fortunate
chance that you should both be present. This old house of Eaglesham has
not held so many folk for many a long day. May I ask when you arrived?"
The man spoke all the while with great effort, and his eyes searched my
face as though he would wrest from me my inmost thoughts.
"An end to this fooling, Gilbert," I said, quietly. "Marjory Veitch is
no more in this house; with the escort of my servant she is on her road
to Tweeddale. By this time she will be more than half-way there."
He sprang at me like a wild thing, his face suddenly inflaming with
passion.
"You, you--" he cried, but no words could come. He could only stutter
and gape, with murder staring from his visage.
As for me the passion in him roused in me a far greater.
"Yes," I cried, my voice rising so that I scarce knew it for mine. "You
villain, liar, deceiver, murderer, by the living God, the time has now
come for your deserts. You tortured my love and harassed her with
hateful captivity; you slew her brother, your friend, slew him in his
cups like the coward you are; you drove me from my house and lands; you
made me crouch and hide in the hills like a fox, and hunted me with your
hell-hounds; you lied and killed and tortured, but now I am free, and
now you will find that I am your master. I have longed for this day,
oh, for so long, and now you shall not escape me. Gilbert Burnet, this
earth is wide, but it is not wide enough for you and me to live
together. One or other of us shall never go from this place."
He made no answer but only looked me straight in the face, with a look
from which the rage died by degrees. Then he spoke slowly and
measuredly. "I think you are right, Cousin John," said he, "the world is
too small for both of us. We must come to a settlement." And in his
tone there was a spice of pity and regret. Then I knew that I had lied,
and that this man was stronger than I.
For a little we stood looking across the table at each other. There was
an extraordinary attraction in the man, and before the power of his keen
eyes I felt my wits trembling. Then, with his hand, he motioned me to
sit down. "The morning air is raw, Cousin John. It will be better to
finish our meal," and he called to his servant to bring in breakfast.
I have never eaten food in my life under stranger circumstances. Yet I
did not fear aught, but satisfied my hunger with much readiness. As for
him, he toyed and ate little. Once I caught him looking over at me with
a shade of anxiety, of dread in his gaze. No word passed between us, for
both alike felt the time too momentous for any light talk. As the
minutes fled I seemed to discern some change in his manner. His brows
grew heavier and he appeared to brood over the past, while his glance
sought the pictures on the walls, and my face in turn, with something of
fierceness. When all was over he rose and courteously made way for me
to pass, holding the door wide as I went out. Then he led me to a
little room at the other side of the hall, whence a window opened to the
garden.
"You wish to be satisfied," he said, "and I grant you that the wish is
just. There are some matters 'twixt me and thee that need clearing.
But, first, by your leave, I have something to say. You believe me
guilty of many crimes, and I fling the charge in your teeth. But one
thing I did unwittingly and have often repented of. Michael Veitch fell
by his own folly and by no fault of mine."
"Let that be," said I; "I have heard another tale."
"I have said my say; your belief matters naught to me. One thing I ask
you. Where has the girl Marjory gone? If fate decides against you, it
is but right I should have her."
"Nay," I cried, passionately, "that you never shall. You have caused
her enough grief already. She hates the sight of you even as I, and I
will do nothing to make her fall into your hands."
"It matters little," he said, with a shrug of his great shoulders. "It
was only a trifling civility which I sought from you. Let us get to
work."
From a rack he picked a blade, one such as he always used in any serious
affray, single-edged and basket-hiked. Then he signed to me to follow,
and opened the window and stepped out.
The morning was murky and damp. Fog clothed the trees and fields, and a
smell of rottenness hung in the air. I shivered, for my clothes were
thin and old.
Gilbert walked quickly, never casting a look behind him. First we
crossed the sodden lawn, and then entered the pine wood, which I had
skirted on the night before.
In a little we heard the roaring of water and came to the banks of the
stream, which, swollen by the melting snows, was raving wildly between
the barriers of the banks. At the edge was a piece of short turf, some
hundred yards square, and drier than the rest of the ground which we had
traversed. Here Gilbert stopped and bade me get ready. I had little to
do save cast my coat, and stand stripped and shivering, waiting while my
enemy took his ground.
The next I know is that I was in the thick of a deadly encounter, with
blows rattling on my blade as thick as hail. My cousin's eyes glared
into mine, mad with anger and regret, with all the unrequited love and
aimless scheming of months concentrated in one fiery passion. I put
forth my best skill, but it was all I could do to keep death from me.
As it was I was scratched and grazed in a dozen places, and there was a
great hole in my shirt which the other's blade had ripped. The sweat
began to trickle over my eyes with the exertion, and my sight was half
dazed by the rapid play.
Now it so happened that I had my back to the stream. This was the cause
of my opponent's sudden violence, for he sought to drive me backwards,
that, when I found myself near the water, I might grow bewildered. But
I had been brought up to this very trick, for in the old days in
Tweeddale, Tam Todd would have taken his stand near the Tweed and
striven to force me back into the great pool. In my present danger
these old memories came back to me in a flood, and in a second I was
calm again. This, after all, was only what I had done a thousand times
for sport. Could I not do it once for grim earnest?
In a very little I saw that my cousin's policy of putting all his
strength out at the commencement was like to be his ruin. He was not a
man built for long endurance, being too full in blood and heavy of body.
Soon his breath came thick and painfully; he yielded a step, then
another, and still a third; his thrusts lacked force, and his guards
were feeble. He had changed even from that tough antagonist whom I had
aforetime encountered, and who taxed my mettle to the utmost. Had it
not been that my anger still held my heart, and admitted no room for
other thoughts, I would even have felt some compunction in thrusting at
him. But now I had no pity in me. A terrible desire to do to him as he
had done to my friends gripped me like a man's hand. The excitement of
the struggle, and, perhaps, the peril to my own life, roused my dormant
hate into a storm of fury. I know not what I did, but shrieking curses
and anathemas, I slashed blindly before me like a man killing bees.
Before my sword point I saw his face growing greyer and greyer with each
passing minute. He was a brave man, this I have always said for him; and
if any other in a like position, with an enemy at his throat and the
awful cognisance of guilt, still keeps his stand and does not flee, him
also I call brave.
Suddenly his defence ceased. His arm seemed to numb and his blade was
lowered. I checked my cut, and waited with raised point. An awful
delight was in my heart, which now I hate and shudder to think on. I
waited, torturing him. He tried to speak, but his mouth was parched and
I heard the rattle of his tongue. Still I delayed, for all my heat
seemed turned into deadly malice.
Then his eyes left my face and looked over my shoulders. I saw a new
shade of terror enter them. I chuckled, for now, thought I, my revenge
has come. Of a sudden he crouched with a quick movement, bringing his
hands to his face. I was in the act of striking, when from behind came
a crack, and something whistled past my ear. Then I saw my cousin fall,
groaning, with a bullet through his neck.
In a trice my rage was turned from him to the unknown enemy behind.
With that one shot all rancour had gone from my heart. I turned, and
there, running through the trees up the river bank, I saw a man. At the
first look I recognised him, though he was bent well-nigh double, and
the air was thick with fog. It was the fellow Jan Hamman.
I ran after him at top speed, though he was many yards ahead of me. I
have never felt such lightness in my limbs. I tore through thicket and
bramble, and leaped the brooks as easily as if I were not spent with
fighting and weak from the toils of months. My whole being was
concentrated into one fierce attempt, for a thousand complex passions
were tearing at my heart. This man had dared to come between us; this
man had dared to slay one of my house. No sound escaped my lips, but
silently, swiftly, I sped after the fleeing figure.
He ran straight up stream, and at every step I gained. Somewhere at the
beginning he dropped his pistol; soon he cast away his cap and cloak;
and when already he heard my hot breathing behind him he cried out in
despair and flung his belt aside. We were climbing a higher ridge
beneath which ran the stream. I was so near that I clutched at him once
and twice, but each time he eluded me. Soon we gained the top, and I
half-stumbled while he gained a yard. Then I gathered myself together
for a great effort. In three paces I was on him, and had him by the
hair; but my clutch was uncertain with my faintness, and, with a wrench,
he was free. Before I knew his purpose he swerved quickly to the side,
and leaped clean over the cliff into the churning torrent below.
I stood giddy on the edge, looking down. There was nothing but a foam
of yellow and white and brown from bank to bank. No man could live in
such a stream. I turned and hastened back to my cousin.
I found him lying as I had left him, with his head bent over to the side
and the blood oozing from his neck-wound. When I came near he raised
his eyes and saw me. A gleam of something came into them; it may have
been mere recognition, but I thought it pleasure.
I kneeled beside him with no feelings other than kindness. The sight of
him lying so helpless and still drove all anger from me. He was my
cousin, one of my own family, and, with it all, a gentleman and a
soldier.
He spoke very hoarsely and small.
"I am done for, John. My ill-doing has come back on my own head. That
man----"
"Yes," I said, for I did not wish to trouble a man so near his end with
idle confessions, "I know, I have heard, but that is all past and done
with."
"God forgive me," he said, "I did him a wrong, but I have repaid it.
Did you kill him, John?"
"No," I said; "he leaped from a steep into the stream. He will be no
more heard of."
"Ah," and his breath came painfully, "it is well. Yet I could have
wished that one of the family had done the work. But it is no time to
think of such things. I am going fast, John."
Then his speech failed for a little and he lay back with a whitening
face.
"I have done many ill deeds to you, for which I crave your forgiveness."
"You have mine with all my heart," I said, hastily. "But there is the
forgiveness of a greater, which we all need alike. You would do well to
seek it."
He spoke nothing for a little. "I have lived a headstrong, evil life,"
said he, "which God forgive. Yet it is not meet to go canting to your
end, when in your health you have crossed His will."
Once again there was silence for a little space. Then he reached out his
hand for mine.
"I have been a fool all my days. Let us think no more of the lass,
John. We are men of the same house, who should have lived in
friendship. It was a small thing to come between us."
A wind had risen and brought with it a small, chill rain. A gust swept
past us and carried my cast-off cloak into the bushes. "Ease my head,"
he gasped, and when I hasted to do it, I was even forestalled. For
another at that moment laid His hand on him, and with a little shudder
his spirit passed to the great and only judge of man's heart.
I walked off for help with all speed, and my thoughts were sober and
melancholy. Shame had taken me for my passion and my hot-fit of
revenge; ay, and pity and kindness for my dead opponent. The old days
when we played together by Tweed, a thousand faint, fragrant memories
came back to me, and in this light the last shades of bitterness
disappeared. Also the great truth came home to me as I went, how little
the happiness of man hangs on gifts and graces, and how there is naught
in the world so great as the plain virtues of honour and heart.
CHAPTER VII
OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE
Of the events of the time following there is little need to give an
exact account. There was some law business to be gone through in
connection with my cousin's death and the disposing of the estate, which
went to an East country laird, a Whig of the Whigs, and one like to make
good and provident use of it. Then, when I would have returned to
Tweeddale, I received a post from my good kinsman, Dr. Gilbert Burnet,
which led me first to Edinburgh and then so far afield as London itself.
For it was necessary, in the great confusion of affairs, that I should
set myself right with the law and gain some reparation for my some-time
forfeited lands.
So to the great city I went, posting by the main road from Edinburgh,
and seeing a hundred things which were new and entertaining. I abode
there most all the winter, during the months of December, January,
February, and March, for there was much to do and see. My lodging was
in my kinsman's house near the village of Kensington, and there I met a
great concourse of remarkable folk whose names I had heard of and have
heard of since. Notably, there were Master John Dryden, the excellent
poet, my Lord Sandwich, and a very brisk, pleasing gentleman, one Mr.
Pepys, of the Admiralty. I had great opportunity of gratifying my taste
for books and learned society, for my kinsman's library was an excellent
one, and his cellars so good that they attracted all conditions of folk
to his house. Also I had many chances of meeting with gentlemen of like
degree with myself, and many entertaining diversions we had together.
Nor did I neglect those in Tweeddale, for I sent news by near every post
that went to the North.
But when the spring came, and there was no further need for tarrying in
the South, with a light heart I net off homewards once more. I
journeyed by Peterborough and York in the company of one Sir C.
Cotterell, a gentleman of Northumberland, and abode two days at his
house in the moors, where there was excellent fishing. Then I came
northwards by the great Northumberland road by the towns of Newcastle
and Morpeth, and crossed the Cheviot Hills, which minded me much of my
own glen. At Coldstream I crossed the Tweed, which is there grown a
very broad, noble river, and then rode with all speed over the
Lammermoors to Edinburgh. I stayed there no longer than my duty
demanded; and when all was settled, one bright spring day, just after
midday, set out for Barns.
The day, I remember, was one of surprising brightness, clear, sunshiny,
and soft as midsummer. There are few ways I know better than that from
the capital to my home--the bare, windy moorlands for one half, and the
green glens and pleasant waters of the other. It was by this road that I
had come to Leith to ship for Holland; by this road that I had ridden on
that wild night ride to Dawyck. Each spot of the wayside was imprinted
on my memory, and now that my wanderings were over, and I was returning
to peace and quiet, all things were invested with a new delight. Yet my
pleasure was not of the brisk, boisterous order, for my many misfortunes
had made me a graver man, and chastened my natural spirits to a mellow
and abiding cheerfulness.
At Leadburn was the inn where I had first met my servant Nicol, my
trusty comrade through so many varying fates. I drank a glass of wine
at the place for no other cause than a sentimental remembrance. The old
landlord was still there, and the idle ostlers hung around the stable
doors, as when I had passed before. Down in the bog-meadow the
marsh-marigolds were beginning to open, and the lambs from the hillside
bleated about their mothers. The blue, shell-like sky overhead arched
without a cloud to the green, distant hills.
When I came to the place on the Tweedside road, called the Mount Bog, I
dismounted and lay down on the grass. For there the view opens to the
hills of my own countryside. A great barrier of blue, seamed with
glens, all scarred in spots with rock and shingle, lifting serene brows
from the little ridges to the wide expanse of the heavens. I named them
one by one from east to west--Minchmoor, though it was hidden from
sight, where fled the great Montrose after the fatal rout of
Philiphaugh; the broad foreheads of the Glenrath heights above my own
vale of Manor, Dollar Law, Scrape, the Drummelzier fells, the rugged
Wormel, and, fronting me, the great Caerdon, with snow still lining its
crannies. Beyond, still further and fainter lines of mountain, till
like a great tableland the monstrous mass of the Broad Law barred the
distance. It was all so calm and fragrant, with not a sound on the ear
but the plash of little streams and the boom of nesting snipe. And
above all there was the thought that now all peril had gone, and I was
free to live as I listed and enjoy life as a man is born to do, and
skulk no more at dyke-sides, and be torn no longer by hopeless passion.
When I rode through the village of Broughton and came to the turn of the
hill at Dreva, the sun was already westering. The goodly valley, all
golden with evening light, lay beneath me. Tweed was one belt of pure
brightness, flashing and shimmering by its silver shores and green,
mossy banks. Every wood waved and sparkled in a fairy glow, and the
hills above caught the radiance on their broad bosoms. I have never
seen such a sight, and for me at that hour it seemed the presage of my
home-coming. I have rarely felt a more serene enjoyment, for it put me
at peace with all the earth, and gilded even the nightmare of the past
with a remembered romance. To crown it there was that melodious concert
of birds, which one may hear only on such a night in this sweet time o'
year. Throstles and linnets and the shriller mountain larks sang in the
setting daylight, till I felt like some prince in an eastern tale who
has found the talisman and opened the portals of the Golden Land.
Down the long, winding hill-path I rode, watching the shadows flit
before me, and thinking strange thoughts. Fronting me over the broad
belt of woodland, I saw the grey towers of Dawyck, and the green avenues
of grass running straight to the hill.
By and by the road took me under the trees, among the cool shades and
the smell of pine and budding leaves. There was a great crooning of
wood-doves, and the sighing of the tenderest breezes. Shafts of light
still crept among the trunks, but the soft darkness of spring was almost
at hand. My heart was filled with a great exaltation. The shadow of
the past seemed to slip from me like an old garment.
Suddenly I stopped, for somewhere I heard a faint melody, the voice of a
girl singing. 'Twas that voice I would know among ten thousand, the
only one in all the world for me. I pulled up my horse and listened as
the notes grew clearer, and this was what she sang:
"First shall the heavens want starry light,
The seas be robbed of their waves;
The day want sun, the sun want bright,
The night want shade, and dead men graves;
The April, flowers and leaf and tree,
Before I false my faith to thee.
To thee, to thee."
There came a pause, and then again, in the fragrant gloaming, the air
went on:
"First shall the tops of highest hills
By humble plains be overpry'd;
And poets scorn the Muses' quills,
And fish forsake the water-glide;
And Iris lose her coloured weed
Before I fail thee at thy need."
I stood in shadow and watched her as she came in sight, sauntering up
the little, green glade, with a basket of spring flowers swinging on her
arm. Her hat of white satin hung loose over her hair, and as she walked
lightly, now in the twilight, now in a sudden shaft of the western sun,
she looked fairer than aught I had ever seen. Once more she sang with
her clear voice:
"First direful Hate shall turn to Peace,
And Love relent in deep disdain;
And Death his fatal stroke shall cease,
And Envy pity every pain;
And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile,
Before I talk of any guile."
But now the darkness had come in good earnest, and I could scarce see
the singer. "First Time shall stay," the voice went on:
"First Time shall stay his stayless race,
And Winter bless his brows with corn;
And snow bemoisten July's face,
And Winter, Spring and Summer mourn."
Here the verse stopped short, for I stepped out and stood before her.
"Oh, you have come back," she cried. "At last, and I have looked so
long for you."
"Indeed, dear lass, I have come back, and by God's grace to go no more
away."
Then leading my horse, I walked by her side down the broad path to the
house. We spoke nothing, our hearts being too busy with the delights of
each other's presence. The crowning stone was added to my palace of
joy, and in that moment it seemed as if earth could contain no more of
happiness, and that all the sorrows of the past were well worth
encountering for the ecstasy of the present. To be once more in my own
land, with my own solemn hills looking down upon me, and that fair river
wandering by wood and heather, and my lady at my side, was not that
sufficient for any man? The purple, airy dark, odorous with spring
scents, clung around us, and in the pauses of silence the place was so
still that our ears heard naught save the drawing of our breath.
At the lawn of Dawyck I stopped and took her hands in mine.
"Marjory," I said, "once, many years ago, you sang me a verse and made
me a promise. I cannot tell how bravely you have fulfilled it. You
have endured all my hardships, and borne me company where I bade you,
and now all is done with and we are returned to peace and our own place.
Now it is my turn for troth-plighting, and I give you it with all my
heart. God bless you, my own dear maid." And I repeated softly:
"First shall the heavens want starry light,
The seas be robbed of their waves;
The day want sun, the sun want bright,
The night want shade, and dead men graves;
The April, flowers and leaf and tree,
Before I false my faith to thee."
And I kissed her and bade farewell, with the echo still ringing in my
ears, "to thee, to thee."
I rode through the great shadows of the wood, scarce needing to pick my
path in a place my horse knew so well, for once again I was on Maisie.
The stillness clung to me like a garment, and out of it, from high up on
the hillside, came a bird's note, clear, tremulous, like a bell. Then
the trees ceased, and I was out on the shorn, green banks, 'neath which
the river gleamed and rustled. Then, all of a sudden, I had rounded the
turn of the hill, and there, before me in the dimness, stood the old
grey tower, which was mine and had been my fathers' since first man
tilled a field in the dale. I crossed the little bridge with a
throbbing heart, and lo! there was the smell of lilac and gean-tree
blossom as of old coming in great gusts from the lawn. Then all was
confusion and much hurrying about and a thousand kindly greetings. But
in especial I remember Tam Todd, the placid, the imperturbable, who
clung to my hand, and sobbed like the veriest child, "Oh, Laird, ye've
been lang o' comin'."
CHAPTER VIII
HOW NICOL PLENDERLEITH SOUGHT HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE
Now, at last, I am come to the end of my tale, and have little more to
set down. It was on a very fresh, sweet May morning, that Marjory and I
were married in the old Kirk of Lyne, which stands high on a knoll above
the Lyne Water, with green hills huddled around the door. There was a
great concourse of people, for half the countryside dwelled on our land.
Likewise, when all was done, there was the greatest feast spread in
Barns that living man had ever seen. The common folk dined without on
tables laid on the green, while within the walls the gentry from far and
near drank long life and health to us till sober reason fled hot-foot
and the hilarity grew high. But in a little all was over, the last
guest had clambered heavily on his horse and ridden away, and we were
left alone.
The evening, I remember, was one riot of golden light and rich shadow.
The sweet-scented air stole into the room with promise of the fragrant
out-of-doors, and together we went out to the lawn and thence down by
the trees to the brink of Tweed, and along by the great pool and the
water-meadows. The glitter of that brave, romantic stream came on my
sight, as a sound of old music comes on the ears, bringing a thousand
half-sad, half-joyful memories. All that life held of fair was in
it--the rattle and clash of arms, the valour of men, the loveliness of
women, the glories of art and song, the wonders of the great mother
earth, and the re-creations of the years. And as we walked together, I
and my dear lady, in that soft twilight in the green world, a peace, a
delight, a settled hope grew upon us, and we went in silence, speaking
no word the one to the other. By and by we passed through the garden
where the early lilies stood in white battalions, and entered the
dining-hall.
A band of light lay on the east wall where hung the portraits of my
folk. One was a woman, tall and comely, habited in a grey satin gown of
antique fashion.
"Who was she?" Marjory asked, softly.
"She was my mother, a Stewart of Traquair, a noble lady and a good. God
rest her soul."
"And who is he who stands so firmly and keeps hand on sword?"
"That was my father's brother who stood last at Philiphaugh, when the
Great Marquis was overthrown. And he with the curled moustachios was his
father, my grandfather, of whom you will yet hear in the countryside.
And beyond still is his father, the one with the pale, grave face, and
solemn eyes. He died next his king at the rout of Flodden. God rest
them all; they were honest gentlemen."
Then there was silence for a space, while the light faded, and the old,
stately dames looked down at us from their frames with an air, as it
seemed to me, all but kindly, as if they laughed to see us playing in
the old comedy which they had played themselves.
I turned to her, with whom I had borne so many perils.
"Dear heart," I said, "you are the best and fairest of them all. These
old men and women lived in other times, when life was easy and little
like our perplexed and difficult years. Nevertheless, the virtue of old
times is the same as for us, and if a man take but the world as he find
it, and set himself manfully to it with good heart and brave spirit, he
will find the way grow straight under his feet. Heaven bless you, dear,
for now we are comrades together on the road, to cheer each other when
the feet grow weary."
On the morning of the third day from the time I have written of, I was
surprised by seeing my servant, Nicol, coming into my study with a grave
face, as if he had some weighty matter to tell. Since I had come home,
I purposed to keep him always with me, to accompany me in sport and see
to many things on the land, which none could do better than he. Now he
sought an audience with a half-timid, bashful look, and, when I bade him
be seated, he flicked his boots uneasily with his hat and looked
askance.
"I hae come to bid ye fareweel, sir," at length he said, slowly.
I sprang up in genuine alarm.
"What nonsense is this?" I cried. "You know fine, Nicol, that you
cannot leave me. We have been too long together."
"I maun gang," he repeated, sadly; "I'm loth to dae 't, but there's nae
help for 't."
"But what?" I cried. "Have I not been a good friend to you, and your
comrade in a thousand perils? Is there anything I can do more for you?
Tell me, and I will do it."
"Na, na, Maister John, ye've aye been the best o' maisters. I've a'
thing I could wish; dinna think I'm no gratefu'."
"Then for Heaven's sake tell me the reason, man. I never thought you
would treat me like this, Nicol."
"Oh, sir, can ye no see?" the honest fellow cried with tears in his
eyes. "Ye've been sae lang wi' me, that I thocht ye kenned my natur'.
Fechtin' and warstlin' and roamin' aboot the warld are the very breath
o' life to me. I see ye here settled sae braw and canty, and the auld
hoose o' Barns lookin' like itsel' again. And I thinks to mysel',
'Nicol Plenderleith, lad, this is no for you. This is no the kind of
life that ye can lead. Ye've nae mair business here than a craw among
throstles.' And the thocht maks me dowie, for I canna get by 't. I
whiles think o' mysel' bidin' quiet here and gettin' aulder and aulder,
till the time passes when I'm still brisk and venturesome, and I'm left
to naething but regrets. I maun be up and awa', Laird, I carena whither.
We a' made different, and I was aye queer and daft and no like ither
folk. Ye winna blame me."
I tried to dissuade him, but it was to no purpose. He heard me
patiently, but shook his head. I did not tax him with ingratitude, for
I knew how little the charge was founded. For myself I was more sorry
than words, for this man was joined to me by ties of long holding. I
longed to see him beside me at Barns, an unceasing reminder of my stormy
days. I longed to have his sage counsel in a thousand matters, to have
him at my hand when I took gun to the hills or rod to the river. I had
grown to love his wind-beaten face and his shrewd, homely talk, till I
counted them as necessary parts of my life. And now all such hopes were
dashed, and he was seeking to leave me.
"But where would you go?" I asked.
"I kenna yet," he said. "But there's aye things for man like me
somewhere on the earth. I'm thinkin' o' gaun back to the abroad, whaur
there's like to be a steer for some time to come. It's the life I want
and no guid-fortine or bad-fortine, so I carena what happens. I trust I
may see ye again, Maister John, afore I dee."
There was nothing for it but to agree, and agree I did, though with a
heavy heart and many regrets. I gave him a horse to take him to Leith,
and offered him a sum of money. This he would have none of, but took,
instead, a pair of little old pistols which had been my father's.
I never saw him again, though often I have desired it, but years after I
heard of him, and that in the oddest way. I corresponded to some little
extent with folk in the Low Countries, and in especial with one Master
Ebenezer van Gliecken, a learned man and one of great humour in
converse. It was at the time when there was much fighting between the
French and the Dutch, and one morn I received a letter from this Master
van Gliecken, written from some place whose name I have forgot, a
rascally little Holland town in the south. He wrote of many things--of
some points in Latin scholarship, of the vexatious and most unpolitic
state of affairs in the land, and finally concluded with this which I
transcribe.... "Lastly, my dear Master John, I will tell you a tale
which, as it concerns the glory of your countrymen, you may think worth
hearing. As you know well, this poor town of ours has lately been the
centre of a most bloody strife, for the French forces have assaulted it
on all sides, and though by God's grace they have failed to take it, yet
it has suffered many sore afflictions. In particular there was a fierce
attack made upon the side which fronts the river, both by boat and on
foot. On the last day of the siege, a sally was made from the gate of
the corner tower, which, nevertheless, was unsuccessful, our men being
all but enclosed and some of the enemy succeeding in entering the gate.
One man in particular, a Scot, as I have heard, Nicolo Plenderleet by
name, with two others who were both slain, made his way to the
battlements. The gate was shut, and, to all appearance, his death was
certain. But they knew not the temper of their enemy, for springing on
the summit of the wall, he dared all to attack him. When the defenders
pressed on he laid about him so sturdily that three fell under his
sword.
"Then when he could no longer make resistance, and bullets were
pattering around him like hail, and his cheek was bleeding with a deep
wound, his spirit seemed to rise the higher. For, shouting out taunts
to his opponents, he broke into a song, keeping time all the while with
the thrusts of his sword. Then bowing gallantly, and saluting with his
blade his ring of foes, he sheathed his weapon, and joining his hands
above his head, dived sheer and straight into the river, and, swimming
easily, reached the French lines. At the sight those of his own side
cheered, and even our men, whom he had so tricked, could scarce keep
from joining.
"Touching the editions which you desired, I have given orders to the
bookseller on the quay at Rotterdam to send them to you. I shall be
glad, indeed, to give you my poor advice on the difficult matters you
speak of, if you will do me the return favour of reading through my
excursus to Longinus, and giving me your veracious opinion. Of this I
send you a copy.
"As regards the Scot I have already spoken of, I may mention for your
satisfaction that in person he was tall and thin, with black hair, and
the most bronzed skin I have ever seen on a man...."
When I read this letter to Marjory, her eyes were filled with tears, and
for myself I would speak to no one on that day.
CHAPTER IX
THE END OF ALL THINGS
I am writing the last words of this tale in my house of Barns after many
years have come and gone since the things I wrote of. I am now no more
young, and my wife is no more a slim maid, but a comely woman. The years
have been years of peace and some measure of prosperity. Here in
Tweeddale life runs easily and calm. Our little country matters are all
the care we know, and from the greater world beyond there comes only
chance rumours of change and vexation. Yet the time has not been idle,
for I have busied myself much with study and the care of the land. Many
have sought to draw me out to politics and statecraft, but I have ever
resisted them, for after all what are these things of such importance
that for them a man should barter his leisure and piece of mind? So I
have even stayed fast in this pleasant dale, and let the bustle and
clamour go on without my aid.
It is true that more than once I have made journeys even across the
water, and many times to London, on matters of private concern. It was
during one of these visits to Flanders that I first learned the
importance of planting wood on land, and resolved to make trial on my
own estate. Accordingly I set about planting on Barns, and now have
clothed some of the barer spaces of the hills with most flourishing
plantations of young trees, drawn in great part from the woods of
Dawyck. I can never hope to reap the benefit of them myself, but haply
my grandchildren will yet bless me, when they find covert and shade
where before was only a barren hillside.
Also in Tweed I have made two caulds, both for the sake of the fish and
to draw off streams to water the meadows. In the wide reaches of water
in Stobo Haughs I have cut down much of the encumbering brushwood and
thus laid the places open for fishing with the rod. Also with much
labour I have made some little progress in clearing the channel of the
river in places where it is foully overlaid with green weed. The result,
I am pleased to think, has been good, and the fish thrive and multiply.
At any rate, I can now make baskets that beforetime were counted
impossible. My crowning triumph befell me two years ago in a wet,
boisterous April, when, fishing with a minnow in the pool above Barns, I
landed a trout of full six pound weight.
The land, which had fallen into neglect in my father's time and my own
youth, I did my utmost to restore, and now I have the delight of seeing
around me many smiling fields and pleasant dwellings. In the house of
Barns itself I have effected many changes, for it had aforetime been
liker a border keep than an orderly dwelling. But now, what with many
works of art and things of interest gathered from my travels abroad,
and, above all, through the dainty fingers of my wife, the place has
grown gay and well-adorned, so that were any of its masters of old time
to revisit it they would scarce know it for theirs.
But the work which throughout these years has lain most near to my heart
has been the studies which I have already spoken of. The fruit of them,
to be sure, is less than the labour, but still I have not been idle. I
have already in this tale told of my exposition of the philosophy of the
Frenchman Descartes, with my own additions, and my writings on the
philosophy of the Greeks, and especially of the Neo-Platonists--both of
which I trust to give to the world at an early time. As this story of
my life will never be published, it is no breach of modesty here to
counsel all, and especially those of my own family, who may see it, to
give their attention to my philosophical treatises. For though I do not
pretend to have any deep learning or extraordinary subtlety in the
matter, it has yet been my good fate, as I apprehend it, to notice many
things which have escaped the eyes of others. Also I think that my
mind, since it has ever been clear from sedentary humours and the
blunders which come from mere knowledge of books, may have had in many
matters a juster view and a clearer insight.
Of my own folk I have little to tell. Tam Todd has long since gone the
way of all the earth, and lies in Lyne Kirkyard with a flat stone above
him. New faces are in Barns and Dawyck, and there scarce remains one of
the old serving-men who aided me in my time of misfortune. Also many
things have changed in all the countryside, and they from whom I used to
hear tales as a boy are now no more on the earth. In Peebles there are
many new things, and mosses are drained and moors measured out, till the
whole land wears a trimmer look. But with us all is still the same, for
I have no fancy for change in that which I loved long ago, and would
fain still keep the remembrance. Saving that I have planted the
hillsides, I have let the moors and marshes be, and to-day the wild-duck
and snipe are as thick on my land as of old.
As for myself, I trust I have outgrown the braggadocio and folly of
youth. God send I may not have also outgrown its cheerfulness and
spirit! For certain I am a graver man and less wont to set my delight
in trifles. Of old I was the slave of little things--weather, scene,
company; but advancing age has brought with it more of sufficiency unto
myself. The ringing of sword and bridle has less charm, since it is the
reward of years that a man gets more to the core of a matter and has
less care for externals. Yet I can still feel the impulses of high
passion, the glory of the chase, the stirring of the heart at a martial
tale. Now, as I write, things are sorely changed in the land. For though
peace hangs over us at home, I fear it is a traitor's peace at the best,
and more horrific than war. Time-servers and greedy sycophants sit in
high places, and it is hard to tell if generous feeling be not ousted by
a foul desire of gain. It is not for me to say. I have no love for
king or parliament, though much for my country. I am no hot-headed
king's man; nay, I never was; but when they who rely upon us are sold
for a price, when oaths are broken and honour driven away, I am
something less of one than before. It may be that the old kings were
better, who ruled with a strong hand, though they oft ruled ill. But,
indeed, I can say little; here in this valley of Tweed a man hears of
such things only as one hears the roar of a stormy sea from a green
inland vale.
As I write these last words, I am sitting in my old library at Barns,
looking forth of the narrow window over the sea of landscape. The
afternoon is just drawing to evening, the evening of a hot August day,
which is scarce less glorious than noon. From the meadow come the
tinkling of cattle bells and the gentle rise and fall of the stream.
Elsewhere there is no sound, for the summer weather hangs low and heavy
on the land. Just beyond rise the barrier ridges, green and shimmering,
and behind all the sombre outlines of the great hills. Below in the
garden my wife is plucking flowers to deck the table, and playing with
the little maid, who is but three years old to-day. Within the room lie
heavy shadows and the mellow scent of old books and the faint fragrance
of blossoms.
And as I look forth on this glorious world, I know not whether to be
glad or sad. All the years of my life stretch back till I see as in a
glass the pageant of the past. Faint regrets come to vex me, but they
hardly stay, and, as I look and think, I seem to learn the lesson of the
years, the great precept of time. And deep in all, more clear as the
hours pass and the wrappings fall off, shines forth the golden star of
honour, which, if a man follow, though it be through quagmire and
desert, fierce faces and poignant sorrow, 'twill bring him at length to
a place of peace.
But these are words of little weight and I am too long about my
business. Behold how great a tale I have written unto you. Take it,
and, according to your pleasure, bless or ban the narrator. Haply it
will help to while away a winter's night, when the doors are barred and
the great logs crackle, and the snow comes over Caerdon.