Ian forestalled Alexander, riding to Glenfernie House the morning
after his arrival at Black Hill. "Let us go," he said, "where we can
talk at ease! The old, alchemical room?"
They crossed the grass-grown court to the keep, entered and went up
the broken stair to the stone-walled chamber that took up the second
floor, that looked out of loophole windows north, south, east, and
west. The day was high summer, bright and hot. Strong light and less
strong light came in beams from the four quarters and made in the
large place a conflict of light and shadow. The fireplace was great
enough for Gog and Magog to have warmed themselves thereby. Around, in
an orderly litter, yet stood on table or bench or shelf many of the
matters that Alexander had gathered there in his boyhood. In one
corner was the furnace that when he was sixteen his father had let him
build. More recent was the oaken table in the middle of the room, two
deep chairs, and shelves with many books. After the warmth of the sun
the place presented a grave, cool, brown harbor.
The two, entering, had each an arm over the other's shoulder. Where
they were known their friendship was famed. Youth and manhood, they
had been together when it was possible. When it was not so the
thought of each outtraveled separation. Their differences, their
varied colors of being, seemed but to bind them closer. They entered
this room like David and Jonathan.
Ian also was tall, but not so largely made as was the other. Lithe,
embrowned, with gold-bronze hair and eyes, knit of a piece, moving as
by one undulation, there was something in him not like the Scot,
something foreign, exotic. Sometimes Alexander called him "Saracen"--a
finding of the imagination that dated from old days upon the moor
above the Kelpie's Pool when they read together the _Faery Queen_. The
other day, at Black Hill, this ancient fancy had played through
Alexander's mind while Mr. Wotherspoon talked of Italy, and Mrs.
Alison of Babylonish lords.... The point was that he relished Paynim
knight and Renaissance noble and prince of Babylon. Let Ian seem or be
all that, and richer yet! Still there would be Ian, outside of all
circles drawn.
In the room that he called the "alchemical," Ian, disengaging himself,
turned and put both hands on Alexander's shoulders. "Thou Old
Steadfast!" he cried. "God knows how glad I am to see thee!"
Alexander laughed. "Not more glad than I am at the sight of you!
What's the tidings?"
"What should they be? I am tired of being King George's soldier!"
"So that you are tired of being any little king of this earth's
soldier!"
"Why, I think I am--"
"Kings 'over the water' included, Ian?"
"Kings without kingdoms? Well," said Ian, "they don't amount to much,
do they?"
"They do not." The two moved together to the table and the chairs by
it. "You are free of them, Ian?"
"What is it to be free of them?"
"Well, to be plain, out of the Stewart cark and moil! Pretender,
Chevalier de St. George, or uncrowned king--let it drift away like the
dead leaf it is!"
"A dead leaf. Is it a dead leaf?... I wonder!... But you are usually
right, old Steadfast!"
"I see that you will not tell me plainly."
"Are you so anxious? There is nothing to be anxious about."
"Nothing.... What is 'nothing'?"
Ian drummed upon the table and whistled "Lillibullero."
"Something--nothing. Nothing--something! Old Steadfast, you are a
sight for sair een! They say you make the best of lairds! Every cotter
sings of just ways!"
"My father was a good laird. I would not shatter the tradition. Come
with me to Edinburgh and London, on that journey I wrote you of!"
"No. I want to sink into the summer green and not raise my head from
some old poetry book! I have been marching and countermarching until I
am tired. As for what you have in your mind, don't fash yourself about
it! I will say that, at the moment, I think it _is_ a dead leaf.... Of
course, should the Pope's staff unexpectedly begin to bud and
flower--! But it mayn't--indeed, it only looks at present smooth and
polished and dead.... I left the army because, naturally, I didn't
want to be there in case--just in case--the staff budded. Heigho! It
is the truth. You need not look troubled," said Ian.
His friend must rest with that. He did so, and put that matter aside.
At any rate, things stood there better than he had feared. "I shall be
gone a month or two. But you'll still be here when I come home?"
"As far as I know I'll be here through the summer. I have no plans....
If the leaf remains dry and dead, what should you say to taking ship
at Leith in September for Holland? Amsterdam--then Antwerp--then the
Rhine. We might see the great Frederick--push farther and look at the
Queen of Hungary."
"No, I may not. I look to be a home-staying laird."
They sat with the table between them, and the light from the four
sides of the room rippled and crossed over them. Books were on the
table, folios and volumes in less.
"The home-staying laird--the full scholar--at last the writer--the
master ... it is a good fortune!"
As Ian spoke he stretched his arms, he leaned back in his chair and
regarded the room, the fireplace, the little furnace, and the shelves
ranged with the quaint, makeshift apparatuses of boyhood. He looked at
the green boughs without the loophole windows and at the crossing
lights and shadows, and the brown books upon the brown table, and at
last, under somewhat lowered lids, at Alexander. What moved in the
bottom of his mind it would be hard to say. He thought that he loved
the man sitting over against him, and so, surely, to some great amount
he did. But somewhere, in the thousand valleys behind them, he had
stayed in an inn of malice and had carried hence poison in a vial as
small as a single cell. What suddenly made that past to burn and set
it in the present it were hard to say. A spark perhaps of envy or of
jealousy, or a movement of contempt for Alexander's "fortune." But he
looked at his friend with half-closed eyes, and under the sea of
consciousness crawled, half-blind, half-asleep, a willingness for
Glenfernie to find some thorn in life. The wish did not come to
consciousness. It was far down. He thought of himself as steel true to
Alexander. And in a moment the old love drew again. He put out his
hands across the board. "When are we going to see Mother Binning and
to light the fire in the cave?... There are not many like you,
Alexander! I'm glad to get back."
"I'm glad to have you back, old sworn-fellow, old Saracen!"
They clasped hands. Gray eyes and brown eyes with gold flecks met in a
gaze that was as steady with the one as with the other. It was
Alexander who first loosened handclasp.
They talked of affairs, particular and general, of Ian's late
proceedings and the lairdship of Alexander, of men and places that
they knew away from this countryside. Ian watched the other as they
talked. Whatever there was that had moved, down there in the abyss,
was asleep again.
"Old Steadfast, you are ruddy and joyous! How long since I was here,
in the winter? Four months? Well, you've changed. What is it?... Is it
love? Are you in love?"
"If I am--" Glenfernie rose and paced the room. Coming to one of the
narrow windows, he stood and looked out and down upon bank and brae
and wood and field and moor. He returned to the table. "I'll tell you
about it."
He told. Ian sat and listened. The light played about him, shook gold
dots and lines over his green coat, over his hands, his faintly
smiling face, his head held straight and high. He was so well to look
at, so "magnificent"! Alexander spoke with the eloquence of a
possessing passion, and Ian listened and felt himself to be the
sympathizing friend. Even the profound, unreasonable, unhumorous
idealism of old Steadfast had its quaint, Utopian appeal. He was going
to marry the farmer's granddaughter, though he might, undoubtedly,
marry better.... Ian listened, questioned, summed up:
"I have always been the worldly-wise one! Is there any use in my
talking now of worldly wisdom?"
"No use at all."
"Then I won't!... Old Alexander the Great, are you happy?"
"If she gives me her love."
Ian dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "Oh, I think she'll give
it, dear simpleton!" He looked at Glenfernie now with genial
affection. "Well, on the whole, and balancing one thing against
another, I think that I want you to be happy!"
Alexander laughed at that minification. "And my happiness is big
enough--or if I get it it will be big enough--not in the least to
disturb our friendship country, Ian!"
"I'll believe that, too. Our relations are old and rooted."
"Old and rooted."
"So I wish you joy.... And I remember when you thought you would not
marry!"
"Oh--memories! I'm sweeping them away! I'm beginning again!... I hold
fast the memory of friendship. I hold fast the memory that somehow, in
this form or that, I must have loved her from the beginning of
things!" He rose and moved about the room. Going to the fireplace, he
leaned his forehead against the stone and looked down at the laid, not
kindled, wood. He turned and came back to Ian. "The world seems to me
all good."
Ian laughed at him, half in raillery, but half in a flood of kindness.
If what had stirred had been ancient betrayal, alive and vital one
knew not when, now again it was dead, dead. He rose, he put his arm
again about Alexander's shoulder. "Glenfernie! Glenfernie! you're in
deep! Well, I hope the world will stay heaven, e'en for your sake!"
They left the old room with its hauntings of a boy's search for gold,
with, back of that, who might know what hauntings of ancient times and
fortress doings, violences and agonies, subduings, revivings, cark and
care and light struggling through, dark nights and waited-for dawns!
They went down the stair and out of the keep. Late June flamed around
them.
Ian stayed another hour or two ere he rode back to Black Hill. With
Glenfernie he went over Glenfernie House, the known, familiar rooms.
They went to the school-room together and out through the breach in
the old castle wall, and sat among the pine roots, and looked down
through leafy tree-tops to the glint of water. When, in the sun-washed
house and narrow garden and grassy court, they came upon men and women
they stopped and spoke, and all was friendly and merry as it should be
in a land of good folk. Ian had his crack with Davie, with Eppie and
Phemie and old Lauchlinson and others. They sat for a few minutes with
Mrs. Grizel where, in a most housewifely corner, she measured currants
and bargained with pickers of cherries. Strickland they came upon in
the book-room. With the Jardines and this gentleman the sense of
employed and employee had long ago passed into a larger inclusion. He
and the young laird talked and worked together as members of one
family. Now there was some converse among the three, and then the two
left Strickland in the cool, dusky room. Outside the house June flamed
again. For a while they paced up and down under the trees in the
narrow garden atop the craggy height. Then Ian mounted Fatima, who all
these years was kept for him at Black Hill.
"You'll come over to-morrow?"
"Yes."
Glenfernie watched him down the steep-descending, winding road, and
thought of many roads that, good company, he and Ian had traveled
together.
This was the middle of the day. In the afternoon he walked to White
Farm.... It was sunset when he turned his face homeward. He looked
back and saw Elspeth at the stepping-stones, in a clear flame of
golden sky and golden water. She had seemed kind; he walked on air,
his hand in Hope's. Hope had well-nigh the look of Assurance. He was
going away because it was promised and arranged for and he must go.
But he was coming again--he was coming again.
A golden moon rose through the clear east. He was in no hurry to reach
Glenfernie House. The aching, panting bliss that he felt, the energy
compressed, held back, straining at the leash, wanted night and
isolation. So it could better dream of day and the clasp of that other
that with him would make one. Now he walked and now stood, his eyes
upon the mounting orb or the greater stars that it could not dim, and
now he stretched himself in the summer heath. At last, not far from
midnight, he came to that face of Glenfernie Hill below the old wall,
to the home stream and the bit of thick wood where once, in boyhood,
he had lain with covered face under the trees and little by little had
put from his mind "The Cranes of Ibycus." The moonlight was all broken
here. Shafts of black and white lay inextricably crossed and mingled.
Alexander passed through the little wood and climbed, with the secure
step of old habit, the steep, rough path to the pine without the wall,
there stooped and came through the broken wall to the moon-silvered
court, and so to the door left open for him.