"A scurrilous shame," muttered a sympathiser. "What's the old place
coming to? They want younger blood in their Court of Discipline. Sour
old kill-joys the whole pack of them: nourished on Latin roots till any
milk of human kindness in them has turned to vinegar."
I forced a laugh to my lips. "As the culprit," I said, "I think my
punishment has been tempered with mercy. I behaved like a zany. I
deserve my fate."
"Fac bono sis animo: cheer up," cried Maltravers, "the year will soon
pass: and we shall speed your departure on the morrow, in the hope that
we may hasten your return."
I went to my rooms and packed up my belongings, sending them to the inn
on the Banbury Road, where on the morrow I should await the coach for
Warwick. Then I made my way to the Master and tendered him my apology.
He accepted it with a courtly grace that made me feel the more the
baseness of my offence. The rest of the day I spent in farewell visits
to friends in my own and other colleges--and then I lay down to rest.
Little did I think, as I lay and heard the mellow notes of Big Tom throb
from Tom Tower, that in a few weeks I should be lying, a fugitive, on a
Scottish hill-side. The future hides her secrets from us behind a
jealous hand.
Morning came, and I prepared to depart. No sooner had I passed out of
the College gateway than I was seized by zealous hands, and lifted
shoulder high. In this wise I was borne to the confines of the City by
a cheerful rabble--to my great discomfort, but to their huge amusement.
The sorrow they expressed with their lips was belied by the gaiety
written on their faces, and though they chanted "_Miserere Domine_"
there was a cheerfulness in their voices ill in keeping with their
words.
When we came to the confines of the City my bearers lowered me roughly
so that I fell in a heap, and as I lay they gathered round me and
chanted dolorously a jumble of Latin words. It sounded like some
priestly benediction--but it was only the reiterated conjugation of a
verb. When the chant was ended Maltravers seized me by the arm and drew
me to my feet: "Ave atque vale, Frater: Good-bye, and good luck," he
said.
Others crowded round me with farewells upon their lips, the warmth of
their hearts speaking in the pressure of their hands. I would fain have
tarried, but I tore myself away. As I did so Maltravers shouted, "A
parting cheer for the voyager across the Styx," and they rent the air
with a shout. I turned to wave a grateful hand, when something tinkled
at my feet. I stooped and picked up a penny: "Charon's beer money,"
shouted a voice. "Don't drink it yourself,"--at which there was a roar
of laughter. So I made my way to The Bay Horse, sadder at heart, I
trow, than was my wont.
The follies of youth have a glamour when one is in a crowd, but the
glamour melts like a morning mist when one is alone. I seated myself in
the inn parlour to await the coach for Warwick, and as I sat I pondered
my state. It was far from pleasing. To return disgraced to the house
of my uncle and guardian was a prospect for which I had little heart.
Stern at the best of times, he had little sympathy with the ways of
youth, and many a homily had I listened to from his sour lips. This
last escapade would, I knew, be judged without charity. I had disgraced
my family name, a name that since the days when Balliol College was
founded by Devorgilla had held a place of honour on the college rolls.
For generations the de Bryddes had been _alumni_, and for a de Brydde to
be sent down from his Alma Mater for such an offence as mine would lay
upon the family record a blot that no penitence could atone for or good
conduct purge. So my reception by my guardian was not likely to be a
pleasant one. Besides there was this to be thought of: during my last
vacation my uncle, a man of ripe age, who had prided himself upon the
stern resistance he had offered all his life to what he called the
"wiles of the sirens," had, as many a man has done, thrown his
prejudices to the winds and espoused a young woman who neither by birth
nor in age seemed to be a suitable wife for him. A young man in love
may act like a fool, but an old man swept off his feet by love for a
woman young enough to be his granddaughter can touch depths of
foolishness that no young man has ever plumbed. So, at least, it seemed
to me, during the latter half of my vacation, after he had brought home
his bride. She was the young apple of his aged eye, and there was no
longer any place for me in his affections.
I turned these things over in my mind, and then I thought longingly of
my little room at Balliol. To numb my pain I called for a tankard of
ale. As I did so my eye was caught by a picture upon the wall. It was
a drawing of my own college, and under it in black and staring letters
was printed: "Balliol College, Oxford. Founded by the Lady Devorgilla
in memory of her husband John Balliol. The pious foundress of this
college also built an Abbey in Kirkcudbrightshire and threw a bridge
over the Nith at Dumfries. _Requiescat in pace_."
A sudden fancy seized me. Why need I haste me home? Surely it were
wiser to disappear until the storm of my guardian's wrath should have
time to subside. I would make a pilgrimage. I would hie me to Dumfries
and see with my own eyes the bridge which the foundress of Balliol had
caused to be built: and on my pilgrimage I might perchance regain some
of my self-respect. The sudden impulse hardened into resolution as I
quaffed my ale. Calling for pen and paper I proceeded to write a letter
to my uncle. I made no apology for my offence, of which I had little
doubt he would receive a full account from the college authorities; but
I told him that I was minded to do penance by making a pilgrimage to
Devorgilla's bridge at Dumfries and that I should return in due time.
As I sealed the letter the coach drew up at the door, and I gave it to
the post-boy. With a sounding horn and a crack of the whip the coach
rolled off, and, standing in the doorway, I watched it disappear in a
cloud of dust. Then I turned into the inn again and prepared to settle
my account. As I did so I calculated that in my belt I had more than
thirty pounds, and I was young--just twenty--and many a man with youth
upon his side and much less money in his purse has set out to see the
world. So I took courage and, having pledged the goodman of the house
to take care of my belongings against my return, I purchased from him a
good oak staff and set out upon my journey.
Thus it was that a month later I stood, as I have already told, upon the
bridge at Dumfries. A farm cart, heavily laden, rolled along it, and
lest I should be crushed against the wall I stepped into the little
alcove near its middle to let the wagon pass. It rattled ponderously
over the cobbled road and as it descended the slope towards the Vennel
Port there passed it, all resplendent in a flowing red coat thrown back
at the skirt to display its white lining, the swaggering figure of a
gigantic soldier. He stalked leisurely along the bridge towards me, and
as he passed I looked at him closely. His big, burnished spurs clanked
as he walked and the bucket tops of his polished jack-boots moved to the
bend of his knees. From his cocked hat a flesh-coloured ribbon
depended, falling upon his left shoulder, and touching the broad
cross-strap of his belt, which gripped his waist like a vice, so that he
threw out his chest--all ornate with a blue plastron edged with silver
lace--like a pouter pigeon. In his right hand he carried a supple cane
with which ever and anon he struck his jack-boot. Behind him, at a
prudent distance, followed two boys, talking furtively, lip to ear. As
they passed me I heard the one whisper to the other:
"Liar! It's the King richt eneuch. My big brither tellt me, and he
kens!"
"It's naething o' the kind," said the other. "I'll hit ye a bash on the
neb. He's only a sergeant o' dragoons," and without more ado the lads
fell upon each other.
What the issue might have been I cannot tell, for, hearing the scuffle
behind him, the sergeant turned and began to retrace his steps. At the
sound of his coming the combatants were seized with panic; their enmity
changed to sudden friendship, and together they raced off towards the
town. The sergeant descended upon me, and tapping me on the chest with
the butt of his stick, said:
"You're a likely young man. What say you to taking service wi' His
Majesty? It's a man's life, fu' o' adventure and romance. The women,
God bless them, canna keep their een off a sodger's coat. Are ye game
to 'list? There are great doings toward, for the King wants men to root
out the pestilent Whigs frae the West country. Will ye tak' the
shilling?"
The suggestion thus flung at me caught me at unawares. I turned it over
rapidly in my mind. Why not? As a soldier, I should see some of the
country, and if the worst came to the worst I had money enough in my
belt to buy myself out.
Moreover I might do something to redeem myself in the eyes of my
uncle--for had not the de Bryddes fought nobly on many a stricken field
for the King's Majesty. So, without more ado, I stretched out my hand,
and the King's shilling dropped into it.
"Come on," said the sergeant brusquely, "we maun toast the King at my
expense," and he led the way to the Stag Inn near the Vennel Port. In
the inn-parlour he called for drinks, and ogled the girl who brought
them. We drank to His Majesty--"God bless him:" and then the sergeant,
after toasting "The lassies--God bless them," became reminiscent and
garrulous. But ever he returned to wordy admiration of a woman:
"I tell ye," he said, "there's no' the marrow o' the Beadle o' St.
Michael's dochter in the hale o' Dumfries; an' that's sayin' a lot. The
leddies o' the King's Court--an' I've seen maist o' them--couldna haud a
candle tae her." He threw a kiss into the air; then he drank deeply and
called for more ale. "By the way," he said, "what dae ye ca'
yersel'?--and whaur did ye get sic legs? They're like pot-sticks, and
yer breist is as flat as a scone. But we'll pu' ye oot, and mak' a man
o' ye."
"My name is de Brydde," I replied, ignoring his criticisms of my person.
"De Brydde," he repeated. "It sounds French. Ye'd better ca' yersel'
Bryden. It's a guid Scots name, and less kenspeckle. Pu' yer shouthers
back, and haud up yer heid."
Two dragoons entered the tavern, and the sergeant was on his dignity.
"Tak' this recruit," he said, "to heidquarters, and hand him ower to the
sergeant-major. He's a likely chiel."