Autumn ebbed--and the purple moor turned to bronze.
Winter descended upon the land and the moor was shrouded in snow; but
ere the snow fell, the sheep had been gathered into the lower fold and
none were lost. Each short, dark day was followed by the delight of a
long and cosy evening by the fireside, what time the baffled wind howled
over the well-thatched roof. Andrew and I would engage in doughty
combats on the dambrod, while Mary and her mother plied their needles
busily: and sometimes, to my great delight, when Andrew was not in the
mood for such worldly amusement, Mary would take his place at the game.
He is a poor lover who cannot, amid the moves of the black and white
men, make silent but most eloquent love, and many a tender message
leaped across the checkered board from my eyes to Mary's, and from
Mary's to mine. Once on an evening when we had been playing together
while her father slept in the ingle-nook, and Jean busied herself with
her knitting, Mary brushed the men aside and resting her elbows on the
table poised her chin on her finger-tips. My eyes followed the perfect
line of her white arms from her dimpled elbows, half-hidden in a froth
of lace, to her slender hands that supported the exquisite oval of her
face.
"Let's talk," she said.
"Yes, talk," I answered. "I shall love to listen, and as you talk I'll
drink your beauty in."
She wrinkled her nose into the semblance of a frown, and then laughed.
"For a book-learned man ye're awfu' blate."
"Ah, sweetheart," I answered, "no man can learn the language of love
from books. That comes from life."
"No," she said, laughingly; "no' frae life, but frae love. I'm far far
wiser than you"--and she held her hands apart as though to indicate the
breadth of her wisdom--"and I learned it a' frae love. For when you
knocked at the door o' my he'rt an' it flew open to let you in, a' the
wisdom that love cairries in its bosom entered tae. So I'm wiser than
you--far wiser." She leaned towards me. "But I'm yer ain wee Mary
still--am I no? Let me hear ye say it. Love is like that. It makes us
awfu' wise, but it leaves us awfu' foolish. Kiss me again."
Book-learning teaches no man how to answer such a challenge--but love
does, and I need not set it down.
Sometimes Mary would read aloud old ballads of love and high
adventure--while Andrew and I sat listening, and Jean, as she knitted,
listened too. As she read, she had a winsome trick of smoothing back
into its place a little lock of hair that would persist in straying over
her left ear. That vagrant curl fascinated me. Evening by evening I
watched to see it break loose for the joy of seeing her pretty hand
restore it to order. I called it the Covenanting curl, and when she
asked me why, I stole a kiss, and said, "Because it is a rebel," whereat
she slapped me playfully on the cheek, and whispered, "If ye are a
trooper ye should make it a prisoner," which I was fain to do, but she
resisted me.
Jean took a kindly though silent interest in our love-making, but if
Andrew knew, or guessed what was afoot, he made no sign. His fits of
depression grew more frequent; but whether they were due to uncertainty
as to his own spiritual state or to sorrow and anger at the continued
harrying of the hill-folk I was not able to tell, and Jean did not
enlighten me, though in all likelihood she knew.
So the happy winter passed, and spring came again rich in promise.
*CHAPTER XXII*
*"THE LEAST OF THESE, MY BRETHREN"*
April was upon us--half laughter, half tears--when rumour came to us
that the persecutions of the hill-men were becoming daily more and more
bitter; but of the troopers we ourselves saw nothing. From what we
heard we gathered that their main activities were in a part of the
country further west, and we learned that Lag and his dragoons were
quartered once again in Wigtown. One morning, when Mary went to the
byre to milk the cows, we heard her cry in alarm, and in a moment she
came rushing into the house, saying, "Oh, mither, there's a man asleep
in Meg's stall."
Her father and I hurried out, and entered the cow-shed abreast.
Stretched on a heap of straw beside the astonished Meg lay a young man
clad in black. There was such a look of weariness upon his face that it
seemed a shame to waken him; but Andrew, whispering to me, "It is ane o'
the hill-men," took him by the shoulder and shook him not unkindly. The
youth sat bolt upright--fear in his startled eyes. He stared at Andrew
and then at me, and in a high-pitched voice exclaimed:
"The Lord is on my side. I will not fear what men can do unto me."
"I thocht sae," said Andrew, "ye're ane o' oorsels: but what are ye
daein' in my byre?"
To this the only reply was another quotation from the scriptures: "The
Lord hath chastened me sore, but He hath not given me over unto death."
"Puir laddie," said Andrew, "come awa ben the hoose and ha'e your
parritch."
Again the youth spoke: "This is the Lord's doing: it is marvellous in
our eyes."
Andrew took him by the arm and led him into the kitchen. He was placed
in a chair by the fire and sat looking wistfully and half-frightenedly
around him. His face was thin and white save that on one cheek a
scarlet spot flamed like a rose, while over his high, pale forehead
swept a lock of dark hair. As he held his hands out to catch the warmth
of the glowing peat, I saw that they were almost transparent; but what
caught my gaze and held it rivetted was the state of his thumbs. Both
of them were black and bruised as though they had been subjected to
great pressure, and I knew that the boy had recently been put to the
torture of the thumbscrews.
Mary and her mother vied with each other in attentions to him. A bowl
of warm milk was offered to him, and with trembling hands he raised it
to his lips. As he did so I saw the perspiration break upon his
forehead. While she busied herself with the preparation of the morning
meal, Andrew questioned him, but his answers were so cloaked in the
language of the scriptures that it was hard to decipher his meaning.
When he had finished his porridge, which he ate eagerly as though
well-nigh famished, Jean took him in hand.
"Now, young man," she said, "tell us yer story. Wha are ye, and whence
cam' ye?"
A fit of violent coughing interfered with his speech, but the seizure
passed, a bright light gleamed in his sunken eyes, and he said: "In the
way wherein I walked they have privily laid a snare for me. I looked on
my right hand and beheld, but there was no man that would know me.
Refuge failed me. No man cared for my soul. They have spread a net by
the wayside; they have set gins for me. Let the wicked fall into their
own nets, whilst that I withal escape."
Jean sighed, and turned to Andrew with a look of bewilderment. "The
bairn's daft," she said, "beside himsel' wi' hunger and pain. He's had
the thumbkins on; look at his puir haun's."
The youth continued in a high-pitched monotone: "Surely Thou wilt slay
the wicked, O God. Depart from me, therefore, ye bloody men. Deliver
me, O Lord, from mine enemies. I flee unto Thee to hide me."
"Clean doited, puir laddie, clean doited," said Jean. "I'm thinkin',
Andra, ye'd better convoy him up to the laft and let him sleep in
Bryden's bed. Maybe when he has had a rest, he'll come to his senses."
Andrew put his arm gently through that of the youth and raised him to
his feet. "Come your ways to bed, my lad; when ye've had a sleep ye'll
be better," and he led him toward the ladder.
As he ascended he still rambled on: "They have gaped upon me with their
mouth. They have smitten me upon the cheek reproachfully. Are not my
days few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a
little," and with Andrew urging him on, he disappeared into the upper
room.
In a few moments Andrew descended the ladder and returned to the
kitchen. "I've got him safely bedded," he said.
"Ay, puir laddie," answered Jean, as she busied herself clearing away
the dishes. "I wonder wha he can be? Maist likely he has escaped frae
the dragoons. If they set the hounds on his track, they'll be here
afore the day is weel begun."
The thought hardly needed expression. It was present in the minds of
each of us; and gathering round the fire we took counsel together. That
the lad was in sore need we agreed; but how best to help him was the
difficulty. Should the dragoons come to the house we knew that their
search would be a thorough one, for though Lag's compact with Jean still
held so far as the safety of herself, her daughter, and her husband was
concerned, we knew that it would be of no avail in the case of this
fugitive. And, further, there was the question of my own presence there,
hitherto undiscovered.
The kindly wisdom of a woman's mind was expressed by Jean: "At ony rate
there is naething to be done in the meantime but wait and let the lad
rest. Maybe after he has had a sleep he will no' be quite so doited,
and be mair able to tell us something aboot himsel'."
"Ye're richt, woman," said Andrew. "Meantime, I'll awa' doon the road,
and see if there's ony troopers aboot. And you, Bryden, had better gang
up to the high field and coont the sheep. Ye'd best be oot o' the road
if the troopers should come aboot."
It was partly from solicitude for her welfare and partly for love's
sweet sake that I said to Jean, "And what of Mary? May she come with
me?"
"Ay!" said her mother, "she micht as weel; but if naething happens, ye'd
best come doon within sicht o' Daldowie at dinner-time. If the road is
clear, ye'll see a blanket hanging oot in the stack-yard."
Little loth, Mary and I took our departure. As we went we talked of the
stranger, but very soon our thoughts glided into other channels; and ere
we had reached the high field, the great drab world with all its
miseries had been forgotten and we were living in our own kingdom of
love.
We found a sheltered nook and sat us down.
"Why do you love me?" said Mary suddenly, crossing her pretty ankles and
smoothing her gown meditatively over her knees.
"Because you are the fairest and the sweetest lassie in the whole wide
world "--and I kissed her.
"That's awfu' nice--but I doot it's no true. There maun be far bonnier
lassies than me. At the best I'm only a wild rose. An' I'd rather you
loved me for my soul than for the beauty ye see in me. That will a'
wither by and by, and maybe your love will wither then tae. But if ye
love me for my soul it will blossom and grow worthier in the sunshine o'
your love, and a love like that can never dee."
"And why, my little philosopher," I asked, challenging her, "do you love
me? I am all unworthy."
"No, no!" she cried--her eyes gleaming. "I love you,
because--because"--she halted, and ticked the words off upon her
fingers: "Because you are brave, and big, and awfu' kind, and no
ill-looking, and because your blue-grey trusty een kindle a fire in my
hert. No, no! That's a' wrong. I love you because--juist because you
are you. A puir reason maybe--but a woman's best."
So the morning hours slipped by, and when noon was near at hand we began
to saunter down the hill-side.
When we came in sight of the farm we looked eagerly to the stack-yard,
and there saw displayed the token of safety, so we hurried down.
When we reached the house we found the fugitive seated by the fire. His
sleep had soothed his tired brain, and Jean had been able to discover
something of his history.
Two days before, he had been seized by the dragoons and brought before
Claver'se: and with a view to extracting information from him, Claver'se
had put him to the test of the thumbscrews. He had refused to speak,
and the torture had been continued till God, more compassionate than
man, had delivered him from his sufferings by a merciful
unconsciousness. As Jean told us his tale he listened, and every now
and then interrupted her.
"For dogs have compassed me. The assembly of the wicked have enclosed
me. But He hath not despised nor abhorred the supplication of the
afflicted. And now," he said, "I must go. Even as I slept the Lord
appeared to me in a vision and said 'Arise, get thee hence.' I will
lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh mine aid."
Jean pressed him to remain.
"No," he said, "I must be gone."
"But you are no' fit to gang, lad," said Jean firmly but kindly. "Ye
dinna ken the moors ava. Ye'll be wanderin' into a bog or deein' amang
the heather like a braxy sheep."
"Listen," he said, raising his hand, the while his eyes shone, "Listen!
Dinna ye hear the voice bidding me go forth?" and he hurried to the
door; but he paused on the threshold, and raising his eyes to the
roof-tree, said, "Be Thou not far from me, O Lord."
"He's clean daft, Andra," said Jean; "if he'll no' stay ye'd better tak'
him awa' and hide him in a kent place. Tell him to stop there and we'll
maybe be able to look after him. Meantime," she said, seizing some
farles of oatcake and a large piece of cheese, "put this in yer pocket
and awa' after him. Maybe the fresh air will bring some sense to his
puir heid. An' here, tak' this plaid for him," and she lifted a plaid
from a hook behind the door. "He's got plenty o' the fire o' releegion
in his hert, but it winna keep his feet warm, and the nichts are cauld.
And, Andra, tak' care o' yersel', and dinna be runnin' ony risks. It's
a' very weel to dee for the Cause, but it would be a peety if a
level-heided man like you were to lose your life in tryin' to save a
puir daft wean. Haste ye, man, or he'll be in Ayrshire afore ye catch
him."
Andrew sprang after him, turning when some steps from the door to say,
"I'll be back before nicht. God keep ye a'."
We stood, a little group of three, just outside the threshold watching
the pursuit, and before they twain had passed out of sight Andrew had
caught the young man and taken him by the arm, as though to quiet him.
"Losh peety me," said Jean, as she turned to go indoors, "what a puir
bairn. I wonder wha his mither is?"
The afternoon dragged wearily on. From time to time I made my way to
the foot of the loaning and, hidden by a thorn bush, anxiously scanned
the country-side. There were no troopers to be seen.
In the kitchen Mary and her mother were busily engaged with household
tasks, and I sat on the settle watching them. We did not speak much,
for heavy dread had laid its hand upon us all. The hours moved on
leaden feet.
On gossamer wings an amber-banded bee buzzed in, teasing the passive air
with its drone as it whirred out again. The "wag-at-the-wa'" ticked
monotonously. On the hill-side the whaups were calling, and nearer at
hand one heard the lowing of the cows. A speckled hen brooding in the
sand before the door, spread her wings and, ruffling her
breast-feathers, threw up a cloud of tawny dust. Somewhere in the
stack-yard a cock crew, and with clamour of quacking a column of ducks
waddled past the doorway to the burn-side. When her baking was over,
Jean, wiping the meal from her hands, went out into the open. Mary came
and sat on the settle beside me, and as I took her hand it felt
strangely cold. I sought to cheer her.
After a few minutes Jean returned. "There's naething to be seen ava,"
she said. "There's nae sign o' the troopers, nor o' Andra. I wish he
were safe at hame."
I hastened to assure her that there was nothing to be feared for Andrew.
Witless though the demented lad might be, in build and strength he was
no match for Andrew, should he be seized with frenzy and endeavour to
attack his guide.
"I suppose ye're richt. As a rule I ha'e mair common-sense, but I'm
anxious."
Mary joined her counsel to mine. "He'll be a' richt, mither," she said:
"it's no' yet six o'clock," and rising, she went out to call the cows.
Her sweet voice thrilled the silent air: "Hurley, hurley."
When she had gone I made my way to the foot of the loaning again and
from the shelter of the thorn-bush studied the landscape.
It lay, an undulating picture of beauty, in the mellow light of the
early evening--purple and golden and green. No dragoons were in sight.
When I reached the house again I found that Jean was no longer there.
Thinking that she had gone to search for Andrew, I hastened to look for
her, and by and by discovered her standing upon the top of a hillock on
the edge of the moor. As I drew near she exclaimed: "Whatever can be
keepin' him?" Together we stood and scanned the distance. Far as the
eye could reach we could discern no human being. I tried, with
comforting words, to still the turmoil of Jean's heart.
"I'm an auld fule," she said, "but when ye've had a man o' yer ain for
mair than thirty year, it mak's ye gey anxious if ye think he is in
danger. Ye see, my mither had 'the sicht,' and sometimes I think I've
got it tae. But come awa' back to the hoose: the milkin' will be ower
and it maun be near supper-time."
We returned, and found Mary preparing the evening meal. We gathered
round the table, and though each of us tried to talk the meal was almost
a silent one. The "wag-at-the-wa'" ticked off the relentless minutes;
the sun sank to his rest; the night came, and still there was no sign of
Andrew.
The slow-footed moments dogged each other by and still he did not come.
When the hands of the clock marked the hour of ten, I rose and went to
the door. The night was still; the stars looked down on the thatched
roof of Daldowie, heedless of the dread that brooded over it. I
strained my ears to catch any sound of approaching footsteps, but all
was silent as the grave. I rejoined Jean and Mary beside the fire.
They were gazing anxiously into its embers. Mary lifted her eyes with a
question flashing from them. I shook my head, and she turned her gaze
once more on the glowing hearth.
"Whatever can be keepin' the man?" said Jean, looking up suddenly.
"It's nearly ten oors sin' he left us. Mary," she said, turning to her
daughter and speaking firmly, "ye'd better awa' to your bed. Your
faither'll be vexed if he sees ye sittin' up for him; but afore ye gang,
bring me the Book." Adjusting her horn-rimmed spectacles she said,
"We'll juist ha'e the readin'," and opening the Book she read the 46th
Psalm. When she had finished she took her spectacles off and wiped them
with her apron. "I feel better noo," she said. "I ha'e been a silly,
faithless woman. Whatever would Andra think o' me, his wife, if he kent
the way I ha'e been cairryin' op this day. He'll be back a' richt afore
lang. Gang your ways tae bed, Mary."
Mary took the Book from her mother and bore it to its accustomed place
on the dresser. Then she came back and standing behind her mother
placed a hand upon each cheek and tilting the careworn face upward,
kissed her upon the forehead. With a demure "Good night" to me, she was
about to go, but I sprang up and, clasping her to me, kissed her. Her
cheeks were pale and cold, but the ardour of my lips brought a glow to
them ere I let her escape.
Her mother and I sat by the fire so wrapt in thought that we did not
observe how it was beginning to fail; but at last I noticed it and
picking up fresh peats laid them upon the embers.
"Losh," said Jean, starting from her seat, "what a fricht ye gi'ed me.
I thocht I was a' by my lane, and I was thinkin' o' the auld days when
first I cam' to Daldowie as its mistress. Happy days they were, and
when the bairns cam'--happier still! Ah me!" She lapsed into silence
again, and when next she moved she turned to the clock. "Dear, dear,"
she said, reading its signal through the gathering darkness; "it's
half-ane on the nock and he's no' back yet. I'm thinkin' he maun ha'e
ta'en shelter in some hidie-hole himsel', fearfu' lest he should lose
his way in the nicht. Gang awa' up to the laft and lay ye doon: your
e'en are heavy wi' sleep. I'll be a' richt here by my lane. And mind
ye this, if, when Andra comes back in the mornin', he has no' a guid
excuse for ha'ein kept me up waitin' for him, I'll gi'e him the rough
edge o' my tongue. Mark my words, I will that!"
At the risk of offending her, I refused to obey her. "No," I said, "that
would not be seemly. I'll keep watch with you. While you sleep I shall
keep awake, and when I sleep you shall keep vigil."
"Weel," she said, "you sleep first. I'll waken ye when I feel like gaun
to sleep mysel'."
I closed my eyes, and though I fought against sleep, the drowsy warmth
overcame me.
When I woke, I felt stiff and cold. The grey light was already
beginning to filter in through the windows and beneath the door. The
cock was welcoming the sunrise. I looked at the clock. It was
half-past four, and Jean was sitting with her elbows upon her knees and
her face buried in her hands. She raised her head and looked at me.
"Why did you not wake me?" I asked.
"I couldna ha'e slept in ony case," she answered shortly. "Listen! Is
that him comin'?"
Together we listened, but no sound broke the stillness, till once again
the cock crew shrilly. I went to the door and threw it open. The
morning air smote on my face, and the long draughts which I breathed
woke my half slumbering brain. Jean came and stood beside me, and
together we looked towards the moor; but there was no sign of Andrew.
"The morning has come now," I said, "and if he had to take shelter for
the night, he will soon be afoot again and ere long we shall be
welcoming him home."
"I hope sae," she said. "Meantime, I had better get the parritch ready.
When he does come hame he'll be gey near famished, and we'll be nane the
waur o' something to eat oorsel's."
We turned to the door again, and as we did so I heard footsteps, and,
looking in, saw Mary. Her face was grey with weariness, and dark rings
encircled her beautiful eyes. Her quick wit read our faces and ere I
could speak she exclaimed, her voice trembling:
"Is he no' back yet? Whatever can ha'e happened to him? I maun go and
find him," and hastening to the door she gazed eagerly out.
"No," said her mother, "he's no' back yet; but I'm thinkin' he canna be
lang noo."
"Are ye sure, mither, are ye sure, or are ye juist guessin'?" she cried.
"Oh, where can he be?"
"Mary," said her mother sternly, "it's time to milk the kye. Gang awa
tae your duty, and if he's no' hame by the time the parritch is ready,
ye can gang an' look for him; but meantime, control yersel'."
"Oh, mither," she sobbed, "it's faither. He may ha'e slipped and broken
his leg, or he may ha'e fallen into a bog. Mither, mither!" and she
clasped her hands nervously, "we maun dae something. We canna' bide
like this, an' no' ken."