"If ye are a frien' o' Hector's," she continued, "ye've nae doot heard
aboot the widow at Locharbriggs."
"Oh yes," I said. "She bulks largely in his affections."
The old woman laughed heartily. "She does that, the silly auld man, but
he'd better look somewhere else, for she winna ha'e him. I ken her
weel; she's my dochter."
*CHAPTER XXIX*
*BESIDE THE NITH*
When the afternoon was mellowing into early evening I stood upon
Devorgilla's Bridge watching the river. Much had happened to me since
last I was there. I had drunk deep of joy and sorrow; and as I looked
down upon the slow-moving water, memory smote me with both hands. I
laid my arms upon the parapet of the wall and stood at gaze, but though
I looked before me, my mind was wandering backwards across the
chequered, love-lit, blood-stained months that lay behind me. The mood
passed and my eyes followed the stream as it issued from underneath the
dark arches and flowed slowly on until, in the distance, glistening like
a silver band, it swept round a bend and was lost to view. To my right,
on the brow of a hill, stood a windmill, its great arms aswing with
hesitant gait in the wind. Beyond the windmill the hills sloped down to
the river, studded here and there by a copse of trees, or the white
gable of a cottage flinging back a ray of sunlight. To my left was the
town of Dumfries, with the Sands sloping down from the nearer houses to
the river, and the stately spire of St. Michael's Church challenging the
sky in the near distance. Beyond, rose a pleasant, tree-crowned hill,
on whose slopes I could see the figures of sheep and cattle.
There were yet two hours before I had to meet Hector at the Town Head
Port, so, crossing the bridge, I made for the Friar's Vennel, which I
knew to be the main thoroughfare from the brig-end to the centre of the
town. It was a busy artery of traffic, lined upon one side by shops and
upon the other by comfortable dwelling-places. Some of the houses had
gardens, well-kept and orderly. Here and there, between the houses, was
a narrow entry and looking down one of these I discovered that it opened
into a little court upon each side of which stood small thatched
cottages.
I sauntered up the Vennel, and shortly came to the High Street--a broad
and roomy thoroughfare. Each side of it was occupied by shops,
well-stocked and prosperous-looking, and in the centre of the street
were the booths of market-gardeners and fishermen, who were making a
brave display of their wares.
Leaving the booths behind me, I continued my journey up the High Street.
By and by I came to a wider portion of the street which the inhabitants
know as the Plain Stanes. Here was the house of Lag, and I gazed at it
curiously. A couple of soldiers stood at the door, from which I judged
that Sir Robert himself was in residence; so, remembering I was a
deserter, I did not tarry long, but went on towards St. Michael's
Church.
I entered the churchyard and, sitting down under the shadow of one of
the gigantic tombstones, I waited until I judged it was time to go and
meet Hector.
As I was going out I met a man whom I took to be the grave-digger, and
asked him to direct me to the Town Head Port.
"Oh, ye're a stranger in these pairts," he said, as he pointed out the
way. I made no answer save to thank him and bid him good evening, and
then I hurried in the direction he had indicated.
I found the Port without difficulty and stood just outside it, listening
to the cawing of the rooks in the tall trees on the green mound that
separated me from the river.
I had not long to wait ere Hector arrived. He slipped his arm through
mine, and said:
"Let's awa' doon to the bank o' the water."
He was whistling merrily as we scrambled down the bank, so I judged that
the widow had been kind, and ventured to say as much. His only reply
was:
"_Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo dulce loquentem._" I asked after her
health.
"Oh, she's fine, fine. She was pleased wi' the bonny kaim I took her.
Here's a bit o' wisdom for ye, my lad. If ye want to please a woman
that ye like, gi'e her some gaud to adorn hersel' wi'. If she's plain
and no' weel-faured she'll tak' it as a compliment that ye should wish
to mak' her bonnie. If she's bonnie to begin wi', she'll tak' your bit
giftie as a proof that ye ha'e noticed wi' your ain een that she's
weel-faured and weel-lookin'."
Alas, for me all such joys were things of the dead past.
When we reached the river's edge we walked upstream.
I have not the pen of a poet, nor has the poet yet been born whose pen
could paint with fitting words the glory of the shining Nith. Hector
says Virgil could have done it; but I wonder. There are beauties beyond
the range of words. The eye can drink them in; the soul can interpret
them: and as the soul interprets them, so are they revealed to the eye
that sees them.
We walked for more than a mile till we came to a lofty eminence, set
tree-crowned above the stream. When we had climbed to its summit Hector
paused beneath a giant beech tree which stood perilously near the
declivity that fell sheer to the river brink. "Look," he said, and
pointed down the river. Lit by the rays of the setting sun, it
stretched like a ruddy band of bronze into the distance, leading the eye
directly to the ruins of the old College of Lincluden with its Gothic
window and shattered tower. Beyond, the blue hills raised their brows
to the sky, from which, as from a golden chalice, a stream of glory
poured.
For each of Nature's pictures there is one divine moment in the day. It
was now.
I stood in rapture till Hector touched my arm. "It's bonnie," he said.
"I should say ye've naething to match it in England, but we maun awa'
hame. Come on," and he led the way across a field to the road. "This,"
he said, "is the shortest way back to the toon. I ha'e been alang it
aince the day already, for it leads tae Locharbriggs, and mair than
likely I'll be alang it the morn, for the widda was wonderfu' kind, and
though she wouldna exactly gang the length o' namin' the day, she was
mair amenable to reason than I've ever kent her afore. So the morn's
mornin' I'm makin' my way oot to her again: and maybe I'll be lucky. Ye
never can tell, for didna' Virgil himsel' say '_Varium et mutabile
semper femina_'--'Woman is a fickle jade onyway ye like to tak' her.'
Oh, these auld poets, but they had the wise word every time. Noo that
we're comin' near the toon we'd better settle what we are gaun to dae
the morn. As for me, I ha'e mony things on haun and my time'll be a'
ta'en up. But I'll be free at six o'clock. Ye can spend the day as ye
like, and I'll meet ye at that oor at the Vennel Port."