ACROSS THE MOONLIGHT.
For just then I became aware of a quickly growing light behind the
eastern hills. It was the moon rising. I had not thought of this, and
for a moment I was disconcerted. I knew that she would doubtless throw a
sharp light upon the water, and that from the shore the raft would be as
easily seen black against the broad and shining silver streak as if the
time had been midday instead of midnight.
Then I remembered the branch which I had brought with me from the wood.
I thrust the butt of it through the bars of the gates, and so disposed
the leaves that from the shore they made at once a perfect shelter and a
secure hiding-place for Mary, who sat there in state upon the raft,
proud of going such an adventurous voyage, and perhaps also not a little
elated to be up so late.
Being already stripped to the shirt and small clothes, I took off the
former also, and dropped silently into the water behind the raft. I
found the water warm, for the hot sun of June had beat upon it all the
long day. A chill wind had sprung up within the last hour, and the
wavelets broke on my back and upon the raft at my chin with a little
jabble of sound. But it blew upon the leaves of the branch which acted
as a sail and sent us so quickly northward that I had to swim sideways
in order to keep in the right line of our voyaging.
The moon rose as we left the shallows of the shore. She looked coldly
and blankly at us over the black Parton moors on the other side. But all
the same she did us a mighty ill turn. For I knew that in her light the
raft would be apparent to every one on the bank where the soldiers lay.
I dived instantly and came up on the side furthest from the land. There
I held the raft so that the branch would keep its thickest cover towards
the sentry.
I could see him now, pacing to and fro in the moonlight across the grey
turf and strip of white sand. He was plain to be seen against the
shining beach, and his helmet sometimes flashed momentarily against the
dark line of the woods behind. So that I knew how plainly he in his
turn must be able to see us, as we crossed the broad silver stream of
moonlight upon the water.
A camp fire glowed sullenly red among the trees, from which I gathered
that the commander of the soldiers was very much in earnest indeed, in
his resolve to catch his man. For it was but seldom that any of the red
soldiers would consent to lie out at night, preferring instead to
quarter themselves upon the people, to harry their houses and gear,
insult their women folk, and requiring to be called “your Honour” at
every other word.
Meanwhile, the wind was doing its work, if not swiftly, at least with
deliberate and unhalting steadiness. Mary sat like a statue under the
green bough, and smiled at the dancing ripples. She looked very
beautiful to see, aye, and winsome too, with my shirt-collar turned up
about her ears and the empty sleeves hanging down on either side.
But I had small time to observe such like, for soon we were crossing the
bright water in front of the soldier.
He had paced down to the water’s edge and now stood looking out towards
us, leaning upon his musket. I could see the tails of his military coat
blow back in the chill wind from the hills. He hugged himself as if he
had been a-cold. Yet he stood looking so long that I feared he might
suspect something. But after all it was only that he was a contemplative
man, and that the object on the water was as good as anything else to
fix his eyes upon. At any rate, all he did see was a floating branch
being driven northward with the wind.
Presently, to my immense relief, he shouldered his piece and tramped
away up towards the woods.
I drew a long breath, and swimming on my back I pushed the raft across
the lake with my head.
Yet it seemed an age before we took ground on the further side, and I
could carry the brave little maid ashore. She dropped almost instantly
asleep on my shoulder.
“Have you given Matt his supper?” was her last speech. I thought Matt
must be some pet dog of her’s. In time, however, I found that he was a
certain green caterpillar which she kept in a wooden box and fed upon
cabbage leaves.
After this there came a long and weary tramp with many rests, and the
infinite weariness of carrying the sleeping maid. She grew heavier and
heavier every moment as I stumbled over the rough moor, so that my back
was well nigh broken before I came to the verge of the little lake with
the tower of Lochinvar in the midst of it.
Here, in the dawning light, I laid her down under a bush of bog-myrtle,
and swimming to the castle hand over hand I clamoured at the door.
For a time none answered, and I got a sharp, chilling fear in my stomach
that I had brought the maid to a house uninhabited, but at long and last
a window shot up and a voice hailed me.
“Who knocks so early at the door of Lochinvar?
“Who are you that speers?” I returned, giving question for question in
the Scots manner.
A kindly mellow voice laughed.
“Surely only an honest country lad would have answered thus,” said the
voice; “but since the times are evil, tell me who’s bairn ye may be?”
So with that, somewhat reassured, I told very briefly for what cause I
had come.
The window shut down again, and in a few minutes I heard a foot within
coming slowly along a stone passage. Bolts withdrew, and the door was
opened, creaking and squealing upon unaccustomed hinges.
A pleasant-faced old lady, wrapped about in a travelling cloak of blue
frieze, stood there. She had a white nightcap on her head, frilled and
goffered much more elaborately than my mother’s at Ardarroch.
“Ye have brought Sandy Gordon’s daughter to me. Her faither and her
mother are taken, ye tell me. God help them!” she exclaimed.
So I told her that I knew not as to her father’s taking with any
certainty, for he might have been slain for aught I knew. I told her
also the terrible thing I had been witness to on the top of Bennan, and
the word of the lad in brown when he cried for Margaret. She set her
hand to her heart.
“Poor lads,” she said, and again, “poor misguided lads!”
I thought in my heart that that was a strange way to speak of the
martyrs, but it was not for a boy like me to make any objection.
The woman undid the boat which swung by a chain at the northern side of
the castle secure within a little breakwater of hewn stone. We rowed
across to the loch’s edge, and there, in the first ruddy glow of the
rising sun, with colour on her lips and her lashes lying long and dark
upon her cheek, was the little Mistress Mary, safe under her bush of
bog-myrtle, looking lovely as a fairy, aye, or the queen of the fairies
herself.
Then I know not what cantrip took me, for at most times, both then and
after, I was an awkward Scots boy, as rough and landward as Ashie or
Gray, my questing collies. But certain it is that I stooped and kissed
her on the cheek as she lay, and when I lifted her would have given her
to her aunt.
But she stirred a little as I took her in my arms, and with a little
petulant whimper she nestled her head deeper into my neck. My heart
stirred strangely within me at the touch of the light curls on her
forehead.
She opened her eyes of sleepy blue. “Has Matt had his breakfast?” she
said. And instantly fell to the sleeping again.
We laid her all comfortably in the stern of the boat. Her aunt stepped
in and took the oars. She did not invite me to follow.
“Good morrow, lad,” she said, not unkindly, “get you home speedily. I
will see to the child. You have done well by Sandy’s bairn. Come and see
her and me in happier times. I promise you neither she nor I will ever
forget it.”
And I watched these two as the boat went from me, leaving three long
wakes upon the water, one oily and broad where the keel stirred the
peaty water, and two smaller on either side winking with bubbles where
the oars had dipped.
And there in the stern I could just see the edge of the blue hood of
frieze, wherein lay the golden head of Mary Gordon.
She was but a bairn. What did a grown laddie care for bairns? Yet was my
heart heavy within me.
And that was the last I saw of Mary Gordon for many and many a year.