“I LOVE YOU, QUINTIN!”
There was little more to do. The scanty stock of the glebe was, by Hob’s
intervention, sold in part to Nathan Gemmell, of Drumglass, and the
remainder driven along the Kenside by the fords of the Black Water to
Ardarroch, where my mother received it with uplifted, querulous hands,
and my father calmly as if he had never expected anything else.
“To think,” cried my mother, “that the laddie we sent so proudly to the
college should shut himself out of manse and kirk, and tak’ to the moors
and mosses as if the auld persecuting days were back again.”
“It is in a guid cause,” said my father, quieting her as best he could.
“I daresay,” said my mother, “but the lad will get mony a wet fit and
weary mile if he ministers to the Hill-folk. Aye, and mony a sair heart
to please them.”
“Fear ye not for Quintin,” said my father, to soothe her, “for if it
comes to dourness the Lord pity them that try to overcrow our Quintin.”
I made no farewell round of the kindly, faithful folk of Balmaghie. My
heart would have had too many breakings. Besides, I promised myself
that, when I took up the pilgrim’s staff and ministered to the remnant
scattered abroad, seeking no reward, I should often be glad of a night’s
shelter at Drumglass or Cullenoch.
Nevertheless, for all my brave resolves, it was with an overweighted
heart that I passed the Black Water at the Tornorrach fords with my
staff in my hand. I had as it were come over in two bands, with Hob
driving the beasts for the glebe, and I the house furniture upon a car
or trail cart.
Now I left the parish poorer than I entered it. I knew not so much as
where I would sleep that night. I had ten pounds in my pocket, and when
that was done--well, I would surely not be worse off than the King’s
Blue Gown. I was to minister to a scattered people, mostly of the
poorest. But at the worst I was sure of an inglenook, a bed in the
stable-loft, and a porringer of brose at morn and e’en anywhere in
Scotland. And I am sure that ofttimes the Galilean fishermen had not so
much.
My mother threw her arms about my neck.
“O laddie, laddie, ye are ganging far awa on a rough road and a lonely.
Guid kens if your auld mither will ever look on your face again.
Quintin, this is a sair heartbreak. But I ken I hae mysel’ to thank for
it. I bred ye to the Hill-folks’ ways mysel’. It was your ain mither
that took ye in her arms to the sweet conventicles on the green bosom of
Cairnsmuir, that delectable mountain. I, even I, had ye baptized at the
Holy Linn by guid Maister Semple, and never a whinge or a greet did ye
gae when he stappit ye into the thickest o’ the jaw.”
And the remembrance seemed in part to reconcile my mother to the stern
Cameronian ministry I was about to take up.
“And what stipend are they promising ye?” she said, presently, after she
had thought the matter over.
“Nothing!” I answered, calmly.
“Nocht ava’--no a bawbee--and a’ that siller spent on your colleging.”
Then my mother’s mind took a new tack.
“And what will puir Hob be gaun to do, puir fellow? He has had nae
ither thocht than you since ever he was a laddie.”
“Faith,” said I, smiling back at her, “I am thinking that now at last he
has some other thought in his mind.”
My mother fell back a step.
“No a lassie!” she cried, “a laddie like him.”
“Hob is no week-old bairn chicken, mother,” said I; “he will be
five-and-thirty if he is a day.”
“But our Hob--to be thinking o’ a lassie!”
“At what age might ye have been married, mother?” I asked, knowing that
I could turn her from thinking of Hob’s presumption and my own waygoing.
“Me? I was married at seventeen, and your father scant a score. Faith,
there was spunk in the countryside then. Noo a lass will be
four-and-twenty before she gets an offer; aye, and not think hersel’
ayont the mark for the wedding-ring, when I had sons and dochters man
and woman-muckle!”
“Then,” said I, “that being so, ye will not be hard on Hob if he marries
and settles himself down at Drumglass.”
* * * * *
My father clapped me on the shoulder.
“God speed ye,” he said; “I need not tell ye to be noways feared. And if
ye come to the bottom of your purse--well, your faither is no rich man.
But there will be aye a bit of yellow siller for ye in the cupboard of
Ardarroch.”
I had meant to take my way past Earlstoun without calling. And with that
intent it was in my mind to hold directly over the moor past Lochinvar.
But when it came to the pinch I simply could not do it.
So to the dear grey tower chin-deep among the woodlands I betook me once
more. My eyes had been looking for the first glint of it over the tree
tops for miles ere I came within sight of it. “There,” and “there,” so I
said to myself, “under that white cloud, by the nick of that hill, where
the woodland curls down, that is the place.”
At last I arrived.
“Quintin MacClellan, come your ways in. Welcome are ye as the smell o’
the supper brose,” cried Alexander Gordon, coming heartily across from
the far angle of the courtyard at sight of me. “Whither away so
travel-harnessed?”
“To the Upper Ward,” said I, “to make a beginning on the widest
minister’s charge in Scotland.”
“You are, then, truly bent on leaving all and taking upon you the blue
bonnet and the plaid of the minister of the Remnant?”
“I have already done it,” said I, “burned my boats, emptied my house,
sold my plenishing and bestial. And now with my scrip and staff I go
forth, whither I know not--perchance to a hole in the hedge-root and the
death of a dog.”
“Tut, man,” cried Alexander Gordon, “‘tis not thus that the apostle of
the Hill-folk, the bearer of their banner, should go forth. Bide at
least this night with me, and I will set you up the waterside, aye, and
fit you with a beast to ride on forbye.”
“I thank you from my heart, Earlstoun. This is spoken like a true man
and from the full heart. Only Alexander Gordon would offer as much. But
I would begin as I must end if I am to be the poor man’s minister. I
must not set out on my pilgrimage riding on the back of Earlstoun’s
charger. I must tramp it--moss and mountain, dub and mire. Yet, friend
of mine, I could not go without bidding you a kindly adieu.”
“At least bide till the mistress and Mary can shake ye by the hand,”
cried Alexander Gordon.
And with that he betook him to the nearest window, and without ceremony
pushed it open, for the readiest way was ever Sandy Gordon’s way. Then
he roared for his wife and daughter till the noise shook the tower like
an earthquake.
In a moment Mary Gordon came out and stood on the doorstep with her
fingers in her ears, pretending a pretty anger.
“What an unwholesome uproar, father! Well do they call you the Bull of
Earlstoun, and say that they hear you over the hill at Ardoch bidding
the herd lads to be quiet!”
Then seeing me (as it appeared) for the first time, she came forward and
took my hand simply, and with a pleasant open frankness.
“You will come in and rest, will you not?” she said. “Are you here on
business with my father?”
“Nay,” said I, smiling at her; “I have no business save that of bidding
you farewell.”
“Farewell!” cried she, dropping the needle-work she held in her hand,
“why farewell?”
“I go far away to a new and untried work. I know not when nor how I
shall return.”
She gave a little quick shivering gasp, as if she had been about to
speak.
“At the least, come in and see my mother,” she said, and led the way
within.
But when we had gone into the long oaken chamber naught of the Lady of
Earlstoun was to be seen. And the laird himself cried up to Mary to
entertain me till he should speak to his grieve over at the cottage.
In the living room of Earlstoun was peace and the abiding pleasant sense
of on ordered home. As soon as she had shut the door the lass turned
upon me.
“You have truly given up your parish?” she said, holding her hands
before her with the fingers clasped firmly together.
I nodded.
“And you are journeying to the west to join the Hill-folk?”
I smiled as I looked into her deep and anxious eyes.
“Again you have rightly divined,” I said.
“And what stipend are ye to get from them?”
“I am to have no stipend. It has not been mentioned between us.”
“O Quintin!” she cried suddenly, her eyes growing ever larger and
darker, till the pupil seemed to invade the iris and swallow it up.
But though I waited for her to speak further she said nothing more.
So I went on to tell her how I was going to the west to spend my life
among the poor folk there who had been so long without a shepherd.
“And would you”--she paused--“would you leave us all?”
“Nay,” said I, “for this Earlstoun shall ever be a kindly and a beloved
spot to me. Often when the ways are long and dreary, the folk
unfriendly, will my heart turn in hither. And, whenever I am in
Galloway, be sure that I will not pass you by. Your father hath been a
good and loving friend to me.”
“My father!” she cried, with a little disdainful outward pout of the
lip.
“Aye, and you also, Mistress Mary. You have been all too kind to a
broken man--a man who, when the few coins he carries in his purse are
expended, knows not whence he will get his next golden guinea.”
I was silent for a while and only looked steadily at her. She moved her
feet this way and that on the floor uncertainly. Her grace and favour
cried out to me anew.
“As for me, Mary,” I said, “I need not tell you that I love you. I have
loved you ever since I met you on the Bennan brae-face. But now more
greatly--more terribly that I love altogether without hope. I had not
meant to speak again, but only to take your hand once thus--and get me
gone!”
Impulsively she held her fingers out to me and I clasped them in mine.
I thought she was ready to bid me farewell, and that she desired not to
prolong the pain of the interview.
“Fare thee well then, Mary,” said I. “I have loved the cause because it
is the Cause of the Weak. I have striven to raise again the Banner of
Blue. I have loved my people. But none of these hath this aching, weary
heart loved as it has loved Mary Gordon. I have neither heart nor right
to speak of my love, nor house nor home to offer. I can but go!”
“Speak on,” she said, a little breathlessly, but never once taking her
eyes from my face.
“There is no other word to tell, Mary,” said I. “I have spoken the
word, and now there remains but to turn about and set face forward as
bravely as may be, to shut out the pleasant vision, seen for a moment,
to leave behind for ever the heart’s desire----”
“No! No! No!” she interrupted, jerking her clasped hands quickly
downward.
“To lay aside the deep, unspoken hopes of a man who has never loved
woman before----”
She came a little nearer to me, still exploring my face with her eyes,
as I spoke the last words.
“Did you not, Quintin? Are you sure?”
“I have never loved before,” said I, “because I have loved Mary Gordon
from the beginning, yea, every day and every hour since I was a herd boy
on the hills. Once I was filled with pride and the security of position.
But of these the Lord hath stripped me. I am well-nigh as poor as when I
came into the world. I have nothing now to offer you or any woman.”
“Nay,” she cried, speaking very quickly and suddenly, laying her clasped
hands on my arm, “you are rich--rich, Quintin! Listen, lad! There is one
that loves you now--who has loved you long. Do you not understand? Must
I, that am a maid, speak for myself? Must I say, _I love you, Quintin?_”
And then she smiled suddenly, gloriously, like the sun bursting through
black and leaden clouds.
Oh, sweet and perilously sweet was her smile!
“Mary,” I cried, suddenly, “you are not playing with me? Ah, for God’s
dear sake, do not that! It would break my heart. You _cannot_ love a man
broken, penniless, outcast, one of a down-trodden and despised folk. You
must not give yourself to one whose future path is lone and desolate!”
“_I love you, Quintin!_”
“One who has nothing to offer, nothing to give, not even the shelter of
a roof-tree--a wanderer, a beggar!”
“_I love you, Quintin!_”
And the hands that had been clasped on my arm of their own sweet accord
stole upward and rested lovingly about my neck. The eyes that had looked
so keenly into mine were satisfied at last, and with a long sobbing sigh
of content Mary Gordon’s head pillowed itself on my breast.