CHAPTER I
FROM LIKING TO LOVE
It was graying to the edge of dark upon one of the evenings towardsthe end of April, in the year 1688, when Walter Gordon, of Lochinvarin Galloway, and now for some time private in the Prince of Orange'sDouglas regiment of dragoons, strode up the stairs of his cousin Will'slodging in the ancient Dutch city of Amersfort. The young man hadcome straight from duty at the palace, and his humor was not exactlygracious.
But Wat Gordon could not long remain vexed in spirit in the presence ofhis cousin Will's wife, Maisie Lennox. Her still, sweet smile killedenmity, even as spring sunshine kills the bite of frost. The little,low-roofed Dutch room, panelled with oak, had its windows open towardsthe sun-setting, and there in the glow of the west two girls weresitting. At sight of them Walter Gordon stopped suddenly in the doorwayas he came bursting in. He had been expecting to see but one--hiscousin's young wife, into whose pretty ear of patientest sympathyhe might pour his fretful boyish disappointments and much-baffledaspirations.
Mistress Maisie Lennox, now for half a year Will Gordon of Earlstoun'swife (for by her maiden name she was still used to be called, and soshe signed herself, since it had not yet become the custom for a womento take among her intimates the style of her husband's surname), sat ona high-backed chair by the oriel window. She had the kind of sunny hairwhich it is a pleasure to look upon, and the ripples of it made crisptendrils about her brow. Her face underneath was already sweeteningand gaining in reposefulness, with that look of matronhood which comesearly to patient, gracious women, who would yet venture much for theman they love. And not once nor yet twice had Maisie Lennox dared allfor those whom she loved--as has, indeed, elsewhere been told.
But, all unexpected of the hasty visitor, there was yet another fairgirl looking up at him there in that quaint, dusky-shadowed room.Seated upon a low chair, and half leaning across the knees of MistressMaisie, set wide apart on purpose, there reclined a maiden of anothertemper and mould. Slender and supple she was as willow that sways bythe water-edges, yet returning ever to slim, graceful erectness like atempered blade of Damascus; above, the finest and daintiest head in theworld, profiled like Apollo of the Bow, with great eyes that were fullof alternate darkness and tenderness, of tears and fire; a perfectlychiselled mouth, a thing which is rarer and more excellent than theutmost beauty of splendid eyes--and sweeter also; a complexion not milkand rose like that of Maisie Lennox, but of ivory rather, with thedusky crimson of warm blood blushing up delicately through it. Such wasKate McGhie, called Kate of the Dark Lashes, the only daughter of RogerMcGhie of Balmaghie, a well-reputed Galloway gentleman in the countryof Scotland.
As Walter Gordon came bursting in his impetuous fashion into hiscousin's room, his sword clashing about his feet and his cavalry spursjingling against his boot-heels, he was stopped dead by this mostpleasant sight. Yet all he saw was a girl with her head resting uponher own clasped hands and reclining on her friend's knee, with herelbows set wide apart behind her head--while Maisie's hand played, likea daring swimmer in breaking surf, out and in among the soft crispsof hair, which were too short to be waves and too long to be curls.And this hair was of several curious colors, ranging from black in theshadows through rich brown into dusky gold where the sun's light caughtit lovingly, as though he had already begun to set over the sand-dunesinto the Northern Sea. As Wat stood there, his fingers tingled totouch. It seemed somehow a squandering of human happiness that only agirl's hand should smooth that rich tangle and caress those clusteringcurls.
Walter Gordon of Lochinvar had flung himself into the little room inZandpoort Street, ripe to pour his sorrows into the ear of MaisieLennox. Nor was he at all forgetful of the fact that the ear was anexceedingly pretty one. Most devoutly he hoped that Will, his veryexcellent cousin and Maisie's good husband, might have been kept lateat the religious exercises of the Regiment of the Covenant--as thatportion of the Scotch-Dutch auxiliary force was called which had beenmostly officered and recruited from among the more militant exiles andrefugees of the Scottish persecution.
But as Lochinvar came forward somewhat more slowly after hisinvoluntary start of surprise, his eyes continued to rest on those ofthe younger girl, who remained thus reclined on her gossip's lap. Shehad not moved at his entrance, but only looked at him very quietly fromunder those shadowy curtains which had gained her the name of Kateof the Dark Lashes. Then in a moment Wat set his hand to his breastsuddenly, as if a bullet had struck him upon the field of battle.
"Kate!" he cried, in a quick, hoarse whisper, as though the word hadbeen forced from him.
And for a long moment the young soldier stood still and speechless,with his eyes still fixed upon the girl.
"Walter, mind you not my dearest friend and gossip Kate, and how inold sad days in the dear far-away land we there underwent many thingstogether?" asked Maisie Lennox, looking up somewhat doubtfully fromher friend's face into that of Walter Gordon.
"I did not know--I had not heard--" were all the words that the youngsquire of dames could find to utter.
"Also there were, if I remember aright," the young matron went on,with that fatal blundering which sometimes comes to the kindest andmost quick-witted of women, "certain passages between you--of mutualfriendship and esteem, as it might be."
Then, with a single swift movement, lithe and instantaneous as that ofa young wild animal which has never known restraint, Kate of the DarkLashes rose to her feet.
"Walter Gordon of Lochinvar," she said, "is a Scottish gentleman. Hewill never be willing to remember that which a lady chooses to forget."
But Lochinvar himself, readiest tongue in wit-play as well as keenestblade when the steel clashed in sterner debate, on this occasionspake never a word. For in that moment in which he had looked uponKate McGhie resting her beautiful head upon her clasped hands in herfriend's lap he had fallen from the safe heights of admiration into thebottomless abysses of love.
While the pair were still standing thus face to face, and before Katesat down again in a more restrained posture on the low-cushionedwindow-seat, Will Gordon strode in and set his musket in a corner. Hewas habited simply enough in the dark gray of the Hill Folks' regiment,with the cross of St. Andrew done in blue and white upon his breast.His wife rose to kiss him as he entered, and then, still holding her bythe hand, he turned to the tall, slim girl by the window.
"Why, Kate, lass, how came the good winds to blow you hither from thelands of mist over the sea?" he asked.
"Blasts of ill winds in Scotland, well I wot," said Kate McGhie,smiling at him faintly and holding out her hand.
"Then the ill Scots winds have certainly blown us good here inHolland," he answered, deftly enough, in the words of the ancientScottish proverb.
But the girl went on without giving heed to his kindly compliment.
"The persecution waxes ever hotter and hotter on the hills of thesouth," she said, "and what with the new sheriffs, and the ragingof the red-wud Grier of Lag over all our country of Galloway, I sawthat it could not be long before my doings and believings broughtmy easy-tempered father into trouble. So, as soon as I knew that, Imounted me and rode to Newcastle, keeping mostly to the hills, andavoiding the highways by which the king's soldiers come and go. There,after some wearisome and dangerous waiting, I got a ship to Rotterdam.And here I am to sorn upon you!"
She ended with a little gesture of opening her hands and flinging themfrom her, which Wat Gordon thought very pretty to behold.
"You are as welcome to our poor soldier's lodging as though it hadbeen the palace of the stadtholder," answered William Gordon--with,nevertheless, a somewhat perplexed look, as he thought of anothermouth to be fed upon the scanty and uncertain pay of a private in theScottish regiments of the prince.
While his cousin was speaking Wat Gordon had made his way roundthe table to the corner of the latticed window farthest from Kate,where now he stood looking thoughtfully upon the broad canal and thetwinkling lights which were beginning to mark out its banks.
"Why, Wat," cried his cousin Will, clapping him lovingly upon theshoulder as he went past him to hang up his blue sash on a hook bythe window, "wherefore so sad-visaged, man? This whey face and dourspeechlessness might befit an erewhile Whig gardener of Balmaghie, withhis hod and mattock over his shoulder; but it sets ill with a gay riderin Douglas's dragoons, and one high in favor in the prince's service."
Lochinvar shook off his cousin's hand a little impatiently. He wantednothing better than just to go on watching Kate McGhie's profile as itoutlined itself against the broad, shining reach of water. He marvelledthat he had been aforetime so blind to its beauty; but then theseancient admirations in Scotland had been only lightness of heart and ayoung man's natural love of love-making. But Walter Gordon knew thatthis which had stricken him to the heart, as he came suddenly upon thegirl pillowing her head on her palms at Maisie's knee, was no merelove-making. It was love.
"Who were on duty to-day at headquarters?" Wat asked, gruffly enough.
"Who but Barra and his barbarians of the Isles!" William Gordon madeanswer.
Wat stamped his foot boyishly and impatiently.
"The prince shows these dogs overmuch of his favor," he said.
Will Gordon went to the chamber door and opened it. Then he looked backat his wife.
"Come hither, sweetheart," he said. "It is pay-day, and I must e'engive thee my wages, ere I be tempted to spend them with fly-by-nightdragoons and riotous night-rakes like our cousin here. Also, I mustconsult thee concerning affairs of state--thy housewifery and the priceof candles belike!"
Obediently Maisie rose and followed him out of the room, gliding, aswas her manner, softly through the door like water that runs down amill-lade. Kate of the Dark Lashes, on the contrary, moved with theflash and lightsome unexpectedness of a swallow in flight. Yet now shesat still enough by the dusky window, looking out upon the twinklinglights which, as they multiplied, began to be reflected on the watersof the long, straight canal.
For a while Wat Gordon was content silently to watch the changefulshapeliness of her head. He had never seen one set at just that angleupon so charming a neck. He wondered why this girl had so suddenlygrown all wonderful to him. It was strange that hitherto he should havebeen so crassly blind. But now he was perfectly content only to watchand to be silent, so that it was Kate who first felt the necessity forspeech.
"This is a strange new land," she said, thoughtfully, "and it is littlewonder that to-night my heart is heavy, for I am yet a stranger in it."
"Kate," said Wat Gordon, in a low, earnest tone, leaning a littlenearer to her as she sat on the window-seat, "Kate, is there not, then,all the more reason to remember old friends?"
"And have I not remembered?" answered the girl, swiftly, withoutlooking at him. "I have come from my father's house straight to MaisieLennox--I, a girl, and alone. She is my oldest friend."
"But are there, then, no others?" said the young man, jealously.
"None who have never forgotten, never slighted, never complained, neverfaltered in their love, save only my sweet Maisie Lennox," returned thegirl, as she rose from her place and went towards the door, from behindwhich came the soft hum of voices in friendly conference.
Wat took two swift steps forward as if to forestall her, but sheslipped past him, light as the shadow of a leaf windblown along thewall, and laid her hand on the latch.
"Will not you let me be your friend once again after these wearyyears?" he asked, eagerly.
The tall girl opened the door and stood a moment with the outline ofher figure cut slimly against the light which flooded the passage--inwhich, as it grew dark, Maisie had lighted a tiny Dutch lamp.
"I love friends who never need to be friends _again_!" she said, in alow voice, and went out.
Left to himself, Wat Gordon clinched his hands in the swiftly darkeningroom. He strode back to the window pettishly, and hated the world.It was a bad world. Why, for no more than a hasty word, a breath offoolish speech, a vain and empty dame of wellnigh twice his age,should he lose the friendship of this one girl in all the world? Thatother to whom he had spoken a light word of passing admiration he hadnever seen again, nor indeed wished to see. And for no more than this,forsooth, he must be flouted by her whom his very soul loved! It was ahard world, a bad world--of which the grim law was that a man must paygood money, red and white, for that which he desires with his heart andreaches out his hand to possess himself of.
Just then the street door resounded with the clang of impetuousknocking. His cousin Will went down, and presently Wat heard the noiseof opening bars, and then the sough of rude, soldier-like speech filledthe stairway.
"Wat Gordon! Wat Gordon!" cried a voice which sounded familiar enoughto him, "come down forthwith! Here! I have brought you a letter fromyour love!"
And Wat swore a vow beneath his breath to stop the mouth of the rascalwho knew no better than to shout a message so false and inopportunein the ears of the girl of the dusky eyelashes. Nevertheless, he wentquickly to the landing and looked down.
A burly figure stood blocking the stairway beneath, and a ruddy facegleamed upward like a moon out of a mist, as Maisie held the lampaloft. A voice, somewhat husky with too recent good living, cried,"Lochinvar, here is a letter to you from the colonel. Great good may itdo you, but may the last drop in the cogie of him that sent it be thesourest, for raising Davie Dunbar from the good company and the jollypint-stoup, to be splattered at this time of night with the dirty sudsof every greasy frow in all Amersfort!"
And the stout soldier dusted certain befouling drops from his militarycoat with a very indignant expression.
"Not that the company was over-choice or the wine fit to be calledaught but poison. 'Mony littles mak' a mickle,' says the old Scots saw.But, my certes, of such a brew as yon it micht be said 'mony micklesmake but little'! For an it were not for the filling up of your belly,ten pints of their Amersfort twopenny ale is no more kenned on a manthan so much dishwashings!"
"Come your ways in and sit down, sergeant," said Mistress Maisie,hospitably. For her hand was somewhat weary with holding the lampaloft, while Sergeant Davie Dunbar described the entertainment he hadjust left. Meanwhile Wat had opened his scrap of gray official letter,and appeared to stand fixed in thought upon the words which he foundwritten therein.
"What may be the import of your message, since you are grown suddenlyso solemn-jawed over it, Wat?" cried Davie Dunbar, going up to lookover his shoulder, while Maisie and Kate McGhie stood talking quietlyapart.
"I am bidden go on a quest into the wild country by the seashore, amission that in itself I should like well enough were it not that itcomes to me by the hand of Black Murdo of Barra."
Davie Dunbar whistled thoughtfully.
"When the corbie is from home, it's like to be an ill day for wee lamelammies!" he said, sententiously. Wat Gordon cocked his guardsman'scap at the words. He had set it on his head as he went down-stairs.
"I am Walter Gordon, of Lochinvar, and though that be for the nonce buta barren heritage, I am also a gentleman-private in the prince's ScotsDragoons, and I count not the Earl of Barra more than a buzzard-kite."
"I see well that ye are but a wee innocent lammie after all," retortedSergeant Dunbar; "little ye ken about the regimen of war if at theoutset of a campaign ye begin by belittling your enemy. I tell you,Murdo of Barra has more brains under his Highland bonnet than allyour gay Douglas dragoons, from your swearing colonel to the sucklingdrummer-boy--who no sooner leaves his mother's breast than he learns tomouth curses and lisp strange oaths."
Wat Gordon shook his head with a certain unconvinced and dourdetermination.
"I have been in wild places and my sword has brought me through, butthough I own that, I like not this commission--yet feared of Barra I amnot."
And he handed Davie Dunbar the paper. The sergeant read it aloud:
"Walter Gordon, some time of Lochinvar, of the Prince's Scottish Dragoon Guards, you are ordered to obtain the true numeration of each
regiment in the camp and city of Amersfort--their officering, the numbers of each company, and of those that cannot be passed by the muster officers, the tally of those sick with fever, and of those still recovering from it, the number of cannon on the works and where they are posted. These lists you are to transmit with your own hand to an officer appointed to receive them by His Highness the Prince at the Inn of Brederode by the Northern Sanddunes, who will furnish you with a receipt for them. This receipt you will preserve and return to me in token that you have fulfilled your mission. The officers of the regiments and the commanders of batteries have hereby orders to render you a correct and instant accompt.
"(Signed) For the Stadtholder and the States-General,
"BARRA,
"_Provost-Marshal of the City and Camp_."
William Gordon had come into the room while the sergeant was readingthe paper, and now stood looking at Walter's unusual commission.
"There will be murder done when you come to our colonel," he said, "andask him to tell you that the most part of his regiment is already inhospital, and also how many of the rest are sickening for it."
But Wat Gordon stood up and tightened his sword-belt, hitching hissword forward so that the hilt fell easily under his hand. Then heflipped the mandate carelessly upon the widened fingers of his lefthand before sticking it through his belt.
"It is, at least, an order," he said, grandly, "and so long as I am inthe service of His Highness the Prince, my orders I will obey."
"And pray what else would you do, callant," interjected Sergeant DavidDunbar, "but obey your orders--so long, at least, as ye are sure thatthe lad who bids ye has the richt to bid ye?"
Lochinvar: A Novel Page 4