Lochinvar: A Novel

by S. R. Crockett

  CHAPTER II

  WHY KATE HATED LOCHINVAR

  It was the evening of the following day before Wat Gordon was readyto start. It had taken him so long to obtain all the invaluableinformation as to the strength of the armies of the States-General andof their allies, which were collected at Amersfort in order to rollback the threatened invasion of the King of France. Twice during theday had he rushed into his cousin's lodging for a brief moment in orderto snatch a morsel of food, but on neither occasion had he been ableto catch so much as a glimpse of Kate. It was now the gloaming, andthe night promised to fall clear and chill. A low mist was collectinghere and there behind the clumps of bushes, and crawling low along thesurface of the canals. But all above was clear, and the stars werebeginning to come out in familiar patterns.

  For the third and last time Wat made an errand up to his cousin'srooms, even after his escort had arrived, and once more Maisie took himgently by the hand, bidding him good-speed on his quest perilous. Buteven while his cousin's wife was speaking the young man's eye continuedto wander restlessly. He longed rather to listen to upbraiding fromanother voice, and, in place of Maisie's soft, willing kiss, to carryaway the farewell touch of a more scornful hand.

  "Cousin," he said at last, reluctantly and a little shyly, "I pray yousay farewell for me to Mistress Kate, since she is not here to bid mefarewell for herself. In what, think you, have I offended her?"

  "Nay, Wat," answered the gentle Maisie, "concerning that you must e'enfind means of judging for yourself on your return."

  "But listen, Cousin Maisie, this venture that I go upon is a quest oflife or death to me, and many are the chances that I may not return atall."

  "I will even go speak with my gossip Kate, and see whether she willcome to bid you good prospering on your adventure and a safe returnfrom it."

  And so saying Maisie passed from the room as silently as a white swanswims athwart the mere. In a little while she returned with Kate,who, beside her budding matronhood, seemed but a young lissom slip ofwillow-wand.

  "Here, Kate," said Maisie, as she entered holding her friend by thehand, "is our cousin Wat, come in on us to bid farewell. He goes a farroad and on a heavy adventure. He would say good-bye to the friends whoare with him in this strange land before he departs, and of these youare one, are you not, my Kate?"

  As soon as Mistress Maisie loosened her hand the girl went directly tothe window-seat, where she stood leaning gracefully with her cheek laidsoftly against the shutter. She turned a little and shivered at herfriend's pointed appeal.

  "If Walter Gordon says it, it must be so," she answered, with certainquiet bitterness.

  Lochinvar was deeply stung by her words. He came somewhat nearer toher, clasping his hands nervously before him, his face set and pale asit had never been in the presence of an enemy.

  "Kate," he said, "I ask you again, wherein have I so grievouslyoffended you that, on your coming to this land of exile, you shouldtreat me like a dog--yes, worse than a wandering cur-dog. It is truethat once long ago I was foolish--to blame, blackly and bitterly in thewrong, if you will. But now all humbly I ask you to forgive me ere Igo, it may be to my death."

  The girl looked at him with a strange light in her eyes--scorn, pity,and self-will struggling together for the mastery.

  At last, in a hard, dry voice, she said, "There is nothing to forgive.If there had been I should have forgiven you. As it is, I have onlyforgotten."

  Maisie had left the room and there was deep silence in it and about,save for the distant crying of the staid Dutch children late attheir plays on the canal-sides of Amersfort, and the clatter of thehome-returning wooden shoon on the pavemented streets. The youngman drew himself up till his height towered above the girl like awatch-tower over a city wall. His eyes rested steadfastly on her thewhile. She had a feeling that a desperate kind of love was in the air,and that for aught she knew he might be about to clasp her fiercelyin his arms. And it had, perhaps, been well for both if he had, forat that moment she raised her eyes and her heart wavered withinher. He looked so tall and strong. She was sure that her head wouldcome no higher upon his breast than the blue ribbon of his cavalryshoulder-knot. She wondered if his arms would prove as strong as theylooked, if she suddenly were to find herself folded safe within them.

  "Kate," he said, wistfully, coming nearer to her.

  Now Wat Gordon ought not to have spoken. The single word in the silenceof the room brought the girl back to herself. Instinctively she put outher hand, as though to ward off something threatening or overpowering.The gulf yawned instantly between them, and the full flood-tide of WatGordon's opportunity ebbed away as rapidly as it had flowed.

  Yet when a moment later the girl lifted her long, dark lashes andrevealed her eyes shining shyly glorious beneath them, Wat Gordon gazedinto their depths till his breath came quick and short through hisnostrils, and a peal of bells seemed to jangle all out of tune in hisheart. He stood like some shy woodland beast new taken in a trap.

  "Well?" she said, inquiringly, yet somewhat more softly than she hadyet spoken.

  Wat clinched his fist. In that single syllable the girl seemed to layall the burden of blame, proof, explanation of the past upon him alone,and the hopeless magnitude of the task cut him to the quick.

  "Kate!" he cried, "I will not again ask you to forgive me; but if I donot come back, at least believe that I died more worthily than perhapsI have lived--though neither have I ever lived so as to shame you,even had you seen me at my worst. And, ere I go, give me at least alove-token that I may carry it with me till I die."

  Kate's lips parted as though she had somewhat to answer if she would,but she kept a faintly smiling silence instead, and only lookedcasually about the room. A single worn glove lay on the top of a littlecabinet of dark oak. She lifted it and handed it to Wat. The young maneagerly seized the glove, pressed it with quick passion to his lips,and then thrust it deep into the bosom of his military coat. He wouldhave taken the hand which gave him the gift, but a certain maliciousinnocence in the girl's next words suddenly dammed his gratitude at thefountain-head.

  "I have nothing of my own to give," she said, "for I have just newlycome off the sea. But this glove of Maisie's will mayhap serve as well.Besides which, I heard her say yestreen that she had some time ago lostits marrow in the market-place of Amersfort."

  "'I WILL TAKE MY OWN LOVE-TOKEN'"]

  With a fierce hand Wat Gordon tore the glove from his bosom and threwit impulsively out of the window into the canal. Then he squaredhis shoulders and turned him about in order to stride haughtily andindignantly from the room.

  But even as he went he saw a quaintly subtle amusement shining in thegirl's eyes--laughter made lovely by the possibility of indignant tearsbehind it, and on her perfectest lips that quick petulant pout whichhad seemed so adorable to him in the old days when he had laid somany ingenious snares to bring it out. Wat was intensely piqued--morepiqued perhaps than angry. He who had wooed great ladies, and on whomin the ante-chambers of kings kind damsels all too beautiful had smiledtill princes waxed jealous, was now made a mock of by a slim she-slipcompact of mischievous devices. He looked again and yet more keenly atthe girl by the window. Certainly it was so. Mischief lurked quaintlybut unmistakably under the demure, upward curl of those eyelashes.A kind of still, calm fury took him, a set desperation like that ofbattle.

  "I will take my own love-token," he cried, striding suddenly over toher.

  And so, almost but not quite, ere Kate was aware, he had stooped andkissed her.

  Then, in an instant, as soon indeed as he had realized his deed, allhis courage went from him. His triumph of a moment became at once flatdespair, and he stood before her ashamed, abject as a dog that iscaught in a fault and trembles for the lash.

  Without a word the girl pointed to the door. And such was the forceof her white anger and scorn upon him that Wat Gordon, who was aboutto ride carelessly to face death as he had often done before, slunkthrough it cowering and speechless.
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  Maisie was coming along the little boarded passage as he passed out.

  "Farewell, cousin," she said to him. "Will you not bid me good-byeagain ere you go, if only for the old sake's sake?"

  But Wat Gordon went past her as though he had not heard, tramplingstupidly down the narrow stairs like a bullock in the market-place, thespring all gone out of his foot, the upstanding airy defiance fallenaway from his carriage.

  Then in a moment more there came up from the street front the sound oftrampling horses and the ring of accoutrement, as three or four ridersset spurs to their horses and rode clattering over the cobbles towardsthe city gates.

  Maisie went quickly into the sitting-room to her friend.

  "What have you been doing to my Wat?" she asked, grasping her tightlyby the arm. "Have you quarrelled with him?"

  Kate was standing behind the shutter, looking down the street alongwhich the four riders were rapidly vanishing. At the corner where theyturned one of the horses shied and reared, bringing down its iron-shodhoofs sharply on the pavement with a little jet of sparks, and almostthrowing its rider. Instinctively the girl uttered a little cry, andset her hand against her side.

  "What said Wat to you, dearest Kate," asked Maisie, again, alteringthe form of her question, "that you sent him thus speechless anddumfoundered away? He passed me at the stair-head as if he knew me not."

  Finding Kate still absorbed and silent, Maisie sat down in her ownchair and waited. Presently, with a long sigh, the girl sank on herknees beside her, and, taking her friend's hand, set it on her head.With sympathetic and well-accustomed fingers Maisie, as was her custom,softly smoothed and caressed the dark tangle of curls. She did notutter a word till she heard a quick sob catch at the bottom of Kate'sthroat. Then she spoke very low, leaning forward till she could layher cheek against the girl's brow.

  "What said he? Tell me, dearest, if you can; tell your gossip, Maisie,"she whispered.

  It was a voice that not many could resist when it pleaded thus--mostlike a dove cooing to its mate in the early summer mornings.

  There fell a silence for a while in the little upper room; but Maisiethe wise one did not again speak. She only waited.

  "Oh, I hate him!" at last said Kate McGhie, lifting her head withcentred intensity of expression.

  Maisie smiled a little, indulgently, leaning back so that her friend'sdark eyes should not notice it. She smiled as one who is in the thingsof love at least a thousand years older, and who in her day has seenand tasted bread sweet and bread bitter.

  "And certainly you do well to hate him, my Kate," this cunning MistressMaisie said, very gently, her hand continuing to run softly through themeshes of Kate's curls; "nevertheless, for all that you are glad thathe kissed you."

  The girl lifted her head as quickly from its resting-place as thougha needle had pricked her unawares. She eyed her friend with a grave,shocked surprise.

  "You were listening!" she said.

  And the censure in her tone might have been that of a General Assemblyof the Kirk, so full of weighty rebuke was it.

  "No, Kate," said her friend, quietly. "I was in the kitchen all thetime, putting the bone in the broth for William's supper. I heardno single word of your talk. But, Kate, my lassie, I am not so veryignorant concerning these things which you stand on the brink of. Come,what had you been saying to him to provoke him to kiss you?"

  "He but asked me for a love-token to take with him to the wars--which Igave him, and how could I tell?" said the girl, a little plaintively.Things had not gone as they ought, and now her own familiar friend wasabout to blame her for it.

  Maisie waited a moment discreetly, hoping that Kate would go on; butshe appeared to consider that she had said enough. She only pillowedher head lower on her gossip's knee, and submitted contentedly to theloving hand which caressed her ringlets.

  "And you gave him the love-token?" queried her friend, quietly.

  "I told him that I had nothing of my own to give him, because mybaggage had not yet arrived; and it chanced that I saw one of your oldmarrowless gloves lying there on the cabinet--so I gave him that. Ithought," she added, plaintively, after a pause, "that it would do justas well."

  At which conclusion Maisie laughed helplessly, rocking to and fro; thenshe checked herself, and began again. Kate raised her head and lookedat her in new surprise.

  "You are the strangest girl!" at last Maisie said. "You have sundrypassages with a gallant youth. You smile not unkindly upon him. Youquarrel and are separated. After years you meet in a distant land. Heasks you for a gage to carry with him to the wars, a badge fragrant ofhis lady and his love, and you give him--an odd glove of his cousin'swife's. Truly an idea most quaint and meritorious!"

  "And Maisie," said Kate, solemnly, looking up at her with her headstill on her hands, "would you believe it? He stamped his foot andthrew the glove out of the window there into the canal! He ought not tohave done that, ought he?"

  "My Kate," said her friend, "do not forget that I am no longer a girl,but a woman wedded--"

  "Six months," interrupted Kate McGhie, a little mischievously.

  "And when I see the brave lass with whom, in another and a dearer land,I came through so many perils, in danger of letting foolish anger wrongboth herself and another, you will forgive me if I have a word to say.I speak because I have come in peace to the goal of my own loving. Watloves you. I am sure of that. Can you not tell me what it is that youhave against him? No great matter, surely; for, though reckless andheadstrong beyond most, the lad is yet honest, up-standing, true."

  Kate McGhie was silent for a while, only leaning her head a littleharder against the caressing hand.

  Then, with her face bent down, she spoke, softly:

  "In Scotland he loved _me_ not, but only the making of love. If so bethat Wat Gordon will love me here in the Lowlands of Holland, he mustdo it like one that loves for death or life; not like a gay gallantthat makes love to every maid in town, all for dalliance in a gardenpleasaunce on a summer's day."

  The girl drew herself up nearer to her friend's face. Maisie Lennox, onher part, quietly leaned over and laid her cheek against Kate's. It wasdamp where a cherry-great tear had rolled down it. Maisie understood,but said nothing. She only pressed her gossip a little closer andwaited. In a while Kate's arms went gently round about her neck, andher face drew yet a little nearer to the listening ear.

  "Once," she whispered, "I feared that I was in danger of loving himfirst and most--and that he but played with me. I feared it much," shewent on, with a little return of the low sob, which caused her friend'sarms to clasp themselves more tightly about her, "I feared that I mightlearn to love him too soon. So that is the reason--why--_I hate himnow_!"