*CHAPTER XXII*
*"THE LEAST OF THESE, MY BRETHREN"*
April was upon us--half laughter, half tears--when rumour came to usthat the persecutions of the hill-men were becoming daily more and morebitter; but of the troopers we ourselves saw nothing. From what weheard we gathered that their main activities were in a part of thecountry further west, and we learned that Lag and his dragoons werequartered once again in Wigtown. One morning, when Mary went to thebyre to milk the cows, we heard her cry in alarm, and in a moment shecame rushing into the house, saying, "Oh, mither, there's a man asleepin Meg's stall."
Her father and I hurried out, and entered the cow-shed abreast.Stretched on a heap of straw beside the astonished Meg lay a young manclad in black. There was such a look of weariness upon his face that itseemed a shame to waken him; but Andrew, whispering to me, "It is ane o'the hill-men," took him by the shoulder and shook him not unkindly. Theyouth sat bolt upright--fear in his startled eyes. He stared at Andrewand then at me, and in a high-pitched voice exclaimed:
"The Lord is on my side. I will not fear what men can do unto me."
"I thocht sae," said Andrew, "ye're ane o' oorsels: but what are yedaein' in my byre?"
To this the only reply was another quotation from the scriptures: "TheLord hath chastened me sore, but He hath not given me over unto death."
"Puir laddie," said Andrew, "come awa ben the hoose and ha'e yourparritch."
Again the youth spoke: "This is the Lord's doing: it is marvellous inour eyes."
Andrew took him by the arm and led him into the kitchen. He was placedin a chair by the fire and sat looking wistfully and half-frightenedlyaround him. His face was thin and white save that on one cheek ascarlet spot flamed like a rose, while over his high, pale foreheadswept a lock of dark hair. As he held his hands out to catch the warmthof the glowing peat, I saw that they were almost transparent; but whatcaught my gaze and held it rivetted was the state of his thumbs. Bothof them were black and bruised as though they had been subjected togreat pressure, and I knew that the boy had recently been put to thetorture of the thumbscrews.
Mary and her mother vied with each other in attentions to him. A bowlof warm milk was offered to him, and with trembling hands he raised itto his lips. As he did so I saw the perspiration break upon hisforehead. While she busied herself with the preparation of the morningmeal, Andrew questioned him, but his answers were so cloaked in thelanguage of the scriptures that it was hard to decipher his meaning.
When he had finished his porridge, which he ate eagerly as thoughwell-nigh famished, Jean took him in hand.
"Now, young man," she said, "tell us yer story. Wha are ye, and whencecam' ye?"
A fit of violent coughing interfered with his speech, but the seizurepassed, a bright light gleamed in his sunken eyes, and he said: "In theway wherein I walked they have privily laid a snare for me. I looked onmy right hand and beheld, but there was no man that would know me.Refuge failed me. No man cared for my soul. They have spread a net bythe wayside; they have set gins for me. Let the wicked fall into theirown nets, whilst that I withal escape."
Jean sighed, and turned to Andrew with a look of bewilderment. "Thebairn's daft," she said, "beside himsel' wi' hunger and pain. He's hadthe thumbkins on; look at his puir haun's."
The youth continued in a high-pitched monotone: "Surely Thou wilt slaythe wicked, O God. Depart from me, therefore, ye bloody men. Deliverme, O Lord, from mine enemies. I flee unto Thee to hide me."
"Clean doited, puir laddie, clean doited," said Jean. "I'm thinkin',Andra, ye'd better convoy him up to the laft and let him sleep inBryden's bed. Maybe when he has had a rest, he'll come to his senses."
Andrew put his arm gently through that of the youth and raised him tohis feet. "Come your ways to bed, my lad; when ye've had a sleep ye'llbe better," and he led him toward the ladder.
As he ascended he still rambled on: "They have gaped upon me with theirmouth. They have smitten me upon the cheek reproachfully. Are not mydays few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort alittle," and with Andrew urging him on, he disappeared into the upperroom.
In a few moments Andrew descended the ladder and returned to thekitchen. "I've got him safely bedded," he said.
"Ay, puir laddie," answered Jean, as she busied herself clearing awaythe dishes. "I wonder wha he can be? Maist likely he has escaped fraethe dragoons. If they set the hounds on his track, they'll be hereafore the day is weel begun."
The thought hardly needed expression. It was present in the minds ofeach of us; and gathering round the fire we took counsel together. Thatthe lad was in sore need we agreed; but how best to help him was thedifficulty. Should the dragoons come to the house we knew that theirsearch would be a thorough one, for though Lag's compact with Jean stillheld so far as the safety of herself, her daughter, and her husband wasconcerned, we knew that it would be of no avail in the case of thisfugitive. And, further, there was the question of my own presence there,hitherto undiscovered.
The kindly wisdom of a woman's mind was expressed by Jean: "At ony ratethere is naething to be done in the meantime but wait and let the ladrest. Maybe after he has had a sleep he will no' be quite so doited,and be mair able to tell us something aboot himsel'."
"Ye're richt, woman," said Andrew. "Meantime, I'll awa' doon the road,and see if there's ony troopers aboot. And you, Bryden, had better gangup to the high field and coont the sheep. Ye'd best be oot o' the roadif the troopers should come aboot."
It was partly from solicitude for her welfare and partly for love'ssweet sake that I said to Jean, "And what of Mary? May she come withme?"
"Ay!" said her mother, "she micht as weel; but if naething happens, ye'dbest come doon within sicht o' Daldowie at dinner-time. If the road isclear, ye'll see a blanket hanging oot in the stack-yard."
Little loth, Mary and I took our departure. As we went we talked of thestranger, but very soon our thoughts glided into other channels; and erewe had reached the high field, the great drab world with all itsmiseries had been forgotten and we were living in our own kingdom oflove.
We found a sheltered nook and sat us down.
"Why do you love me?" said Mary suddenly, crossing her pretty ankles andsmoothing her gown meditatively over her knees.
"Because you are the fairest and the sweetest lassie in the whole wideworld "--and I kissed her.
"That's awfu' nice--but I doot it's no true. There maun be far bonnierlassies than me. At the best I'm only a wild rose. An' I'd rather youloved me for my soul than for the beauty ye see in me. That will a'wither by and by, and maybe your love will wither then tae. But if yelove me for my soul it will blossom and grow worthier in the sunshine o'your love, and a love like that can never dee."
"And why, my little philosopher," I asked, challenging her, "do you loveme? I am all unworthy."
"No, no!" she cried--her eyes gleaming. "I love you,because--because"--she halted, and ticked the words off upon herfingers: "Because you are brave, and big, and awfu' kind, and noill-looking, and because your blue-grey trusty een kindle a fire in myhert. No, no! That's a' wrong. I love you because--juist because youare you. A puir reason maybe--but a woman's best."
So the morning hours slipped by, and when noon was near at hand we beganto saunter down the hill-side.
When we came in sight of the farm we looked eagerly to the stack-yard,and there saw displayed the token of safety, so we hurried down.
When we reached the house we found the fugitive seated by the fire. Hissleep had soothed his tired brain, and Jean had been able to discoversomething of his history.
Two days before, he had been seized by the dragoons and brought beforeClaver'se: and with a view to extracting information from him, Claver'sehad put him to the test of the thumbscrews. He had refused to speak,and the torture had been continued till God, more compassionate thanman, had delivered him from his sufferings by a mercifuluncon
sciousness. As Jean told us his tale he listened, and every nowand then interrupted her.
"For dogs have compassed me. The assembly of the wicked have enclosedme. But He hath not despised nor abhorred the supplication of theafflicted. And now," he said, "I must go. Even as I slept the Lordappeared to me in a vision and said 'Arise, get thee hence.' I willlift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh mine aid."
Jean pressed him to remain.
"No," he said, "I must be gone."
"But you are no' fit to gang, lad," said Jean firmly but kindly. "Yedinna ken the moors ava. Ye'll be wanderin' into a bog or deein' amangthe heather like a braxy sheep."
"Listen," he said, raising his hand, the while his eyes shone, "Listen!Dinna ye hear the voice bidding me go forth?" and he hurried to thedoor; but he paused on the threshold, and raising his eyes to theroof-tree, said, "Be Thou not far from me, O Lord."
"He's clean daft, Andra," said Jean; "if he'll no' stay ye'd better tak'him awa' and hide him in a kent place. Tell him to stop there and we'llmaybe be able to look after him. Meantime," she said, seizing somefarles of oatcake and a large piece of cheese, "put this in yer pocketand awa' after him. Maybe the fresh air will bring some sense to hispuir heid. An' here, tak' this plaid for him," and she lifted a plaidfrom a hook behind the door. "He's got plenty o' the fire o' releegionin his hert, but it winna keep his feet warm, and the nichts are cauld.And, Andra, tak' care o' yersel', and dinna be runnin' ony risks. It'sa' very weel to dee for the Cause, but it would be a peety if alevel-heided man like you were to lose your life in tryin' to save apuir daft wean. Haste ye, man, or he'll be in Ayrshire afore ye catchhim."
Andrew sprang after him, turning when some steps from the door to say,"I'll be back before nicht. God keep ye a'."
We stood, a little group of three, just outside the threshold watchingthe pursuit, and before they twain had passed out of sight Andrew hadcaught the young man and taken him by the arm, as though to quiet him.
"Losh peety me," said Jean, as she turned to go indoors, "what a puirbairn. I wonder wha his mither is?"
The afternoon dragged wearily on. From time to time I made my way tothe foot of the loaning and, hidden by a thorn bush, anxiously scannedthe country-side. There were no troopers to be seen.
In the kitchen Mary and her mother were busily engaged with householdtasks, and I sat on the settle watching them. We did not speak much,for heavy dread had laid its hand upon us all. The hours moved onleaden feet.
On gossamer wings an amber-banded bee buzzed in, teasing the passive airwith its drone as it whirred out again. The "wag-at-the-wa'" tickedmonotonously. On the hill-side the whaups were calling, and nearer athand one heard the lowing of the cows. A speckled hen brooding in thesand before the door, spread her wings and, ruffling herbreast-feathers, threw up a cloud of tawny dust. Somewhere in thestack-yard a cock crew, and with clamour of quacking a column of duckswaddled past the doorway to the burn-side. When her baking was over,Jean, wiping the meal from her hands, went out into the open. Mary cameand sat on the settle beside me, and as I took her hand it feltstrangely cold. I sought to cheer her.
After a few minutes Jean returned. "There's naething to be seen ava,"she said. "There's nae sign o' the troopers, nor o' Andra. I wish hewere safe at hame."
I hastened to assure her that there was nothing to be feared for Andrew.Witless though the demented lad might be, in build and strength he wasno match for Andrew, should he be seized with frenzy and endeavour toattack his guide.
"I suppose ye're richt. As a rule I ha'e mair common-sense, but I'manxious."
Mary joined her counsel to mine. "He'll be a' richt, mither," she said:"it's no' yet six o'clock," and rising, she went out to call the cows.Her sweet voice thrilled the silent air: "Hurley, hurley."
When she had gone I made my way to the foot of the loaning again andfrom the shelter of the thorn-bush studied the landscape.
It lay, an undulating picture of beauty, in the mellow light of theearly evening--purple and golden and green. No dragoons were in sight.
When I reached the house again I found that Jean was no longer there.Thinking that she had gone to search for Andrew, I hastened to look forher, and by and by discovered her standing upon the top of a hillock onthe edge of the moor. As I drew near she exclaimed: "Whatever can bekeepin' him?" Together we stood and scanned the distance. Far as theeye could reach we could discern no human being. I tried, withcomforting words, to still the turmoil of Jean's heart.
"I'm an auld fule," she said, "but when ye've had a man o' yer ain formair than thirty year, it mak's ye gey anxious if ye think he is indanger. Ye see, my mither had 'the sicht,' and sometimes I think I'vegot it tae. But come awa' back to the hoose: the milkin' will be owerand it maun be near supper-time."
We returned, and found Mary preparing the evening meal. We gatheredround the table, and though each of us tried to talk the meal was almosta silent one. The "wag-at-the-wa'" ticked off the relentless minutes;the sun sank to his rest; the night came, and still there was no sign ofAndrew.
The slow-footed moments dogged each other by and still he did not come.When the hands of the clock marked the hour of ten, I rose and went tothe door. The night was still; the stars looked down on the thatchedroof of Daldowie, heedless of the dread that brooded over it. Istrained my ears to catch any sound of approaching footsteps, but allwas silent as the grave. I rejoined Jean and Mary beside the fire.They were gazing anxiously into its embers. Mary lifted her eyes with aquestion flashing from them. I shook my head, and she turned her gazeonce more on the glowing hearth.
"Whatever can be keepin' the man?" said Jean, looking up suddenly."It's nearly ten oors sin' he left us. Mary," she said, turning to herdaughter and speaking firmly, "ye'd better awa' to your bed. Yourfaither'll be vexed if he sees ye sittin' up for him; but afore ye gang,bring me the Book." Adjusting her horn-rimmed spectacles she said,"We'll juist ha'e the readin'," and opening the Book she read the 46thPsalm. When she had finished she took her spectacles off and wiped themwith her apron. "I feel better noo," she said. "I ha'e been a silly,faithless woman. Whatever would Andra think o' me, his wife, if he kentthe way I ha'e been cairryin' op this day. He'll be back a' richt aforelang. Gang your ways tae bed, Mary."
Mary took the Book from her mother and bore it to its accustomed placeon the dresser. Then she came back and standing behind her motherplaced a hand upon each cheek and tilting the careworn face upward,kissed her upon the forehead. With a demure "Good night" to me, she wasabout to go, but I sprang up and, clasping her to me, kissed her. Hercheeks were pale and cold, but the ardour of my lips brought a glow tothem ere I let her escape.
Her mother and I sat by the fire so wrapt in thought that we did notobserve how it was beginning to fail; but at last I noticed it andpicking up fresh peats laid them upon the embers.
"Losh," said Jean, starting from her seat, "what a fricht ye gi'ed me.I thocht I was a' by my lane, and I was thinkin' o' the auld days whenfirst I cam' to Daldowie as its mistress. Happy days they were, andwhen the bairns cam'--happier still! Ah me!" She lapsed into silenceagain, and when next she moved she turned to the clock. "Dear, dear,"she said, reading its signal through the gathering darkness; "it'shalf-ane on the nock and he's no' back yet. I'm thinkin' he maun ha'eta'en shelter in some hidie-hole himsel', fearfu' lest he should losehis way in the nicht. Gang awa' up to the laft and lay ye doon: youre'en are heavy wi' sleep. I'll be a' richt here by my lane. And mindye this, if, when Andra comes back in the mornin', he has no' a guidexcuse for ha'ein kept me up waitin' for him, I'll gi'e him the roughedge o' my tongue. Mark my words, I will that!"
At the risk of offending her, I refused to obey her. "No," I said, "thatwould not be seemly. I'll keep watch with you. While you sleep I shallkeep awake, and when I sleep you shall keep vigil."
"Weel," she said, "you sleep first. I'll waken ye when I feel like gaunto sleep mysel'."
I closed my eyes, and though
I fought against sleep, the drowsy warmthovercame me.
When I woke, I felt stiff and cold. The grey light was alreadybeginning to filter in through the windows and beneath the door. Thecock was welcoming the sunrise. I looked at the clock. It washalf-past four, and Jean was sitting with her elbows upon her knees andher face buried in her hands. She raised her head and looked at me.
"Why did you not wake me?" I asked.
"I couldna ha'e slept in ony case," she answered shortly. "Listen! Isthat him comin'?"
Together we listened, but no sound broke the stillness, till once againthe cock crew shrilly. I went to the door and threw it open. Themorning air smote on my face, and the long draughts which I breathedwoke my half slumbering brain. Jean came and stood beside me, andtogether we looked towards the moor; but there was no sign of Andrew.
"The morning has come now," I said, "and if he had to take shelter forthe night, he will soon be afoot again and ere long we shall bewelcoming him home."
"I hope sae," she said. "Meantime, I had better get the parritch ready.When he does come hame he'll be gey near famished, and we'll be nane thewaur o' something to eat oorsel's."
We turned to the door again, and as we did so I heard footsteps, and,looking in, saw Mary. Her face was grey with weariness, and dark ringsencircled her beautiful eyes. Her quick wit read our faces and ere Icould speak she exclaimed, her voice trembling:
"Is he no' back yet? Whatever can ha'e happened to him? I maun go andfind him," and hastening to the door she gazed eagerly out.
"No," said her mother, "he's no' back yet; but I'm thinkin' he canna belang noo."
"Are ye sure, mither, are ye sure, or are ye juist guessin'?" she cried."Oh, where can he be?"
"Mary," said her mother sternly, "it's time to milk the kye. Gang awatae your duty, and if he's no' hame by the time the parritch is ready,ye can gang an' look for him; but meantime, control yersel'."
"Oh, mither," she sobbed, "it's faither. He may ha'e slipped and brokenhis leg, or he may ha'e fallen into a bog. Mither, mither!" and sheclasped her hands nervously, "we maun dae something. We canna' bidelike this, an' no' ken."
I sought to comfort her with gentle words.
Of that loathly dread which lay most heavily upon our hearts, not one ofus spoke. Mary, her heart on fire, had spoken for us all, buther-mother did not allow her anxiety to shake her firm common-sense.
"A' that ye say may be true, lassie," she said, "but ye'll no' be asweel able to look for your faither if ye gang withoot your parritch.Get the kye milket, and when ye've had your breakfast, if Andra is no'back, ye'd better gang and look for him."
Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times Page 22