Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times
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*CHAPTER XXVIII*
*FOR THE SWEET SAKE OF MARY*
When with characteristic self-satisfaction the packman had extolled hisown intelligence, he lapsed into silence. As for me, the telling of mytale had reawakened so many sad memories that for a time I sat gazingbefore me, unable through my tears to see the other side of the road.Hector knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and sighed.
"It is," he said, "ane o' the saddest stories I ha'e ever heard. Sic anexperience is enough to mak' a man bitter for the rest o' his days. Butif Mary was only half o' what you ha'e tellt me she was, that's no' whatshe wu'd like to see. It's the prood woman she wu'd be if she knew yewere minded to throw in your lot wi' the Cause. What are ye gaun todae?"
"I am making for England," I answered.
Hector shook his head sadly. "I've noticed the same afore," he said,and paused.
"What have you noticed?" I asked. "I do not understand you."
He looked into the distance, and spoke as though to himself.
"Ay! It's the auld story. Queer but awfu' human. There was Moses andPeter: the ane the meekest o' men, but he lost his temper twice; theither the bravest and lealest o' the disciples, but he turned coward."
"Explain yourself," I said. "I cannot follow you."
"I mean nae offence, but I thocht ye wad hae been quicker i' the uptak'.D'ye no see that men fail maist often on their strongest point? Man,when a man prides himsel' on his strong points it's time to get down onhis knees. Ye tell me ye lo'ed the lass--and nae doot ye did. Butye're turning yer back on love, and rinnin' awa'. I'm surprised at ye.If sic a fate as has befallen Mary were to befa' the widda atLocharbriggs, dae ye think I should rest until I had dune something toavenge her. Mind ye I'm no' counsellin' violence, for I'm a man thatloves peace. Bloodshed is the revenge o' the foolish. There are betterways than that, and if ye'll throw your lot in wi' mine, I'll show yehoo ye can dae something for the sake o' her ye loved and for the causeo' the Covenant." I listened in silence and shame. His words werebiting into my heart.
He looked at me with eyes that seemed to peer into the depths of mysoul. Then I found speech. "Mary," I said, "was to me the mostprecious thing in all the world. If you can show me how I can renderservice to the Cause she loved, I am ready to do your bidding."
He thrust out his right hand: "Put your haun' there," he said; "you'vespoken like a man. Dae ye mind what Horace says: '_Carpe diem, quamminimum credula postera._' 'Tak' time by the forelock and never trustto the morn.' A wise word that. Fegs, he was a marvel! In fact he'sgey near as fu' o' wisdom as the guid Book itsel'. We'll tak' time bythe forelock, and between us, if the Lord wills, we'll dae something forthe persecuted hill-folk and strike a blow for Scotland and for liberty.But we'll ha'e to be gettin' on; the day'll no' tarry for us. Let usawa'."
Refreshed by our rest, we rose and took to the road again.
A long descent lay before us and till we had completed it neither of usspoke. But when we reached the foot of the hill Hector suddenly said:
"I've been thinkin' aboot your story. It's wonderfu' what bits o'gossip a packman can pick up on his roonds. Noo, you may be surprisedto hear that I kent a' aboot the shootin' o' the minister up on thehills. I heard the story frae a trooper in the inn at Gatehouse. Tohim it was a great joke, for he saw naething in it but the silly actiono' a daft auld man wha's ain stupidity brocht aboot his death. Iwonder, if he had kent the hale story as you and me ken it, whether hewould ha'e seen the beauty o't. I'm thinkin' maybe no', for to size up athing like that richtly it maun be in a man's heart to dae the likehimsel'. Ay, what a welcome the martyr would get on the ither side!"He paused for a moment, then continued: "And it's queer that I heardaboot you yersel' frae the same trooper. He tellt me that they cam' onthe minister quite accidental-like; and that they werena' lookin' forhim ava. They were oot on the hills huntin' for a deserter, wha I'mthinkin' was yersel'. They didna find you, he said. As a matter o' factthey believe that ye're deid--he said as muckle. So you may haud yermind easy, for unless an' ill win' blaws and ye're recognised by ane o'yer fellow-troopers, ye're safe."
We trudged on steadily towards Dumfries. My heart was with Mary, and Idid not speak. The packman was silent too--but while I was living inthe past he apparently was looking into the future, for he saidsuddenly:
"It's a dangerous job I'm invitin' ye to tackle--a job that calls forthe best wit o' a man, and muckle courage. I'm thinkin' you dinna lackfor either, but time will show. Ay: it will that. As for me," hecontinued, after a pause, "I'm no' a religious man, but hidden in acorner o' my soul I ha'e a wee lamp o' faith. But it doesna aye burn asbrichtly as it micht, and mony a time I sit by the roadside and comparethe man I wad like to be wi' the man that I ken masel' to be; and itmak's me gey humble. But I aye tak' courage when I think o' Peter. Hefound the road through life a hard path and he tripped sae often owerthe stanes that I sometimes think, like me, he maun ha'e had a tree-leg.But at the end he proved himsel' to be gold richt through, as dootlessthe Maister kent a' the while." His voice broke, and, looking at him, Isaw tears streaming down his cheeks.
"But noo, a word in your ear. We're very near Dumfries noo. We'dbetter separate there, it will be safer. It behoves ye to ken where yewill fin' a lodgin'.
"In Mitchell's Close at the brig' end there lives a widda woman. Shekens me weel. Her door is the second on the left frae the mooth o' theclose. Her name is Phemie McBride, and when ye tell her ye're a frien'o' Hector the packman's she'll gie ye a welcome and ask nae questions.We should reach the toon before twa o'clock. You can ha'e bite and sup.I'll leave my pack at my lodgings and syne I'll be awa oot toLocharbriggs to pay my respects to the widda. At six o'clock orthereabouts I'll look for ye at the Toon Heid Port and we'll tak' a walkup the banks o' the Nith thegither. But, a word in yer lug. Dumfriesis a stronghold o' the Covenanters; forby it is ane o' the heidquarterso' the persecutors. Lag himsel' has a hoose there--so ye maun becarefu'. Tak' a leaf oot my book, and oot o' the book o' even a wiserman than me--Be all things to all men, and mix neither yer politics noryer drink. Haud your tongue, and if ye ha'e to speak, keep half yercounsel tae yersel'."
I thanked him and promised to exercise all caution. "And noo," he said,"for appearance' sake, I maun be Hector the packman, again," and goingto a cottage by the wayside he knocked loudly at the door. I walkedslowly on and in a moment or two he rejoined me.
With a twinkle in his eyes, he said: "Trade's bad the day. Theguid-wife wanted neither a dream-book nor a pot o' salve. But thatreminds me, it's gey near three months sin' I saw the widda. Noo youyersel' ha'e kent the spell o' love. I dinna want to touch ye on a sairspot, but if ye were in my place, what wad ye tak' tae yer sweetheart?"
I had no suggestion to offer, and said so.
"Weel," he said, "that's nae help. I'll juist ha'e a look at thejeweller's window in the High Street. Maybe I'll see something there:but failin' that there's aye a pot o' my balm."
"She will not need any of that," I answered. "Your coming will bring acolour to her cheeks without the aid of your magical salve."
"Man," said Hector, "I like ye. Ye're a lad o' promise; I'll mak' a mano' ye yet."
We were approaching another cottage on the outskirts of the town, andonce again Hector assumed the role of the packman and tapped at thedoor. When he rejoined me he said: "I ha'e had some luck this time, butno' muckle, because a' I sold was a dream-book. Awfu' trash, as ye weelken." He groaned as though in anguish of spirit. "And noo," he said,"we'd better pairt company. The brig' end o' Dumfries is on this sideo' the water."
So we parted, and I walked on ahead, until as I descended a steep hill Isaw the end of the bridge before me. I found Mitchell's Close withoutdifficulty and entered it. The houses within it were flinging back theglare of the sun from their whitewashed walls. I knocked at the seconddoor on the left, and after a little it was opened by an old woman.Holding the latch in h
er hand, she stood between the half-open door andthe wall as though to block the passage.
"Wha may ye be?" she said. "Ye ha'ena' a kent face."
"I am," I said, speaking low, "a friend of Hector the packman."
She threw the door wide open at once, saying, "Come awa ben." Ientered, and immediately she shut and barred the door behind us, and ledthe way into the kitchen, saying: "Ony frien' o' Hector the packman iswelcome here. Can I get ye onything to eat?"
As I had not broken my fast since leaving New Abbey, I was ready to dojustice to the meal which she made haste to spread before me.Remembering Hector's warning, I held my tongue, and as she waited uponme the old woman kept her counsel to herself. I could see that she wasstudying me closely; and when the meal was over she said, suddenly:
"So ye're a frien' o' Hector's, are ye? Whaur's the man noo?"
"When I left him," I replied, "he was making his way to his ownlodging."
"Nae doot, nae doot; and by this time I jalouse he's on the road toLocharbriggs."
I smiled.
"If ye are a frien' o' Hector's," she continued, "ye've nae doot heardaboot the widow at Locharbriggs."
"Oh yes," I said. "She bulks largely in his affections."
The old woman laughed heartily. "She does that, the silly auld man, buthe'd better look somewhere else, for she winna ha'e him. I ken herweel; she's my dochter."