by John Buchan
The house was dead as a stone wall, and no signs of life came from within. But above me a lattice was opened to catch the morning air. I leapt to the ground and led Maisie round to the stables which I knew so well. The place was deserted; no serving-man was about; the stalls looked as if they had been empty for ages. A great fear took my heart. Marjory might be gone, taken I knew not whither. I fled to the door as though the fiend were behind me, and knocked clamorously for admittance. Far off in the house, as it were miles away, I heard footsteps and the opening of doors. They came nearer, and the great house-door was opened cautiously as far as possible without undoing the chain; and from within a thin piping inquired my name and purpose.
I knew the voice for the oldest serving-man who dwelt in the house.
“Open, you fool, open,” I cried. “Do you not know me — The Laird of Barns?”
The chain was unlocked by a tremulous hand.
“Maister John, Maister John,” cried the old man, all but weeping. “Is’t yoursel’ at last — We’ve had sair, sair need o’ ye. Eh, but she’ll be blithe to see ye.”
“Is your mistress well?” I cried with a great anxiety.
“Weel eneuch, the puir lass, but sair troubled in mind. But that’ll a’ be bye and dune wi’, noo that ye’ re come back.”
“Where is she — Quick, tell me, “I asked in my impatience.
“In the oak room i’ the lang passage,” he said, as quick as he could muster breath.
I knew the place, and without more words I set off across the hall, running and labouring hard to keep my heart from bursting. Now at last I should see the dear lass whom I had left. There was the door, a little ajar, and the light of a sunbeam slanting athwart it.
I knocked feebly, for my excitement was great.
“Come,” said that voice which I loved best in all the world.
I entered, and there, at the far end of the room, in the old chair in which her father had always sat, wearing the dark dress of velvet which became her best, and with a great book in her lap, was Marjory.
She sprang up at my entrance, and with a low cry of joy ran to meet me. I took a step and had her in my arms. My heart was beating in a mighty tumult of joy, and when once my love’s head lay on my shoulder, I cared not a fig for all the ills in the world. I cannot tell of that meeting; even now my heart grows warm at the thought; but if such moments be given to many men, there is little to complain of in life.
“O John,” she cried, “I knew you would come. I guessed that every footstep was yours, coming to help us. For oh! there have been such terrible times since you went away. How terrible I cannot tell you,” and her eyes filled with tears as she looked in mine.
So we sat down by the low window, holding each other’s hands, thinking scarce anything save the joy of the other’s presence. The primroses were starring the grass without, and the blossom coming thick and fast on the cherry trees. So glad a world it was that it seemed as if all were vanity save a dwelling like the Lotophagi in a paradise of idleness.
But I quickly roused myself. It was no time for making love when the enemy were even now at the gates.
“Marjory, lass,” I said, “tell me all that has been done since I went away.”
And she told me, and a pitiful tale it was — that which I had heard from Nicol, but more tragic and sad. I heard of her brother’s ruin, how the brave, generous gentleman, with a head no better than a weathercock, had gone down the stages to besotted infamy. I heard of Gilbert’s masterful knavery, of his wooing at Dawyck, and how he had despoiled the house of Barns. It seemed that he had spent days at Dawyck in the company of Michael Veitch, putting my poor Marjory to such a persecution that I could scarce bide still at the hearing of it. He would importune her night and day, now by gallantry and now by threats. Then he would seek to win her favour by acts of daring, such as he well knew how to do. But mostly he trusted to the influence of her brother, who was his aider and abetter in all things. I marvelled how a gentleman of family could ever sink so low as to be the servant of such cowardice. But so it was, and my heart was sore for all the toils which the poor girl had endured in that great, desolate house, with no certain hope for the future. She durst not write a letter, for she was spied on closely by her tormentors, and if she had bade me return, they well knew I would come with the greatest speed, and so in knowing the time of my arrival, would lay hands on me without trouble. The letter which reached me was sealed under her brother’s eyes and the postscript was added with the greatest pains and sent by Tam Todd, who sat at Barns in wrath and impotence. Truly things had gone wrong with a hearty good-will since I had ridden away.
But the matter did not seem much better now that I had returned, I was an outlawed man, with no dwelling and scarce any friends, since the men of my own house were either hostile or powerless to aid. My estates were a prey to my enemies. I had naught to trust to save my own good fortune and a tolerably ready sword, and, to crown all, my love was in the direst danger. If she abode at Dawyck the bitter persecution must be renewed, and that the poor maid should sufFer this was more than I could endure. I had no fear of her faithfulness, for I knew of old her steadfast heart and brave spirit, but I feared my cousin as I feared no other on earth. He cared not a fig for the scruples of ordinary men, and he was possessed of a most devilish cunning, before which I felt powerless as a babe. Yet I doubtless wronged him by suspicion, for, after all, he was a Burnet, and fought openly as a man of honour should. But he had a gang of marauding ruffians at his heels, and God alone knew what might happen.
At all events, I must wait till what time my servant Nicol should arrive from Leith. I had no fear of his failing, for he had the readiest wit that ever man had, and I verily believe the longest legs. He should be at Dawyck ere noonday, when he should advise me as to my course. Nor was there any immediate danger pressing, for so long as Gilbert abode at Leith he could not come to Dawyck, and unless our schemes grievously miscarried, he could not yet have been apprised of my escape. Moreover, the soldiers to whom I had given the slip the night before, could as yet have no inkling either of my identity or my present harbour. So for the meantime I was safe to meditate on the future.
Marjory, woman-like, was assured that now I had come back her sorrows were at an end. She would hear nothing of danger to be. “Now that you are here, John,” she would say, “I am afraid of nothing. I do not care if Gilbert return and plague me a thousandfold more; I shall well support it if I know that you are in the land. It is for you I fear, for what must you do save go to the hills and hide like the hillmen in caves and peatbogs — It is surely a sad use for your learning, sir.”
So the morning passed so quickly that I scarce knew it. We went together to a little turret-room facing; the north and fronting the broad avenue which all must pass who come to the house; and here we waited for the coming of Nicol. I felt a fierce regret as I looked away over the woods and meadows to the little ridge of hills beyond which lay Barns, and saw the fair landscape all bathed in spring sunshine. It was so still and peaceful that I felt a great desire to dwell there with Marjory in quiet, and have done forever with brawling and warfare. I had come home from the Low Countries with a longing for the plain country life of Tweeddale, such as I had been bred to. I was prepared in heart to get ready my fishing-rods and see to my guns, and begin again my long-loved sports. But harsh fate had decreed otherwise, and I was to fare forth like a partridge on the mountains, and taste the joys of the chase in a new manner. But at the thought my spirits rose again. I would love dearly to play a game of hide-and-go-seek with my cousin Gilbert, and so long as I had my sword and my wits about me, I did not fear. My one care was Marjory, and this, in truth, was a sore one. I cursed my cousin right heartily, and all his belongings, and vowed, deep down in my heart, to recompense him some day for all his doings.
It is true that all this while it lay open to me to brazen it out before His Majesty’s Council, and try to clear my name from guilt. But as the hours passed this method gr
ew more distasteful to me. There I should be in a strange place among enemies and scenes of which I knew nothing. Innocent though I might be, it was more than likely that I should find myself worsted. More, it seemed the gallanter thing to contest the matter alone among the hills, a fight between soldiers, with no solemn knaves to interfere. So by this time I had all but resolved on the course which my servant had first advised.
About twelve of the clock we saw a long figure slinking up the avenue, keeping well in the shade of the trees, and looking warily on all sides. I knew my man, and going down to the door, I set it open, and waited for his coming. Nor did I wait long. When he saw me he changed his walk for a trot, and came up breathing hard, like a hound which has had a long run. I led him into the dining-hall, and Marjory prepared for him food and drink. Never a word spoke he till he had satisfied his hunger. Then he pushed back his chair, and looking sadly at my lady, shook his head as though in dire confusion.
“A bonny bigging, Maister John,” he said, “but ye’ll sune hae to leave it.”
“That’s a matter on which I have waited for your coming,” said I, “but I would hear how you fared since I left you.”
“I’ve nae guid news,” he said sadly, “but such as they are ye maun e’en hear them.”
And this was the tale he told.
IV. — HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END
“WHEN you had gone oot,” began Nicol, “I just waited till I heard your footsteps gang oot o’ the yaird. Syne I gaed dounstairs to the landlord, whae is a decent, comfortable kind o’ man wi’ no muckle ill aboot him. I telled him that my maister was terrible unweel, and on no accoont maun be disturbit, but that he maun hae the room to himsel’ for the nicht. The man was verra vexed to hear aboot ye. ‘Sae young a chiel,’ says he, ‘it’s awfu’.’ So I got my will, and I kenned I wad be troubled by nae folk comin’ and speirin’ aboot the place. There was nae reason why I shouldna gang awa’ and leave the lawin’, but I had a kind o’ irkin’ to get anither glisk o’ the sodgers, so I e’en gaed into the room aside them.
“They were noo mair uproarious than afore. Nane were drunk, for ‘faith, the Captain wasna the man to let his men dae that, but a’ were geyan wild and carin’ little aboot their language. The Captain sits at the heid o’ the table sippin’ his toddy wi’ that dour stieve face o’ his that naething could move, and that ye think wad be ashamed to sae muckle as lauch. But Maister Veitch wasna like him. He was singin’ and roarin’ wi’ the loudest, and takin’ great wauchts frae the bowl, far mair than was guid for him.
“By and by he gets up on his feet.
“‘ A health to the Captain,’ he says. ‘Drink, lads, to the welfare o’ that most valiant soldier and gentleman, Captain Gilbert Burnet. Ye a’ ken the errand ye’ re come on, to lay hands on a rebel and take him to his proper place, and I drink to your guid success in the matter.’ And he lifts up his glass and spills some o’ it ower the table.
“At this there was a great uproar, and they a’ rose wi’ their glasses and cried on the Captain. He sat a’ the while wi’ a sort o’ scornfu’ smile on his face, as if he were half-pleased, but thocht little o’ the folk that pleased him.
“‘ I thank you,’ he says at last. ‘I thank you all, my men, for your good will. We have done well together in the past, and we’ll do better in time to come. I will prove to the rebel folk o’ this land that Gilbert Burnet will make them obey.’
“‘ Faith, Gilbert,’ says Maister Veitch, ‘hae ye no the grace to speak o’ your verra guid friend — I think ye’ re beholden to me for a hantle o’ your success.’
“The Captain looks at him wi’ a glint o’ guid humour. ‘No more, Michael,’ says he, ‘than the cook owes to the scullion. You do my dirty work.’
“‘ Dirty work, quotha,’ cried Maister Veitch, who was hot and flustered with wine. ‘I wouldna tak that from any other than yoursel’, Gilbert, and maybe no from you.’
“‘Take it or not, just as you please,’ said the Captain, scornfully. ‘It’s no concern o’ mine.’
“This angered the other, and he spoke up fiercely:
“‘ I am of as guid blood as yoursel’, Gilbert Burnet. Is a Tweeddale gentleman no as guid as a bit westland lairdie?”
“‘ Faith, that is too much,” says the Captain. ‘ Michael, I’ll make you answer for this yet.’ So he sat with lowered brows, while Maister Veitch, to a’ appearance, had forgotten the words he had spoken.
“In a little the Captain dismisses the men to their sleeping-quarters, and the pair were left alone, save for mysel’, whae being in the dark shadows near the door escaped the sicht o’ a’. The two gentlemen sat at the board eyeing each other with little love. By and by Gilbert speaks.
“‘ Ye called me a bit westland lairdie no long syne, Maister Veitch, if ye’ll be remembering.’
“The ither looks up. ‘And what if I did?’ says he. ‘Is’t no the fact—’
“‘That it’s no the fact I have a damned good mind to let you see,’ says the ither.
“Michael looks at him askance. ‘This is a gey queer way to treat your friends. I’ve done a’ in my power to aid you in a’ your pliskies. I’ve turned clean against the Laird o’ Barns, who never did me ony ill, a’ for the sake o’ you. And forbye that, I’ve done what I could to further your cause wi’ my sister, who is none so well inclined to you. And this is a’ the thanks I get for it, Gilbert?’
“I saw by the dour face o’ the Captain that he was mortal thrawn.
“‘And a’ the thanks ye are likely to get,’ says he. ‘Is’t no enough that a man o’ my birth and fame should be willing to mate wi’ one o’ your paltry house, a set o’ thieves and reivers wi’ no claim to honour save the exaltation o’ the gallows-rope? Gad, I think it’s a mighty favour that I should be so keen to take the lass from among you.’
“‘By Heaven, that is too much to swallow!’ said Maister Michael, as some sparks o’ proper feeling rose in him at last; and he struggled to his feet.
“The Captain also rose and looked at him disdainfully.
What would you do—’ said he. This,’ said the other, clean carried wi’ anger; and he struck him a ringing lick on the face.
“Gilbert went back a step, and (for his honour I say it) kept his wrath doun.
“‘ That’s a pity,’ says he; ‘that was a bad action o’ yours, Michael, as ye’ll soon ken. I’ll trouble ye to draw.’
“I hae felt vexed for mony folk in my life, but never for yin sae muckle as puir Maister Veitch. He reddened and stumbled and plucked his sword from its sheath. He was dazed wi’ wine and drowsiness, but his enemy made nocht o’ that.
“They crossed swirds and I watched them fall to. I was terrible feared, for I saw fine that the yin was as angry as a bull, the ither as helpless as a sheep.
It was against a’ decency to let sic a thing gang on, so I ran forrit and cried on them to stop. ‘D’ye no see the man’s fair helpless?’ I cried out; but they never seemed to hear me, but went at it as hard as ever.
“At first baith fought nane sae bad, for baith were braw swordsmen, and even in sic a plight Michael’s skill didna desert him. Gilbert, too, was quieter than was to be expectit. But of a sudden a wild fury seized him. ‘I’ll teach ye to speak ill o’ me and my house,’ he cried in a voice like thunder, and cam on like a storm o’ hail.
“Michael fell back and tried to defend himsel’. But the puir lad was sae dazed and foundered that frae the first he had nae chance. His blade wabbled at every guaird, and he never risked a cut. It was just like a laddie gettin’ his paiks frae a maister and keepin’ oft’ the clouts wi’ yae airm.
“And then he let his sword drop, whether wi’ weariness or no I canna tell, and stood glowrin’ afore him. The Captain never stopped. I dinna think he ettled it, for when he began I think he didna mean mair than to punish him for his words. But now he lunged clean and true. Nae sword kept it aft’, nae coat o’ mail wardit it, but deep into Michael’s breast it sank. Wi’ yae groan h
e fell back, and the breath gaed frae his body.
“I could hardly contain mysel wi’ rage and sorrow. At first I was for rinnin’ forrit and throttlin’ the man, but I got a glimpse o’ his face, and that keepit me.
It was dark as a thunder-clud, and regret and unquenched anger lookit oot o’ his een.
“‘ This is a black business,’ he says to himsel’, ‘a black damnable business. God knows I never meant to kill the fool.’ And he began to walk up and down wi’ his heid on his breast.
“I felt that I had seen eneuch. My whole hert was sick wi’ the peety o’ the thing, and forbye it was time for me to be going if I was ever to win to Tweedside. So I slips frae the house, which was still quiet, for naebody kenned o’ the deed, and far away somewhere I heard the lilt o’ a sodger’s song. I sped doun the Harbour Walk and syne into Embro’, as though the deil were ahint me. When I won to Auchendinny it was aboot three in the mornin’, and I made a’ the haste I could. I think I maun hae run a’ the road frae there to Leidburn. Then I took ower the Cloch hills and doun by Harehope and the Meldons. I crossed Lyne abune the Brig, and came doun Stobo burn, and here I am. I never met a soul for good or ill, so the land’s quieter thereaways than folk make it oot. But doun by the Eddleston Water there’s a geyan nest o’ sodgers, so ye’ve nae time to lose. Laird, if ye wad win to the hills.”
When I turned to Marjory at the close of this tale she was weeping silently; yet there was little bitterness in her tears. Her brother had, after all, made a better end than one could have guessed from his life. Indeed, I had small cause to feel kindness to him, for he had betrayed his trust, and had been the author of all the ills which had come upon my mistress. But for her sake I was sad.
“Marjory,” I said, “I have many scores to settle with my cousin, for all his life he has done me ill, and the time will come when I shall pay them. I will add this to the others. Be assured, dear, that your brother shall not be unavenged.”