by John Buchan
CHAPTER VI.
IDLE DAYS.
I have heard it said by wise folk in France that the autumn is of allseasons of the year the most trying to the health of a soldier; since, forone accustomed to the heat of action and the fire and fury of swiftencounter, the decay of summer, the moist, rotting air, and the first chillpreludes of winter are hard to stand. This may be true of our own autumndays, but in the north country 'twas otherwise. For there the weather wasas sharp and clear as spring, and the only signs of the season were the redleaves and the brown desolate moors. Lindean was built on the slope of thehills, with the steeps behind it, and a vista of level land to the front:so one could watch from the window the red woods of the low country, andsee the stream, turgid with past rains, tearing through the meadows. Thesun rose in the morning in a blaze of gold and crimson; the days weretemperately warm, the afternoons bright, and the evening another processionof colors. 'Twas all so beautiful that I found it hard to keep my thoughtsat all on the wanderers in the hills and to think of the house as under adark shadow.
And if 'twas hard to do this, 'twas still harder to look upon Anne as amourning daughter. For the first few days she had been pale and silent,going about her household duties as was her wont, speaking rarely, and thenbut to call me to meals. But now the pain of the departure seemed to havegone, and though still quiet as ever, there was no melancholy in her air;but with a certain cheerful gravity she passed in and out in my sight. Atfirst I had had many plans to console her; judge then of my delight to findthem needless. She was a brave maid, I thought, and little like thecommon, who could see the folly of sighing, and set herself to hope andwork as best she could.
The days passed easily enough for me, for I could take Saladin and ridethrough the countryside, keeping always far from Clachlands; or the booksin the house would stand me in good stead for entertainment. With theevenings 'twas different. When the lamp was lit, and the fire burned, 'twashard to find some method to make the hours go by. I am not a man easilymoved, as I have said; and yet I took shame to myself to think of theminister and Master Henry in the cold bogs, and Anne and myself before agreat blaze. Again and again I could have kicked the logs off to ease myconscience, and was only held back by respect for the girl. But, of asurety, if she had but given me the word, I would have been content to sitin the fireless room and enjoy the approval of my heart.
She played no chess; indeed, I do not believe there was a board in thehouse; nor was there any other sport wherewith to beguile the longevenings. Reading she cared little for, and but for her embroidery work Iknow not what she would have set her hand to. So, as she worked with herthreads I tried to enliven the time with some account of my adventures inpast days, and some of the old gallant tales with which I was familiar. Sheheard me gladly, listening as no comrade by the tavern-board ever listened;and though, for the sake of decency, I was obliged to leave out many of themore diverting, yet I flatter myself I won her interest and made the timeless dreary. I ranged over all my own experience and the memory of thosetales which I had heard from others--and those who know anything of me knowthat that is not small. I told her of exploits in the Indies and Spain, inGermany and the Low Countries, and in far Muscovy, and 'twas no littlepleasure to see her eager eyes dance and sparkle at a jest, or grow sad ata sorrowful episode. _Ma vie!_ She had wonderful eyes--the most wonderful Ihave ever seen. They were gray in the morning and brown at noonday; nowsparkling, but for the most part fixedly grave and serene. 'Twas for sucheyes, I fancy, that men have done all the temerarious deeds concerningwomankind which history records.
It must not be supposed that our life was a lively one, or aughtapproaching gayety. The talking fell mostly to my lot, for she had a greathabit of silence, acquired from her lonely dwelling-place. Yet I moved hermore than once to talk about herself.
I heard of her mother, a distant cousin of Master Semple's father; of herdeath when Anne was but a child of seven; and of the solitary years since,spent in study under her father's direction, in household work, or in actsof mercy to the poor. She spoke of her father often, and always in such away that I could judge of a great affection between them. Of her lover Inever heard, and, now that I think the matter over, 'twas no more thanfitting. Once, indeed, I stumbled upon his name by chance in the course oftalk, but as she blushed and started, I vowed to fight shy of it everafter.
As we knew well before, no message from the hills could be sent, since themoors were watched as closely as the gateway of a prison. This added to theunpleasantness of the position of each of us. In Anne's case there was theharassing doubt about the safety of her kinsfolk, that sickening anxietywhich saps the courage even of strong men. Also, it rendered my duties tentimes harder. For, had there been any communication between the father orthe lover and the maid, I should have felt less like a St. Anthony in thedesert. As it was, I had to fight with a terrible sense of responsibilityand unlimited power for evil, and God knows how hard that is for anyChristian to strive with. 'Twould have been no very hard thing to shutmyself in a room, or bide outside all day, and never utter a word to Annesave only the most necessary; but I was touched by the girl's lonelinessand sorrows, and, moreover, I conceived it to be a strange way of executinga duty, to flee from it altogether. I was there to watch over her, and Iswore by the Holy Mother to keep the very letter of my oath.
And so the days dragged by till September was all but gone. I have alwaysloved the sky and the vicissitudes of weather, and to this hour theimpression of these autumn evenings is clear fixed on my mind. Strangelyenough for that north country, they were not cold, but mild, with a sort ofacrid mildness; a late summer, with the rigors of winter underlying, like asilken glove over a steel gauntlet.
One such afternoon I remember, when Anne sat busy at some needlework on thelow bench by the door, and I came and joined her. She had wonderful graceof body, and 'twas a pleasure to watch every movement of her arm as shestitched. I sat silently regarding the landscape, the woods streaking thebare fields, the thin outline of hills beyond, the smoke rising fromClachlands' chimneys, and above all, the sun firing the great pool in theriver, and flaming among clouds in the west. Something of the spirit of theplace seemed to have entered into the girl, for she laid aside herneedlework after a while and gazed with brimming eyes on the scene. So wesat, feasting our eyes on the picture, each thinking strange thoughts, Idoubt not. By and by she spoke.
"Is France, that you love so well, more beautiful than this, M. deRohaine?" she asked timidly.
"Ay, more beautiful, but not like this; no, not like this."
"And what is it like? I have never seen any place other than this."
"Oh, how shall I tell of it?" I cried. "Tis more fair than words. We haveno rough hills like these, nor torrents like the Lin there; but there is agreat broad stream by Rohaine, as smooth as a mill-pond, where you can rowin the evenings, and hear the lads and lasses singing love songs. Thenthere are great quiet meadows, where the kine browse, where the air is sostill that one can sleep at a thought. There are woods, too--ah! suchwoods--stretching up hill, and down dale, as green as spring can makethem, with long avenues where men may ride; and, perhaps, at the heart ofall, some old chateau, all hung with vines and creepers, where the peachesripen on the walls and the fountain plashes all the summer's day. Bah! Ican hardly bear to think on it, 'tis so dear and home-like;" and I turnedaway suddenly, for I felt my voice catch in my throat.
"What hills are yonder?" I asked abruptly, to hide my feelings.
Anne looked up.
"The hills beyond the little green ridge you mean?" she says. "That will beover by Eskdalemuir and the top of the Ettrick Water. I have heard myfather speak often of them, for they say that many of the godly findshelter there."
"Many of the godly!"
I turned round sharply, though what there was in the phrase to cause wonderI cannot see. She spoke but as she had heard the men of her house speak;yet the words fell strangely on my ears, for by a curious process ofthinking I had already begun to
separate the girl from the rest of the folkin the place, and look on her as something nearer in sympathy to myself.Faugh? that is not the way to put it. I mean that she had listened so muchto my tales that I had all but come to look upon her as a countrywoman ofmine.
"Are you dull here, Anne?" I asked, for I had come to use the familiarname, and she in turn would sometimes call me Jean--and very prettily itsat on her tongue. "Do you never wish to go elsewhere and see the world?"
"Nay," she said. "I had scarce thought about the world at all. Tis a placeI have little to do with, and I am content to dwell here forever, if it beGod's will. But I should love to see your France, that you speak of."
This seemed truly a desire for gratifying which there was little chance;so I changed the subject of our converse, and asked her if she ever sang.
"Ay, I have learned to sing two or three songs, old ballads of thecountryside, for though my father like it little, Henry takes a pleasure inhearing them. I will sing you one if you wish it." And when I bade her doso, she laid down her work, which she had taken up again, and broke into acurious plaintive melody. I cannot describe it. 'Twould be as easy todescribe the singing of the wind in the tree-tops. It minded me, I cannottell how, of a mountain burn, falling into pools and rippling over littleshoals of gravel. Now 'twas full and strong, and now 'twas so eerie andwild that it was more like a curlew's note than any human thing. The storywas about a knight who sailed to Norway on some king's errand and neverreturned, and of his lady who waited long days at home, weeping for him whoshould never come back to her. I did not understand it fully, for 'twas inan old patois of the country, but I could feel its beauty. When she hadfinished the tears stood in my eyes, and I thought of the friends I hadleft, whom I might see no more.
But when I looked at her, to my amazement, there was no sign of feeling inher face.
"'Tis a song I have sung often," she said, "but I do not like it. 'Tis nobetter than the ringing of a bell at a funeral."
"Then," said I, wishing to make her cheerful, "I will sing you a gay songof my own country. The folk dance to it on the Sunday nights at Rohaine,when blind Rene' plays the fiddle." So I broke into the "May song," withits lilting refrain.
Anne listened intently, her face full of pleasure, and at the second verseshe began to beat the tune with her foot. She, poor thing, had neverdanced, had never felt the ecstasy of motion; but since all mankind isalike in nature, her blood stirred at the tune. So I sang her anotherchanson, this time an old love ballad, and then again a war song. But bythis time the darkness was growing around us, so we must needs re-enter thehouse; and as I followed I could hear her humming the choruses with acurious delight.
"So ho, Mistress Anne," thought I, "you are not the little country mousethat I had thought you, but as full of spirit as a caged hawk. Faith, thetown would make a brave lass of you, were you but there!"
From this hour I may date the beginning of the better understanding--Imight almost call it friendship--between the two of us. She had been bredamong moorland solitudes, and her sole companions had been solemn prayingfolk; yet, to my wonder, I found in her a nature loving gayety and mirth,songs and bright colors--a grace which her grave deportment did but themore set off. So she came soon to look at me with a kindly face, doinglittle acts of kindness every now and then in some way or other, which Itook to be the return which she desired to make for my clumsy efforts toplease her.