by John Buchan
CHAPTER VIII.
HOW I SET THE SIGNAL.
When I set out to write this history in the English tongue, that none of myown house might read it, I did not know the hard task that lay before me.For if I were writing it in my own language, I could tell the niceties ofmy feelings in a way which is impossible for me in any other. And, indeed,to make my conduct intelligible, I should forthwith fall to telling eachshade of motive and impulse which came to harass my mind. But I am littleskilled in this work, so I must needs recount only the landmarks of mylife, or I should never reach the end.
I slept ill that night, and at earliest daylight was awake and dressing.The full gravity of the case was open to me now, and you may guess that mymind was no easy one. I went down to the sitting room, where the remains ofthe last night's supper still lay on the table. The white morning lightmade all things clear and obtrusive, and I remember wishing that the lampwas lit again and the shutters closed. But in a trice all meditations werecast to the winds, for I heard the door at the back of the house flungviolently open and the sound of a man's feet on the kitchen floor.
I knew that I was the only one awake in the house, so with much haste Ipassed out of the room to ascertain who the visitor might be. In the centerof the back room stood a great, swart man, shaking the rain from hisclothes and hair, and waiting like one about to give some message. When hesaw me he took a step forward, scanned me closely, and then waited myquestion.
"Who in the devil's name are you?" I asked angrily, for I was half amazedand half startled by his sudden advent.
"In the Lord's name I am Andrew Gibb," he responded solemnly.
"And what's your errand?" I asked further.
"Bide a wee and you'll hear. You'll be the foreigner whae stops at themanse the noo?"
"Go on," I said shortly.
"Thae twae sants, Maister Lambert and Maister Semple, 'ill ha'e made somekind o' covenant wi' you? At ony rate, hear my news and dae your best.Their hidy-hole at the heid o' the Stark Water's been betrayed, and unlessthey get warning it'll be little you'll hear mair o' them. I've aye beentheir freend, so I cam' here to do my pairt by them."
"Are you one of the hill-men?"
"Na, na! God forbid! I'm a douce, quiet-leevin' man, and I'd see the Kirkrummle aboot their lugs ere I'd stir my shanks frae my ain fireside. ButI'm behauden to the minister for the life o' my bairn, whilk is ower lang astory for ye to hear; and to help him I would rin frae Maidenkirk toBerwick. So I've aye made it my wark to pick up ony word o' scaith that wascomin' to him, and that's why I'm here the day. Ye've heard my news richt,ye're shure?"
"I've heard your news. Will you take any food before you leave?"
"Na; I maun be off to be back in time for the kye."
"Well, good-day to you, Andrew Gibb," I said, and in a minute the man wasgone.
Now, here I must tell what I omitted to tell in a former place--that whenthe exiles took to the hills they bade me, if I heard any word of danger totheir hiding-place, to go by a certain path, which they pointed out, to acertain place, and there overturn a little cairn of stones. This was to bea signal to them for instant movement. I knew nothing of the place of theirretreat, and for this reason could swear on my oath with an easyconscience; but this scrap of enlightenment I had, a scrap of momentousimport for both life and death.
I turned back to the parlor in a fine confusion of mind. By some means orother the task which was now before me had come to seem singularlydisagreeable. The thought of my entertainers--I am ashamed to write it--wasa bitter thought. I had acquired a reasonless dislike to them. What causehad they, I asked, to be crouching in hill-caves and first getting honestgentlemen into delicate and difficult positions, and then troubling themwith dangerous errands. Then there was the constant vision of the maid tovex me. This was the sorest point of all. For, though I blush to own it,the sight of her was not altogether unpleasing to me; nay, to put itpositively, I had come almost to feel an affection for her. She was sowhite and red and golden, all light and gravity, with the shape of aprincess, the mien of a goddess, and, for all I knew the heart of adancing-girl. She carried with her the air of comfort and gayety, and thevery thought of her made me shrink from the dark moors and ill-bodingerrand as from the leprosy.
There is in every man a latent will, apart altogether from that which heuses in common life, which is apt at times to assert itself when he leastexpects it. Such was my honor, for lo! I found myself compelled by aninexorable force to set about the performance of my duty. I take no creditfor it, since I was only half willing, my grosser inclination being allagainst it. But something bade me do it, calling me poltroon, coward,traitor, if I refused; so ere I left the kitchen I had come to a fixeddecision.
To my wonder, at the staircase foot I met Anne, dressed, but with her hairall in disorder. I stood booted and cloaked and equipped for the journey,and at the sight of me her face filled with surprise.
"Where away so early, John?" says she.
"Where away so early, Mistress Anne?" said I.
"Ah, I slept ill, and came down to get the morning air." I noted that hereyes were dull and restless, and I do believe that the poor maid had had asorry night of it. A sharp fear at my heart told me the cause.
"Anne," I said sullenly, "I am going on a hard errand, and I entreat you tokeep out of harm's way till I return."
"And what is your errand, pray?" she asked.
"Nothing less than to save the lives of your father and your lover. I havehad word from a secret source of a great danger which overhangs them, andby God's help I would remove it."
At my word a light, half angry and half pathetic, came to her eyes. Itpassed like a sungleam, and in its place was left an expression of colddistaste.
"Then God prosper you," she said, in a formal tone, and with a whisk of herskirts she was gone.
I strode out into the open with my heart the battlefield of a myriadcontending passions.
I reached the hill, overturned the cairn, and set out on my homeward way,hardly giving but one thought to the purport of my errand or the twofugitives whom it was my mission to save, so filled was my mind with my owntrouble. The road home was long and arduous; and more, I had to creep oftenlike an adder lest I should be spied and traced by some chance dragoon. Theweather was dull and cold, and a slight snow, the first token of winter,sprinkled the moor. The heather was wet, the long rushes dripped andshivered, and in the little trenches the peat-water lay black as ink. Asmell of damp hung over all things, an odor of rotten leaves and soakedearth. The heavy mist rolled in volumes close to the ground and choked meas I bent low. Every little while I stumbled into a bog, and foullybedaubed my clothes. I think that I must have strayed a little from thestraight path, for I took near twice as long to return as to go. A swollenstream delayed me, for I had to traverse its bank for a mile ere I couldcross.
In truth, I cannot put down on paper my full loathing of the place. I hadhated the moors on my first day's journey, but now I hated them with atenfold hatred. For each whiff of sodden air, each spit of chill rainbrought back to my mind all the difficulty of my present state. Then I hadalways the vision of Anne sitting at home by the fire, warm, clean, anddainty, the very counter of the foul morasses in which I labored, and wherethe men I had striven to rescue were thought to lie hidden. My loathing wasso great that I could scarce find it in my heart to travel the weary milesto the manse, every step being taken solely on the fear of remainingbehind. To make it worse, there would come to vex me old airs of France,airs of childhood and my adventurous youth, fraught for me with memories ofgay nights and brave friends. I own that I could have wept to think of themand find myself all the while in this inhospitable desert.
'Twould be near mid-day, I think, when I came to the manse door, glad thatmy journey was ended. Anne let me in, and in a moment all was changed. Thefire crackled in the room, and the light danced on the great volumes on theshelves. The gray winter was shut out and a tranquil summer reigned within.Anne, like a Lent lily, so fair was s
he, sat sewing by the hearth.
"You are returned," she said coldly.
"I am returned," I said severely, for her callousness to the danger of herfather was awful to witness, though in my heart of hearts I could not havewished it otherwise. As she sat there, with her white arms moving athwarther lap, and her hair tossed over her shoulders, I could have clasped herto my heart. Nay, I had almost done so, had I not gripped my chair, and satwith pale face and dazed eyes till the fit had passed. I have told you erenow how my feelings toward Anne had changed from interest to something notunlike a passionate love. It had been a thing of secret growth, and Iscarcely knew it till I found myself in the midst of it. I tried to smotherit hourly, when my better nature was in the ascendant, and hourly I wasoverthrown in the contest I fought against terrible odds. 'Twas not hardto see from her longing eyes and timorous conduct that to her I was thegreater half of the world. I had but to call to her and she would come. Andyet--God knows how I stifled that cry.
At length I rose and strode out into the garden to cool my burning head.The sleet was even grateful to me, and I bared my brow till hair and skinwere wet with the rain. Down by the rows of birch trees I walked, past therough ground where the pot-herbs were grown, till I came to the shady greenlawn. Up and down it I passed, striving hard with my honor and my love,fighting that battle which all must fight some time or other in theirlives and be victorious or vanquished forever.
Suddenly, to my wonder, I saw a face looking at me from beneath a tuft ofelderberry.
I drew back, looked again, and at the second glance I recognized it. 'Twasthe face of Master Henry Temple of Clachlands--and the hills.
'Twas liker the face of a wild goat than a man. The thin features stood outso strongly that all the rest seemed to fall back from them. The long,ragged growth of hair on lip and chin, and the dirt on his cheeks, made himunlike my friend of the past. But the memorable change was in his eyes,which glowed large and lustrous, with the whites greatly extended, and alltinged with a yellow hue. Fear and privation had done their work, andbefore me stood their finished product.
"Good Heavens, Henry! What brings you here, and how have you fared?"
He stared at me without replying, which I noted as curious.
"Where is Anne?" he asked huskily.
"She is in the house, well and unscathed. Shall I call her to you?"
"Nay, for God's sake, nay! I am no pretty sight for a young maid. You sayshe is well?"
"Ay, very well. But how is the minister?"
"Alas, he is all but gone. The chill has entered his bones, and even now hemay be passing. The child will soon be an orphan."
"And you?"
"Oh, I am no worse than the others on whom the Lord's hand is laid. Thereis a ringing in my head and a pain at my heart, but I am still hale and fitto testify to the truth. Oh, man, 'twill ill befa' those in the day ofjudgment who eat the bread of idleness and dwell in peace in thae wearytimes."
"Come into the house; or nay, I will fetch you food and clothing."
"Nay, bring nought for me. I would rather live in rags and sup on a crustthan be habited in purple and fare sumptuously. I ask ye but one thing: letthe maid walk in the garden that I may see her. And, oh, man! I thank yefor your kindness to me and mine. I pray the Lord ilka night to think on yehere."
I could not trust myself to speak.
"I will do as you wish," I said, and without another word set off sharplyfor the house.
I entered the sitting room wearily, and flung myself on a chair. Anne satsewing as before. She started as I entered, and I saw the color rise to hercheeks and brow.
"You are pale, my dear," I said; "the day is none so bad, and 'twould doyou no ill to walk round the garden to the gate. I have just been there,and, would you believe it, the grass is still wondrous green."
She rose demurely and obediently as if my word were the law of her life.
"Pray bring me a sprig of ivy from the gate-side," I cried after her,laughing, "to show me that you have been there."
I sat and kicked my heels till her return in a miserable state ofimpatience. I could not have refused to let the man see his own betrothed,but God only knew what desperate act he might do. He might spring out andclasp her in his arms; she, I knew, had not a shred of affection left forhim; she would be cold and resentful; he would suspect, and then--what anend there might be to it all! I longed to hear the sound of her returningfootsteps.
She came in soon, and sat down in her wonted chair by the fire.
"There's your ivy, John," said she; "'tis raw and chilly in the garden, andI love the fireside better."
"'Tis well," I thought, "she has not seen Master Semple." Now I could notsuffer him to depart without meeting him again, partly out of pity for theman, partly to assure my own mind that no harm would come of it. So Ifeigned an errand and went out.
I found him, as I guessed, still in the elder-bush, a tenfold strangersight than before. His eyes burned uncannily. His thin cheeks seemed almosttransparent with the tension of the bones, and he chewed his lipsunceasingly. At the sight of me he came out and stood before me, as wild afigure as I ever hope to see--clothes in tatters, hair unkempt, and skinall foul with the dirt of the moors. His back was bowed, and his kneesseemed to have lost all strength, for they tottered against one another. Iprayed that his sufferings might not have turned him mad.
At the first word he spake I was convinced of it.
"I have seen her, I have seen her!" he cried. "She is more fair than afountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon. Oh,I have dreamed of her by night among the hills, and seen her face close tome and tried to catch it, but 'twas gone. Oh, man, John, get down on yourknees, and pray to God to make you worthy to have the charge of such atreasure. Had the Lord not foreordained that she should be mine, I shouldne'er have lifted up my eyes to her, for who am I?"
"For God's sake, man," I broke in, "tell me where you are going, and beabout it quick, for you may be in instant danger."
"Ay," says he, "you are right. I must be gone. I have seen enough. I maunaway to the deserts and caves of the rocks, and it may be lang, lang ere Icome back. But my love winna forget me. Na, na; the Lord hath appointedunto me that I shall sit at his right hand on the last, the great day, andshe shall be by my side. For oh, she is the only one of her mother; she isthe choice one of her that bare her; the daughters saw her and blessedher; yea, the queens and concubines, and they praised her." And with somelike gibberish from the Scriptures he disappeared through the bushes, andnext minute I saw him running along the moor toward the hills.
These were no love-sick ravings, but the wild cries of a madman, one whosereason had gone forever. I walked back slowly to the house. It seemedalmost profane to think of Anne, so wholesome and sane, in the same thoughtas this foul idiot; and yet this man had been once as whole in mind andbody as myself; he had suffered in a valiant cause; and I was bound to himby the strongest of all bonds--my plighted word. I groaned inwardly as Ishut the house-door behind me and entered into the arena of my struggles.