John Burnet of Barns Part 16

I knew well that I had little time to lose, and that what must be done must be done quickly. So as soon as the tails of them were round the hillside, I came out from my hiding-place and mounted Maisie once more.

I thanked the landlord, and with a cry that I would remember him if I ever got my affairs righted again, I turned sharply through the burn and down the path to Peebles. It was touch or miss with me, for it was unlikely that the highway between the west country and the vale of Peebles would be freed from the military.

Yet freed it was. It may have been that the folk of Tweedside were little caring about any religion, and most unlike the dour carles of the Westlands, or it may have been that they were not yet stirring. At any rate I pa.s.sed unmolested. I struck straight for the ridge of Dreva, and rounding it, faced the long valley of Tweed, with Rachan woods and Drummelzier haughs and the level lands of Stobo. Far down lay the forest of Dawyck, black as ink on the steep hillside. Down by the Tweed I rode, picking my way very carefully among the marshes, and guarding the deep black moss-holes which yawned in the meadows. Here daybreak came upon us, the first early gleam of light, tingling in the east, and changing the lucent darkness of the moonlit night to a shadowy grey sunrise. Sc.r.a.pe raised his bald forehead above me, and down the glen I had a glimpse of the jagged peaks of the s.h.i.+eldgreen Kips, showing sharp against the red dawn. In a little I was at the avenue of Dawyck, and rode up the green sward, with the birds twittering in the coppice, eager to see my love.

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 la.s.s, 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 pa.s.sage," 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 la.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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, la.s.s," 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 weatherc.o.c.k, 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 G.o.d 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 ident.i.ty or my present harbour. So for the meantime I was safe to meditate on the future.

Marjory, woman-like, was a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 suns.h.i.+ne. 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 fis.h.i.+ng-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 pa.s.sed this method grew 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.

CHAPTER 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 acc.o.o.nt 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 gla.s.s and spills some o' it ower the table.

"At this there was a great uproar, and they a' rose wi' their gla.s.ses 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.