*CHAPTER XXXIII*
*THE GOING OF HECTOR*
September came with all its golden glory and each day Hector became moreand more restless. When the month was half sped he left us. Onemorning on our way home to the cave after a busy night of harvesting hesaid:
"I'm gaun the nicht." And though I urged upon him that he could nothave chosen a worse time, since we had many fields yet to cut, I failedto dissuade him from his purpose. "No," he said, "I can bide naelanger. The fever is in my bluid, and there's nae cure for it but theroad."
When night came I accompanied him down the course of the linn and on tothe high road. At the last he laid many injunctions upon me, the chiefbeing to take care of our companion in the cave.
"He's a guid man," he said, "but a thochtless. I blame mysel' yet forthe crack I gi'ed him on the heid. It seems tae ha'e left him a bitconfused. Ye'll tak' care o' him."
When the moment of parting came he took off his bonnet, and gripping mefervently by the hand said:
"I'll be back ere lang, but if I dinna return, I should like ye noo andthen to gie a kindly thocht to the memory o' the packman. Maybe I mayfind a grave under the open sky on the purple moorland; and if that bemy lot and ye should be spared for happier days and can fin' the placewhere I lie, maybe ye'll see that my cairn is no' left withoot a name.But dinna be carvin' ony extravagant eulogy on the stane. Juist put thewords 'Hector the packman.' That'll be enough for me--but it's theprood man I wad be, lying in the mools beneath, if ye wad add a line ortwa o' Latin juist to let the unborn generations ken that I was ascholar. There are twa bit legends that come ready to my min'; ane is,
"Sciro potestates herbarum usumque medendi Maluit, et mutas agitare inglorius artes.
'He was skilly in the knowledge o' herbs and o' their healing powers,and wi' nae thocht o' higher glory he liked to practise that quietart'--that's frae Virgil, as ye will nae doot remember an' of courserefers to my salve. But there's anither word frae my auld frien'Horace; it's a fit epitaph for a man like me wha's life has never beenwhat it micht ha'e been:
"... Amphora coepit Institui: currente rota cur urceus exit?
'The potter was minded to make a bonnie vessel; why does naething but abotchery come frae the running wheel?'"
Before I could make a fitting reply he dropped my hand and left me. Istood in the dusk watching him go. He glided into the shadows and soonhe had become as incorporeal as one of them. With a sense of desolationupon me, I made for the field where my night's task awaited me, andlaboured steadily till the dawn.
As I made my way back to the cave I could not help wondering whereHector might be.
There had been something almost ominous in the manner of his parting.Had he felt the shadow hovering over him?--or was his farewell and hisreference to his possible death nothing more than an expression of hiscuriously sentimental nature?
I could not decide: but I trusted that his natural caution and hismother-wit, of which I knew something, would carry him safely through.
Consoling myself with this thought, I entered the wood and proceeded tomake my way up the bed of the stream.
A week or two passed undisturbed by any eventful happening. Night afternight I continued my work in the fields. More than once the ministerjoined me, lending me what aid he could. But his spirit was greaterthan his strength, and at last I had to ask him for his own sake, andfor the sake of those who counted upon his ministrations, to reserve hisenergies for their own special work. Recognising his physicallimitations, he took my advice.
"Maybe," he said, "you're right. Perhaps it was given to me to be asower only, and not a harvester. The fields you are reaping were sown byother hands than yours, and mayhap the ripe fruit which in the goodProvidence of God may spring from the seed I have sown will be gatheredby other hands than mine. But it matters little. The thing is to sowhonestly and to reap faithfully, so that at the end of the day when wego home for our wages we may win the Master Harvester's 'Well done.'"
Even had he been physically capable of doing useful work in the fields,it would have been unfair to expect him to do it at this time. His dayswere already full. He was making preparations for a great Conventicle tobe held among the Closeburn hills early in October. It was to be a veryspecial occasion--a gathering together of all the faithful to unite inthat simple love feast which has inspired with fresh courage andinflamed with new devotion men and women throughout the ages. It was abrave, a hazardous thing to venture on.
I was more than a little uplifted when he honoured me by asking me if Iwould care to be a sentinel.
His request touched me deeply, and I felt that Mary was smiling upon mewith radiant eyes out of the unknown.
A few more days elapsed. Another Sunday came and went, the last beforethe great occasion. I had spent the day in the coolness of the cave,and the minister had been out about his spiritual duties. I stole outand sitting on the ledge above the pool sat dreaming in the twilight.Far off in the fields beyond the wood I heard a corncrake rasping outhis raucous notes. There was a twitter of birds in the trees above meas they settled down to sleep.
As I sat there I was joined by Mr. Corsane, who came through the narrowdefile below the pool. He looked weary and somewhat distraught; butthough I surmised that some anxiety oppressed him, he did not offer toshare it with me, so I held my peace. Soon he retired to rest and whenmidnight came I set off to my labours. I did not see him on my returnto the cave in the morning, nor had he come back by evening when I leftagain. But when on the morning of Tuesday I came in sight of the pool,I discovered him waiting for me on the ledge outside the cave. He hailedme at once:
"I have been watching anxiously for your return. I am in soreperplexity."
"Can I help you, sir?" I asked.
"If I were younger," he replied, "and could perform the task myself, Iwould gladly do it; but it is past my power. It is an urgentmatter--for it concerns the safety of one dear to me and very preciousto the Cause."
"Command me," I exclaimed. "I am ready to do anything I can; only tellme how I may help."
"I have a friend in Edinburgh," he said, "Peter Burgess by name. Hislife is in danger. I must get a message to him ere Friday. Will youtake it?"
"Gladly," I cried. "Trust me--and all the persecutors in Scotland shallnot prevent me."
A smile flickered upon his face. "That is a reckless boast," he said."But I trust you, and thank you."
"I am ready to start at once," I said.
"What?" he exclaimed. "Weary as you are!"
"Certainly," I answered, "one must needs haste. I'll have a plunge inthe pool while you write your letter, and after a mouthful of food, I'llbe off."
By the time I had bathed and eaten, his message was ready, and with afew last words of instruction I was about to set off. But he called meback.
"Have a care to your goings, my son. Be wary! be brave! I trust youwill succeed in reaching my friend ere it is too late; but you cannot beback in time for the great Assembly on Sabbath. I shall miss you."
He raised his hand in blessing, and, secreting the letter about me, Iturned, and was gone.
Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times Page 33
