Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  At his words Master Semple had started as under a lash. “Oh, my God,” he cried, “I had forgotten! Anne, Anne, my dearie, we canna leave ye, and you to be my wife. This is a sore trial of faith, sir, and I misdoubt I canna stand it. To leave ye to the tender mercies o’ a’ the hell-hounds o’ dragoons — ­oh, I canna dae’t!”

  He clapped his hand to his forehead and walked about the room like a man distraught.

  And now I put in my word. “What ails you, Henry? Tell me, for I am sore grieved to see you in such perplexity.”

  “Ails me?” he repeated. “Aye, I will tell ye what ails me”; and he drew his chair before me. “Andrew Gibb’s come ower frae the Ruthen wi’ shure news that a warrant’s oot against us baith, for being at the preaching on Callowa’ Muir. ‘Twas an enemy did it, and now the soldiers are coming at ony moment to lay hands on us and take us off to Embro’. Then there’ll be but a short lease of life for us; and unless we take to the hills this very nicht we may be ower late in the morning. I’m wae to tak’ sae auld a man as Master Lambert to wet mosses, but there’s nothing else to be dune. But what’s to become o’ Anne? Whae’s to see to her, when the dragoons come riding and cursing about the toon? Oh, it’s a terrible time, John. Pray to God, if ye never prayed before, to let it pass.”

  Mademoiselle had meantime spoken never a word, but had risen and gone to her father’s chair and put her arms around his neck. Her presence seemed to cheer the old man, for he ceased mourning and looked up, while she sat, still as a statue, with her grave, lovely face against his. But Master Semple’s grief was pitiful to witness. He rocked himself to and fro in his chair, with his arms folded and a set, white face. Every now and then he would break into a cry like a stricken animal. The elder man was the first to counsel patience.

  “Stop, Henry,” says he; “it’s ill-befitting Christian folk to set sic an example. We’ve a’ got our troubles, and if ours are heavier than some, it’s no’ for us to complain. Think o’ the many years o’ grace we’ve had. There’s nae doubt the Lord will look after the bairn, for he’s a guid Shepherd for the feckless.”

  But now of a sudden a thought seemed to strike Henry, and he was on his feet in a twinkling and by my side.

  “John,” he almost screamed in my ear, “John, I’m going to ask ye for the greatest service that ever man asked. Ye’ll no’ say me nay?”

  “Let me hear it,” said I.

  “Will you bide wi’ the lass? You’re a man o’ birth, and I’ll swear to it, a man o’ honor. I can trust you as I would trust my ain brither. Oh, man, dinna deny me! It’s the last hope I ha’e, for if ye refuse, we maun e’en gang to the hills and leave the puir thing alane. Oh, ye canna say me nae! Tell me that ye’ll do my asking.”

  I was so thunderstruck at the request that I scarce could think for some minutes. Consider, was it not a strange thing to be asked to stay alone in a wild moorland house with another man’s betrothed, for Heaven knew how many weary days? My life and prospects were none so cheerful for me to despise anything, nor so varied that I might pick and choose; but yet ‘twas dreary, if no worse, to look forward to any length of time in this desolate place. I was grateful for the house as a shelter by the way, yet I hoped to push on and get rid, as soon as might be, of this accursed land.

  But was I not bound by all the ties of gratitude to grant my host’s request? They had found me fainting at their door, they had taken me in, and treated me to their best; I was bound in common honor to do something to requite their kindness. And let me add, though not often a man subject to any feelings of compassion, whatever natural bent I had this way having been spoiled in the wars, I nevertheless could not refrain from pitying the distress of that strong man before me. I felt tenderly toward him, more so than I had felt to anyone for many a day.

  All these thoughts raced through my head in the short time while Master Henry stood before me. The look in his eyes, the pained face of the old man, and the sight of Anne, so fair and helpless, fixed my determination.

  “I am bound to you in gratitude,” said I, “and I would seek to repay you. I will bide in the house, if so you will, and be the maid’s protector. God grant I may be faithful to my trust, and may he send a speedy end to your exile?”

  So ‘twas all finished in a few minutes, and I was fairly embarked upon the queerest enterprise of my life. For myself I sat dazed and meditative; as for the minister and Master Semple, one-half of the burden seemed to be lifted from their minds. I was amazed at the trusting natures of these men, who had habited all their days with honest folk till they conceived all to be as worthy as themselves. I felt, I will own, a certain shrinking from the responsibility of the task; but the Rubicon had been crossed and there was no retreat.

  * * * * *

  Of the rest of that night how shall I tell? There was such a bustling and pother as I had never seen in any house since the day that my brother Denis left Rohaine for the Dutch wars. There was a running and scurrying about, a packing of food, a seeking of clothes, for the fugitives must be off before the first light. Anne went about with a pale, tearful face; and ‘twas a matter of no surprise, for to see a father, a man frail and fallen in years, going out to the chill moorlands in the early autumn till no man knew when, is a grievous thing for a young maid. Her lover was scarce in so dire a case, for he was young and strong, and well used to the life of the hills. For him there was hope; for the old man but a shadow. My heart grew as bitter as gall at the thought of the villains who brought it about.

  How shall I tell of the morning, when the faint light was flushing the limits of the sky, and the first call of a heath-bird broke the silence! ‘Twas sad to see these twain with their bundles (the younger carrying the elder’s share) creep through the heather toward the hills. They affected a cheerful resolution, assumed to comfort Anne’s fears and sorrow; but I could mark beneath it a settled despair. The old man prayed at the threshold, and clasped his daughter many times, kissing her and giving her his blessing. The younger, shaken with great sobs, bade a still more tender farewell, and then started off abruptly to hide his grief. Anne and I, from the door, watched their figures disappear over the crest of the ridge, and then went in, sober and full of angry counsels.

  * * * * *

  The soldiers came about an hour before mid-day — ­a band from Clachlands, disorderly ruffians, commanded by a mealy-faced captain. They were a scurrilous set, their faces bloated with debauchery and their clothes in no very decent order. As one might have expected, they were mightily incensed at finding their bird flown, and fell to cursing each other with great good-will. They poked their low-bred faces into every nook in the house and outbuildings; and when at length they had satisfied themselves that there was no hope from that quarter, they had all the folk of the dwelling out on the green and questioned them one by one. The two serving-lasses were stanch, and stoutly denied all knowledge of their master’s whereabouts — ­which was indeed no more than the truth. One of the two, Jean Crichope by name, when threatened with ill-treatment if she did not speak, replied valiantly that she would twist the neck of the first scoundrelly soldier who dared to lay finger on her. This I doubt not she could have performed, for she was a very daughter of Anak.

  As for Anne and myself, we answered according to our agreement. They were very curious to know my errand there and my name and birth; and when I bade them keep their scurvy tongues from defiling a gentleman’s house, they were none so well pleased. I am not a vain man, and I do not set down the thing I am going to relate as at all redounding to my credit; I merely tell it as an incident in my tale.

  The captain at last grew angry. He saw that the law was powerless to touch us, and that nought remained for him but to ride to the hills in pursuit of the fugitives. This he seemed to look upon as a hardship, being a man to all appearance more fond of the bottle and pasty than a hill gallop. At any rate he grew wroth, and addressed to Anne a speech so full of gross rudeness that I felt it my duty to interfere.

  “Look you here, s
ir,” said I, “I am here, in the first place, to see that no scoundrel maltreats this lady. I would ask you, therefore, to be more civil in your talk or to get down and meet me in fair fight. These gentlemen,” and I made a mocking bow to his company, “will, I am assured, see an honest encounter.”

  The man flushed under his coarse skin. His reputation was at stake. There was no other course open but to take up my challenge.

  “You, you bastard Frenchman,” he cried, “would you dare to insult a captain of the king’s dragoons? I’ faith, I will teach you better manners;” and he came at me with his sword in a great heat. The soldiers crowded round like children to see a cock-fight.

  He came at me with his sword in a great heat.

  In an instant we crossed swords and fell to; I with the sun in my eyes and on the lower ground. The combat was not of long duration. In a trice I found that he was a mere child in my hands, a barbarian who used his sword like a quarter-staff, not even putting strength into his thrusts.

  “Enough!” I cried; “this is mere fooling;” and with a movement which any babe in arms might have checked, twirled his blade from his hands and sent it spinning over the grass. “Follow your sword, and learn two things before you come back — ­civility to maids and the rudiments of sword-play. Bah! Begone with you!”

  Some one of his men laughed, and I think they were secretly glad at their tyrant’s discomfiture. No more need be said. He picked up his weapon and rode away, vowing vengeance upon me and swearing at every trooper behind him. I cared not a straw for him, for despite his bravado I knew that the fear of death was in his cowardly heart, and that we should be troubled no more by his visitations.

  VI. — IDLE DAYS

  I have heard it said by wise folk in France that the autumn is of all seasons of the year the most trying to the health of a soldier; since, for one accustomed to the heat of action and the fire and fury of swift encounter, the decay of summer, the moist, rotting air, and the first chill preludes of winter are hard to stand. This may be true of our own autumn days, but in the north country ‘twas otherwise. For there the weather was as sharp and clear as spring, and the only signs of the season were the red leaves and the brown desolate moors. Lindean was built on the slope of the hills, 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, and see the stream, turgid with past rains, tearing through the meadows. The sun rose in the morning in a blaze of gold and crimson; the days were temperately warm, the afternoons bright, and the evening another procession of colors. ‘Twas all so beautiful that I found it hard to keep my thoughts at all on the wanderers in the hills and to think of the house as under a dark shadow.

  And if ‘twas hard to do this, ‘twas still harder to look upon Anne as a mourning daughter. For the first few days she had been pale and silent, going about her household duties as was her wont, speaking rarely, and then but to call me to meals. But now the pain of the departure seemed to have gone, 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. At first I had had many plans to console her; judge then of my delight to find them needless. She was a brave maid, I thought, and little like the common, who could see the folly of sighing, and set herself to hope and work as best she could.

  The days passed easily enough for me, for I could take Saladin and ride through the countryside, keeping always far from Clachlands; or the books in the house would stand me in good stead for entertainment. With the evenings ‘twas different. When the lamp was lit, and the fire burned, ‘twas hard to find some method to make the hours go by. I am not a man easily moved, as I have said; and yet I took shame to myself to think of the minister and Master Henry in the cold bogs, and Anne and myself before a great blaze. Again and again I could have kicked the logs off to ease my conscience, and was only held back by respect for the girl. But, of a surety, if she had but given me the word, I would have been content to sit in the fireless room and enjoy the approval of my heart.

  She played no chess; indeed, I do not believe there was a board in the house; nor was there any other sport wherewith to beguile the long evenings. Reading she cared little for, and but for her embroidery work I know not what she would have set her hand to. So, as she worked with her threads I tried to enliven the time with some account of my adventures in past days, and some of the old gallant tales with which I was familiar. She heard 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 the more diverting, yet I flatter myself I won her interest and made the time less dreary. I ranged over all my own experience and the memory of those tales which I had heard from others — ­and those who know anything of me know that that is not small. I told her of exploits in the Indies and Spain, in Germany and the Low Countries, and in far Muscovy, and ‘twas no little pleasure to see her eager eyes dance and sparkle at a jest, or grow sad at a sorrowful episode. Ma vie! She had wonderful eyes — ­the most wonderful I have ever seen. They were gray in the morning and brown at noonday; now sparkling, but for the most part fixedly grave and serene. ‘Twas for such eyes, I fancy, that men have done all the temerarious deeds concerning womankind which history records.

  It must not be supposed that our life was a lively one, or aught approaching gayety. The talking fell mostly to my lot, for she had a great habit of silence, acquired from her lonely dwelling-place. Yet I moved her more than once to talk about herself.

  I heard of her mother, a distant cousin of Master Semple’s father; of her death 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 acts of mercy to the poor. She spoke of her father often, and always in such a way that I could judge of a great affection between them. Of her lover I never heard, and, now that I think the matter over, ‘twas no more than fitting. Once, indeed, I stumbled upon his name by chance in the course of talk, but as she blushed and started, I vowed to fight shy of it ever after.

  As we knew well before, no message from the hills could be sent, since the moors were watched as closely as the gateway of a prison. This added to the unpleasantness of the position of each of us. In Anne’s case there was the harassing doubt about the safety of her kinsfolk, that sickening anxiety which saps the courage even of strong men. Also, it rendered my duties ten times harder. For, had there been any communication between the father or the lover and the maid, I should have felt less like a St. Anthony in the desert. As it was, I had to fight with a terrible sense of responsibility and unlimited power for evil, and God knows how hard that is for any Christian to strive with. ‘Twould have been no very hard thing to shut myself in a room, or bide outside all day, and never utter a word to Anne save only the most necessary; but I was touched by the girl’s loneliness and sorrows, and, moreover, I conceived it to be a strange way of executing a duty, to flee from it altogether. I was there to watch over her, and I swore 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 always loved the sky and the vicissitudes of weather, and to this hour the impression of these autumn evenings is clear fixed on my mind. Strangely enough for that north country, they were not cold, but mild, with a sort of acrid mildness; a late summer, with the rigors of winter underlying, like a silken glove over a steel gauntlet.

  One such afternoon I remember, when Anne sat busy at some needlework on the low bench by the door, and I came and joined her. She had wonderful grace of body, and ‘twas a pleasure to watch every movement of her arm as she stitched. I sat silently regarding the landscape, the woods streaking the bare fields, the thin outline of hills beyond, the smoke rising from Clachlands’ chimneys, and above all, the sun firing the great pool in the river, and flaming among clouds in the west. Something of the spirit of the place seemed to have entered into the girl, for she laid aside her needlework afte
r a while and gazed with brimming eyes on the scene. So we sat, feasting our eyes on the picture, each thinking strange thoughts, I doubt not. By and by she spoke.

  “Is France, that you love so well, more beautiful than this, M. de Rohaine?” 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 have no rough hills like these, nor torrents like the Lin there; but there is a great broad stream by Rohaine, as smooth as a mill-pond, where you can row in the evenings, and hear the lads and lasses singing love songs. Then there are great quiet meadows, where the kine browse, where the air is so still that one can sleep at a thought. There are woods, too — ­ah! such woods — ­stretching up hill, and down dale, as green as spring can make them, with long avenues where men may ride; and, perhaps, at the heart of all, some old chateau, all hung with vines and creepers, where the peaches ripen on the walls and the fountain plashes all the summer’s day. Bah! I can hardly bear to think on it, ‘tis so dear and home-like;” and I turned away 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 be over by Eskdalemuir and the top of the Ettrick Water. I have heard my father speak often of them, for they say that many of the godly find shelter there.”

  “Many of the godly!”

  I turned round sharply, though what there was in the phrase to cause wonder I 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 of thinking I had already begun to separate the girl from the rest of the folk in 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 much to my tales that I had all but come to look upon her as a countrywoman of mine.