by John Buchan
Suddenly, with a start I seemed to wake to the consciousness that ‘twas mine no more. Still dreaming, I was aware that I had deceived a lover, and stolen his mistress and made her my bride. I have never felt such acute anguish as I did in that sleep when the thought came upon me. I felt nothing more of pride. All things had left me. My self-respect was gone like a ragged cloak. All the old, dear life was shut out from me by a huge barrier. Comfortable, rich, loving, and beloved, I was yet in the very jaws of Hell. I felt myself biting out my tongue in my despair. My brain was on fire with sheer and awful regret. I cursed the day when I had been tempted and fallen.
And then, even while I dreamed, another sight came to my eyes — the face of a lady, young, noble, with eyes like the Blessed Mother. In my youth I had laid my life at the feet of a girl, and I was in hopes of making her my wife. But Cecilia was too fair for this earth, and I scarcely dared to look upon her she seemed so saint-like. When she died in the Forest of Arnay, killed by a fall from her horse, ‘twas I who carried her to her home, and since that day her face was never far distant from my memory. I cherished the image as my dearest possession, and oftentimes when I would have embarked upon some madness I refrained, fearing the reproof of those grave eyes. But now this was all gone. My earthy passion had driven out my old love; all memories were rapt from me save that of the sordid present.
The very violence of my feeling awoke me, and I found myself sitting up in bed with a mouthful of blood. Sure enough, I had gnawed my tongue till a red froth was over my lips. My heart was beating like a windmill in a high gale, and a deadly sickness of mind oppressed me. ‘Twas some minutes before I could think; and then — oh, joy! the relief! I had not yet taken the step irremediable. The revulsion, the sudden ecstasy drove in a trice my former resolution into thinnest air.
I looked out of the window. ‘Twas dawn, misty and wet. Thank God, I was still in the land of the living, still free to make my life. The tangible room, half lit by morning, gave me a promise of reality after the pageant of the dream. My path was clear before me, clear and straight as an arrow; and yet even now I felt a dread of my passion overcoming my resolve, and was in a great haste to have done with it all. My scruples about my course were all gone. I would be breaking my oath, ‘twas true, in leaving the maid, but keeping it in the better way. The thought of the dangers to which she would be exposed stabbed me like a dart. It had almost overcome me. “But honor is more than life or love,” I said, as I set my teeth with stern purpose.
Yet, though all my soul was steeled into resolution, there was no ray of hope in my heart — nothing but a dead, bleak outlook, a land of moors and rain, an empty purse and an aimless journey.
I had come to the house a beggar scarce two months before. I must now go as I had come, not free and careless as then, but bursting shackles of triple brass. My old ragged garments, which I had discarded on the day after my arrival, lay on a chair, neatly folded by Anne’s deft hand. It behooved me to take no more away than that which I had brought, so I must needs clothe myself in these poor remnants of finery, thin and mud-stained, and filled with many rents.
X. — OF MY DEPARTURE
I passed through the kitchen out to the stable, marking as I went that the breakfast was ready laid in the sitting room. There I saddled Saladin, grown sleek by fat living, and rolling his great eyes at me wonderingly. I tested the joinings, buckled the girth tight, and led him round to the front of the house, where I tethered him to a tree and entered the door.
A savory smell of hot meats came from the room and a bright wood fire drove away the grayness of the morning. Anne stood by the table, slicing a loaf and looking ever and anon to the entrance. Her face was pale as if with sleeplessness and weeping. Her hair was not so daintily arranged as was her wont. It seemed almost as if she had augured the future. A strange catch — coming as such songs do from nowhere and meaning nothing — ran constantly in my head. ‘Twas one of Philippe Desportes’, that very song which the Duke de Guise sang just before his death. So, as I entered, I found myself humming half unwittingly:
‘”Nous verrons, bergère Rosette,
Qui premier s’en repentira.”
Anne looked up as if startled at my coming, and when she saw my dress glanced fearfully at my face. It must have told her some tale, for a red flush mounted to her brow and abode there.
I picked up a loaf from the table. ‘Twas my one sacrifice to the gods of hospitality. ‘Twould serve, I thought, for the first stage in my journey.
Anne looked up at me with a kind of confused wonder. She laughed, but there was little mirth in her laughter.
“Why, what would you do with the loaf?” said she. “Do you seek to visit the widows and fatherless in their affliction?”
“Nay,” said I gravely. “I would but keep myself unspotted from the world.”
All merriment died out of her face.
“And what would you do?” she stammered.
“The time has come for me to leave, Mistress Anne. My horse is saddled at the door. I have been here long enough; ay, and too long. I thank you with all my heart for your kindness, and I would seek to repay it by ridding you of my company.”
I fear I spoke harshly, but ‘twas to hide my emotion, which bade fair to overpower me and ruin all.
“Oh, and why will you go?” she cried.
“Farewell, Anne,” I said, looking at her fixedly, and I saw that she divined the reason.
I turned on my heel, and went out from the room.
“Oh, my love,” she cried passionately, “stay with me; stay, oh, stay!”
Her voice rang in my ear with honeyed sweetness, like that of the Sirens to Ulysses of old.
“Stay!” she cried, as I flung open the house-door.
I turned me round for one last look at her whom I loved better than life. She stood at the entrance to the room, with her arms outstretched and her white bosom heaving. Her eyes were filled with an utterable longing, which a man may see but once in his life — and well for him if he never sees it. Her lips were parted as if to call me back once more. But no word came; her presence was more powerful than any cry.
I turned to the weather. A gray sky, a driving mist, and a chill piercing blast. The contrast was almost more than my resolution. An irresistible impulse seized me to fly to her arms, to enter the bright room again with her, and sell myself, body and soul, to the lady of my heart.
My foot trembled to the step backward, my arms all but felt her weight, when that blind Fate which orders the ways of men intervened. Against my inclination and desire, bitterly, unwilling, I strode to my horse and flung myself on his back. I dared not look behind, but struck spurs into Saladin and rode out among the trees.
A fierce north wind met me in the teeth, and piercing through my tatters, sent a shiver to my very heart.
I cannot recall my thoughts during that ride: I seem not to have thought at all. All I know is that in about an hour there came into my mind, as from a voice, the words: “Recreant! Fool!” and I turned back.
THE END
JOHN BURNET OF BARNS
Published in 1897, the same year that Buchan won the Stanhope essay prize for history at Oxford, this novel was the young author’s first full-length work of fiction. Narrating the story of two young noblemen, the novel introduces John Burnet, heir to the ancient house of Barns, the last in a long line of Border reivers, and his cousin, Captain Gilbert Burnet, a dashing and ruthless soldier. Their lifelong rivalry results in treachery, betrayal and a desperate struggle for survival.
The first edition
CONTENTS
BOOK I. — TWEEDDALE
I. — THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME IN THE WOOD OF DAWYCK
II. — THE HOUSE OF BARNS
III. — THE SPATE IN TWEED
IV. — I GO TO THE COLLEGE AT GLASGOW
V. — COUSINLY AFFECTION
VI. — HOW MASTER GILBERT BURNET PLAYED A GAME AND WAS CHECKMATED
VII. — THE PEGASUS INN AT P
EEBLES AND HOW A STRANGER RETURNED FROM THE WARS
VIII. — I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS
IX. — I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS AND FIND A COMPANION
BOOK II. — THE LOW COUNTRIES
I. — OF MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES
II. — I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART
III. — THE STORY OF A SUPPER PARTY
IV. — OUR ADVENTURE ON THE ALPHEN ROAD
V. — THE FIRST SUNDAY OF MARCH
VI. — THE FIRST MONDAY OF MARCH
VII. — I SPEND MY DAYS IN IDLENESS
VIII. — THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAMAW
IX. — AN ACCOUNT OF MY HOME-COMING
BOOK III. — THE HILLMEN
I — THE PIER O’ LEITH
II. — HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH
III. — THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK
IV. — HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END
V. — I CLAIM A PROMISE, AND WE SEEK THE HILLS
VI. — THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER
VII. — HOW TWO OF HIS MAJESTY’S SERVANTS MET WITH THEIR DESERTS
VIII. — OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF CLYDE
IX. — I PART FROM MARJORY
X. — OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE AND THE ENCOUNTER IN THE GREEN CLEUCH
XI. — HOW A MILLER STROVE WITH HIS OWN MILL- WHEEL
XII. — I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING
XIII. — I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE
XIV. — I FALL IN WITH STRANGE FRIENDS
XV. — THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN’s LAND
XVI. — HOW THREE MEN HELD A TOWN IN TERROR
XVII. — OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR
XVIII. — SMITWOOD
BOOK IV. — THE WESTLANDS
I. — I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN AT THE FORDS o’ CLYDE
II. — AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND
III. — THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES
IV. — UP HILL AND DOWN DALE
V. — EAGLESHAM
VI. — I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET
VII. — OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE
VIII. — HOW NICOL PLENDERLEITH SOUGHT HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE
IX. — THE END OF ALL THINGS
Border Reivers were raiders along the Anglo-Scottish border from the late 13th century to the beginning of the 17th century. Their ranks consisted of both Scottish and English families and they raided the entire border country without regard to their victims’ nationality.
TO THE MEMORY OF
MY SISTER VIOLET KATHERINE STUART
BOOK I. — TWEEDDALE
I. — THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME IN THE WOOD OF DAWYCK
I HAVE taken in hand to write this, the history of my life, not without much misgiving of heart; for my memory at the best is a bad one, and of many things I have no clear remembrance. And the making of tales is an art unknown to me, so he who may read must not look for any great skill in the setting down. Yet I am emboldened to the work, for my life has been lived in stirring times and amid many strange scenes which may not wholly lack interest for those who live in quieter days. And above all, I am desirous that they of my family should read of my life and learn the qualities both good and bad which run in the race, and so the better be able to resist the evil and do the good.
My course, by the will of God, has had something of a method about it, which makes the telling the more easy. For, as I look back upon it from the vantage ground of time, all seems spread out plain and clear in an ordered path. And I would but seek to trace again some portion of the way with the light of a dim memory.
I will begin my tale with a certain June morning in the year 1678, when I, scarcely turned twelve years, set out from the house of Barns to the fishing in Tweed. I had escaped the watchful care of my tutor, Master Robert Porter, the curate of Lyne, who vexed my soul thrice a week with Caesar and Cicero. I had no ill-will to the Latin, for I relished the battles in Caesar well enough, and had some liking for poetry, but when I made a slip in grammar he would bring his great hand over my ears in a way which would make them tingle for hours. And all this, mind you, with the sun coming in at the window and whaups whistling over the fields and the great fish plashing in the river. On this morn I had escaped by hiding in the cheese-closet; then I had fetched my rod from the stable-loft, and borrowed tackle from Davie Lithgow, the stableman; and now I was creeping through the hazel bushes, casting, every now and then, a glance back at the house, where the huge figure of my teacher was looking for me disconsolately in every corner.
The year had been dry and sultry; and this day was warmer than any I remembered. The grass in the meadow was browned and crackling; all the foxgloves hung their bells with weariness; and the waters were shrunken in their beds. The mill-lade, which drives Manor Mill, had not a drop in it, and the small trout were gasping in the shallow pool, which in our usual weather was five feet deep. The cattle were stertling, as we called it in the countryside; that is, the sun was burning their backs, and, rushing with tails erect, they sought coolness from end to end of the field. Tweed was very low and clear. Small hope, I thought, for my fishing; I might as well have stayed with Master Porter and been thrashed, for I will have to stay out all day and go supperless at night.
I took my way up the river past the green slopes of Haswellsykes to the wood of Dawyck, for I knew well that there, if anywhere, the fish would take in the shady, black pools. The place was four weary miles off”, and the day was growing hotter with each passing hour; so I stripped my coat and hid it in a hole among whins and stones. When I come home again, I said, I will recover it. Another half mile, and I had ofF my shoes and stockings and concealed them in a like place; so soon I plodded along with no other clothes on my body than shirt and ragged breeches.
In time I came to the great forest which stretches up Tweed nigh to Drummelzier, the greatest wood in our parts, unless it be Glentress, on the east side of Peebles. The trees were hazels and birches in the main, with a few rowans, and on the slopes of the hill a congregation of desolate pines. Nearer the house of Dawyck were beeches and oaks and the deeper shade, and it was thither I went. The top of my rod struck against the boughs, and I had some labour in steering a safe course between the Scylla of the trees and the Charybdis of the long brackens; for the rod was in two parts spliced together, and as I had little skill in splicing, Davie had done the thing for me before I started. Twice I roused a cock of the woods, which went screaming through the shadow. Herons from the great heronry at the other end were standing in nigh every pool, for the hot weather was a godsend to them, and the trout fared ill when the long thief-like bills flashed through the clear water. Now and then a shy deer leaped from the ground and sped up the hill. The desire of the chase was hot upon me when, after an hour’s rough scramble, I came to the spot where I hoped for fish.
A stretch of green turf, shaded on all sides by high beeches, sloped down to the stream-side. The sun made a shining pathway down the middle, but the edges were in blackest shadow. At the foot a lone gnarled alder hung over the water, sending its long arms far over the river nigh to the farther side. Here Tweed was still and sunless, showing a level of placid black water, flecked in places with stray shafts of light. I prepared my tackle on the grass, making a casting-line of fine horse-hair which I had plucked from the tail of our own grey gelding. I had no such fine hooks as folk nowadays bring from Edinburgh, sharpened and barbed ready to their hand; but rough, homemade ones, which Tam Todd, the land-grieve, had fashioned out of old needles. My line was of thin, stout whipcord, to which I had made the casting firm with a knot of my own invention. I had out my bag of worms, and, choosing a fine red one, made it fast on the hook. Then I crept gently to the alder and climbed on the branch which hung far out over the stream. Here I sat like an owl in the shade, and dropped my line in the pool below me, where it caught a glint of the sun and looked like a shining cord let down, like Jacob’s ladder, from heaven to the darkness of earth.
I had not sat many minutes before my rod was wrenched violently down
wards, then athwart the stream, nearly swinging me from my perch. I have got a monstrous trout, I thought, and with a fluttering heart stood up on the branch to be more ready for the struggle. He ran up the water and down; then far below the tree roots, whence I had much difficulty in forcing him; then he thought to break my line by rapid jerks, but he did not know the strength of my horse-hair. By and by he grew wearied, and I landed him comfortably on a spit of land — a great red-spotted fellow with a black back. I made sure that he was two pounds weight if he was an ounce.
