by John Buchan
Yet his visit had one result which I had little dreamed of, for it led me to show greater friendliness to such of the Scots covenanters as were refugees in the town. I learned something of their real godliness and courage, and was enabled to do them many little services. In particular, such letters as they wished to write to their friends at home I transmitted under my own name and seal, since all communication with Holland was highly suspected unless from a man of approved loyalty.
The other matter which I think worth noting was the acquaintance I formed with a Frenchman, one M. de Rohaine, a gentleman of birth, who was in great poverty and abode in a mean street off the Garen Markt. The way in which I first met him was curious. I was coming home late one evening from Master Swinton’s house, and in passing through a little alley which leads from near the college to the Garen Markt, I was apprised of some disturbance by a loud noise of tumult. Pushing forward amid a crowd of apprentices and fellows of the baser sort, I saw a little man, maybe a tailor or cobbler from his appearance, with his back against a door and sore pressed by three ruffians, who kept crying out that now they would pay him for his miserly ways. The mob was clearly on their side, for it kept applauding whenever they struck or jostled him. I was just in the act of going forward to put an end to so unequal a combat, when a tall grave man thrust himself out of the throng and cried out in Dutch for them to let go. They answered with some taunt, and almost before I knew he had taken two of the three, one in either hand, and made their heads meet with a sounding crack. I was hugely delighted with the feat, and broke forward to offer my help, for it soon became clear that this champion would have to use all his wits to get out of the place. The three came at him swearing vehemently, and with evil looks in their eyes. He nodded to me as I took my stand at his side.
“Look after the red-beard, friend,” he cried. “I will take the other two.”
And then I found my hands full indeed, for my opponent was tough and active, and cared nothing for the rules of honourable warfare. In the end, however, my training got the mastery, and I pinked him very prettily in the right leg, and so put him out of the fight. Then I had time to turn to the others, and here I found my new-found comrade sore bested. He had an ugly cut in his forehead, whence a trickle of blood crawled over his face. But his foes were in a worse case still, and when word came at the moment that a body of the guard was coming they made off with all speed.
The man turned and offered me his hand.
“Let me thank you, sir, whoever you may be,” said he. “I am the Sieur de Rohaine at your service.”
“And I am Master John Burnet of Barns in Scotland,” said I.
“What,” he cried, “a Scot!” And nothing would serve him but that I must come with him to his lodging and join him at supper. For, as it seemed, he himself had just come from Scotland, and was full of memories of the land.
I found him a man according to my heart. When I spoke of his gallantry he but shrugged his shoulders. “Ah,” said he, “it was ever my way to get into scrapes of that kind. Were I less ready to mix in others’ business I had been a richer and happier man to-day,” and he sighed.
From him I learned something more of the condition of my own land, and it was worse even than I had feared. M. de Rohaine had had many strange adventures in it, but he seemed to shrink from speaking of himself and his own affairs. There was in his eyes a look of fixed melancholy as of one who had encountered much sorrow in his time and had little hope for more happiness in the world. Yet withal he was so gracious and noble in presence that I felt I was in the company of a man indeed.
If I were to tell all the benefit I derived from this man I should fill a volume and never reach the end of my tale. Suffice it to say that from him I learned many of the tricks of sword play, so that soon I became as nigh perfect in the art as it was ever in my power to be. I learned too of other lands where he had been and wars which he had fought; and many tales which I have often told at home in Tweeddale I first heard from his lips. I was scarce ever out of his company, until one day he received a letter from a kinsman bidding him return on urgent necessity. He made his farewells to me with great regret, and on parting bade me count on his aid if I should ever need it. From that day to this I have never cast eyes on his face or heard tidings of him, but I herewith charge all folk of my family who may read this tale, if ever it be their fortune to meet with one of his name or race, that they befriend him to the best of their power, seeing that he did much kindness to me.
So the summer passed with one thing and another, till, ere I knew, winter was upon us. And I would have you know that winter in the Low Countries is very different from winter with us among the hills of Tweed. For here we have much mist and rain and a very great deal of snow; also the cold is of a kind hard to endure, since it is not of the masterful, overbearing kind, but raw and invidious. But there the frost begins in late autumn and keeps on well till early spring. Nor was there in my experience much haze or rain, but the weather throughout the months was dry and piercing. Little snow fell, beyond a sprinkling in the fore-end of January. Every stream and pond, every loch and canal was hard and fast with ice, and that of the purest blue colour and the keenest temper I have ever seen. All the townsfolk turned out to disport themselves on the frozen water, having their feet shod with runners of steel wherewith they performed the most wondrous feats of activity. The peasant-girls going to market with their farm produce were equipped with these same runners, and on them proceeded more quickly than if they had ridden on the highroad.
Often, too, during the winter, there were festivals on the ice, when the men arrayed in thick clothes and the women in their bravest furs came to amuse themselves at this pastime. I went once or twice as a spectator, and when I saw the ease and grace of the motion was straightway smitten with a monstrous desire to do likewise. So I bought a pair of runners and fitted them on my feet. I shall not dwell upon my immediate experiences, of which indeed I have no clear remembrance, having spent the better part of that afternoon on the back of my head in great bodily discomfort. But in time I made myself master of the art and soon was covering the ice as gaily as the best of them. I still remember the trick of the thing, and five years ago, when the floods in Tweed made a sea of the lower part of Manor valley, and the subsequent great frost made this sea as hard as the highroad, I buckled on my runners and had great diversion, to the country folks’ amazement.
In all this time I had had many letters from Marjory, letters writ in a cheerful, pleasant tone, praying indeed for my return, but in no wise complaining of my absence. They were full of news of the folk of Tweedside, how Tam Todd was faring at Barns, and what sport her brother Michael was having in the haughlands among the wild-duck. I looked eagerly for the coming of those letters, for my heart was ever at Dawyck, and though I much enjoyed my sojourning in Holland, I was yet glad and willing for the time of departure to arrive. In January of the next year I received a bundle of news written in the gayest of spirits; but after that for three months and more I heard nothing. From this long silence I had much food for anxiety, for though I wrote, I am sure, some half-dozen times, no reply ever came. The uneasiness into which this put me cast something of a gloom over the latter part of the winter. I invented a hundred reasons to explain it. Marjory might be ill; the letters might have gone astray, perhaps she had naught to tell me. But I could not satisfy myself with these excuses, so I had e’en to wait the issue of events.
It was not till the month of April that I had news from my love, and what this was I shall hasten to tell.
VIII. — THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAMAW
IT WAS the third day of April, a day so cool and mild that every one who could was in the open air, that I sat in the little strip of garden behind my lodging, reading the Symposium of Plato in the light of certain digests of Master Quellinus. The beds of hyacinth, yellow and blue and red, were flaunting before my eyes, and down by the water’s edge the swallows were twittering and skimming. The soft spring wind fluttered the leave
s of my book and stirred my hair, so that I found it hard indeed to keep my attention fixed. Some yards behind me Nicol sat cleaning a fishing-rod, for in the idle days he amused himself with trying his skill among the sleepy streams. He was whistling some bars of “Leezie Lindsay,” and the tune, which I had often heard in Tweeddale, put me much in mind of home and inclined my heart violently to the place I had left. So soon I found my Plato lying listlessly on my lap, and my thoughts far away over sea.
Just now, I knew, would be the lambing-time in the Tweed hills, and all the valleys would be filled with the noise of sheep. The shepherds, too, would be burning the bent, and the moors sending up wreaths of pungent smoke. I minded the smell so well that I almost fancied it was in my nostrils in place of the moist perfume of hyacinth and violet. At Barns, Tam Todd would be seeing to the young trees and fishing in the full streams. At Dawyck, Marjory would be early abroad, plucking the spring flowers and bringing in armfuls of apple-blossom to deck the rooms. The thought of Marjory gave me sudden discomfort. I reflected for the thousandth time that I had heard nothing of her for months, and I fell to wondering greatly at her silence. By and by, what with thinking of home and of her and chafing at her neglect, I found myself in a very pretty state of discontentment.
It was just then that I heard a voice behind me, and turning round saw Nicol approaching in company with another. The stranger was a man of remarkable appearance. He was scarcely the middle height, but his breadth across the shoulders was so great that he seemed almost dwarfish. He had arms of extraordinary length, so long that they reached almost to his knees, like the Tartars in Muscovy that I have read of. His square, weather-beaten face was filled with much good humour, and the two eyes which looked out from beneath his shaggy brows were clear and shrewd.
“This is Maister Silas Steen o’ the brig Seamaw,” said Nicol, making an introduction, “whae has come from Scotland this morning, and says he has letters wi’ him for you.” Having delivered himself, my servant retreated, and left the newcomer alone with me.
“You’ll be Master John Burnet of Barns?” said he, looking at me sharply.
“The same, at your service,” said I.
“It’s just a bit letter for you,” and he dived into his pocket and produced a packet.
I took it hastily, for I had some guess who was the writer. Nor was I wrong, for one glance at the superscription told me the truth. And this is how it ran:
For Master John Burnet in the house of Mistress Vanderdecker near the Breedestraat at Leyden.
Dear John: I have not written thee for long, and I trust that thereby I have not given thee trouble. I am well and happy, when this leaves me, though desiring thy return. I trust your studies are to your satisfaction. Tam Todd, from the Barns, was over yestreen, and gave a good account of all things there.
Then came a pause, and the writing was resumed in a hurried, irregular hand.
I am not free to write my will. O John, dear John, come back to me. I am so unhappy. I cannot survive without thee another day” (this latter word had been scored out and month put in its place). “I am in dreadful perplexity. Come quick.
Marjory.
You may imagine into what state of mind the reading of this letter threw me. My lady was in trouble, that was enough for me, and she desired my aid. I guessed that the letter had been written stealthily and that some trouble had been found in its conveyance, for it bore the marks of much crumpling and haste. I could make no conjecture as to its meaning, and this doubt only the more increased my impatience.
“From whom did you get this?” I asked.
“From a great, thin, swart man, who brought it to me at Leith, and bade me deliver it. I came post haste from Rotterdam this day.”
I ran over in my mind the serving-folk at Dawyck, and could think of none such. Then, like a flash, I remembered Tam Todd. This doubly increased my fears. If Marjory could get no porter for her message save one of my own servants, then the trouble must be at Dawyck itself.
I can find no words for the depths of my anxiety. To think of Marjory in sorrow and myself separated by leagues of land and sea well-nigh drove me distracted. There and then I resolved on my course.
“Your ship is at Rotterdam?” I asked.
“Yes,” said the captain.
“When does she sail?”
“To-morrow night, when the cargo is on board.”
“I’ll give you twenty pieces of gold if you’ll sail to-night.”
The captain shook his head. “It canna be done,” he cried; “ my freight is lace and schiedam, worth four times twenty pieces, and I canna have a voyage for naething.”
“Listen,” said I, “I am in terrible perplexity. I would give you a hundred, if I had them; but I promise you, if you bring me safely to the port of Leith, they shall be paid. Ride back to your vessel and ship all the stuff you can, and I will be with you at eleven o’clock this night, ready to sail.”
The fellow shook his head, but said nothing.
“Man, man,” I cried, “for God’s sake, I implore you. It’s a matter to me of desperate import. See, there are your twenty pieces, and I’ll give you my bond for eighty, to be paid when we win to Leith.”
“Tut, Master Burnet,” said he, “I will not be taking your money. But I’m wae to see you in trouble. I’ll take you over the nicht for the twenty pieces, and if I lose on the venture, you can make it up to me. It’s safer carrying you and running straight for the pier, than carrying schiedam and dodging about the Bass. And I’m not a man that need count his pennies. Forbye, I see there’s a lady in the case, and I deem it my duty to assist you.”
I was at first astonished by the man’s ready compliance, but when I saw that he was sincere, I thanked him to the best of my power. “Be sure I shall not forget this service. Captain Steen,” said I; “and if it is ever in my power to serve you in return, you may count on me. You will take some refreshment before you go;” and, calling Nicol, I bade him see to the stranger’s wants.
Meantime it behooved me to be up and doing if I was to sail that night. I knew not what to think of the news I had heard, for, as I thought upon the matter, it seemed so incredible that aught could have gone wrong that I began to set it all down to mere loneliness and a girl’s humours. The strangeness of the letter I explained with all the sophistry of care. She did not wish to disturb me and bring me home before my time. This was what she meant when she said she was not free to write her will. But at the end her desolateness had overmastered her, and she had finished with a piteous appeal. Even so I began to reason, and this casuistry put me in a more hopeful frame of mind. It was right that I should go home, but when I got there I should find no cause for fear. But there was much to be done in the town and the college ere I could take my departure. So when I had paid all the monies that I owed, and bidden farewell to all my friends (among whom Sir William Crichtoun and Master Quellinus were greatly affected), I returned to my lodgings. There I found Nicol in great glee, preparing my baggage. He was whistling the “Lawlands of Holland,” and every now and then he would stop to address himself. “Ye’re gaun hame,” I heard him saying, “ye’re gaun hame to the hills and the bonny water o’ Tweed, and guid kindly Scots folk, after thae frostit Hollanders, and fine tasty parritsh and honest yill after the abominable meats and drinks o’ this stawsome hole. Andye’d better watch your steps, Nicol Plenderleith, my man, I’m tellin’ ye, and keep a calm sough, for there’s a heap o’ wark to be dune, and some o’ it geyan wanchancy.”
“Good advice, Nicol,” said I, breaking in upon him; “see that you keep to it.”
“Is that you, Maister John — Ye’ll be clean high aboot gaun back. Ye’ll hae seen a’ that’s to be seen here, for after a’ it’s no a great place. And ye maun mind and put a bottle o’ French brandy in your valise, or you’ll be awfu’ oot on the sea. I think it’s likely to be coorse on the water.”
I took my servant’s advice, and when all was done to my liking, I walked down to the college gate for on
e last look at the place. I was in a strange temper — partly glad, partly sad — and wholly excited. When I looked on the grey, peaceful walls, breathing learning and repose, and thought of the wise men who had lived there, and the great books that had been written, and the high thoughts that had been born, I felt a keen pang of regret. For there was at all times in me much of the scholar’s spirit, and I doubted whether it had not been better for me, better for all, had I chosen the life of study. I reflected how little my life would lie now in cloisters and lecture halls, in what difficulties I would soon be plunged and what troublous waters I might be cast upon. My own land was in a ferment, with every man’s hand against his brother; my love might be in danger; of a surety it looked as if henceforward quiet and gentleness might be to seek in my life. I own that I looked forward to it without shrinking — nay, with a certain hopeful anticipation; but I confess also that I looked at the past and all that I was leaving with a certain regret. Indeed, I was born between two stools; for, while I could never be content to stay at home and spend my days among books, on the other hand, the life of unlettered action was repugnant. Had it been possible, I should have gladly dwelt among wars and tumults with men who cared not for these things alone, and could return, when all violence was at an end, to books and study with a cheerful heart. But no man has the making of the world, and he must even fit himself to it as he finds it. Nor do I think it altogether evil to have many desires and even many regrets, for it keeps a man’s spirit active, and urges him on to valiant effort. Of this I am sure, that contentment is the meanest of the virtues.
