Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  “Laird, Laird,” he cried, “I dinna ken muckle aboot the Dumbarton road, but there’s yae thing I ken weel and that is that it keeps i’ the laigh land near the waterside a’ the way, and doesna straiggle ower brae-faces.”

  This roused me to myself. “Did we pass any cross-road?” I asked, “for God knows the night is dark enough for any man to wander. Are you sure of what you say—’ ‘

  “As sure as I am that my fingers are cauld and my een fair dazed wi’ sleep,” said he.

  “Then there is naught for it but to go back and trust to overtaking the path. But stay, are these not the hills of Kilpatrick, which stretch down from the Lennox to the Clyde and front the river at this very Dumbarton — I have surely heard of such. Our highway must lie to our left, since we clearly have turned to the right, seeing that if we had turned to the left we should have reached the water. If then we strike straight from here along the bottom of this slope, will we not reach the town — The chances are that we should never find our path, whereas this way will bring us there without fail, if we can stomach some rough riding.”

  “Weel, sir, I’m wi’ ye wherever ye like to gang. And I’ll no deny but that it’s the maist reasonable road to tak, if ye’ re no feared o’ breakin’ your craig ower a stane or walkin’ intil a peat-bog. But we maun e’en lippen to Providence and tak our chance like better men.”

  So wheeling sharply to our left, we left the path and rode as best we could along the rough bottom of the hills. It was a tract of rushy ground where many streams ran. Huge boulders, tumbled down from the steeps, strewed it like the leaves of a hazel wood in autumn. On one hand the land lay back to the haughlands and ordered fields, on the other it sloped steeply to the hills. Stumps of birk-trees and stray gnarled trunks came at times, but in general the ground was open and not unsuited for horses in the light of day. Now it was something more than difficult, for we came perilous near oftentimes to fulfilling my servant’s prophecy. Once, I remember, I floundered fair into a trench of moss-water with a vile muddy bottom, where I verily believe both horse and man would have perished, had not Nicol, who saw my misfortune and leaped his beast across, pulled me fiercely from my saddle to the bank, and the twain of us together extricated the horse. In this fashion, floundering and slipping, we must have ridden some half-dozen miles. All drowsiness had vanished with the rough and ready mode of travel. Once more the thought of my lady and her plight, of my wrongs and my misfortunes, tormented me with anxiety and wrath, and stamped yet more firmly my errand on my soul.

  Now, however, we were suddenly brought to an end in our progress. Before us lay a little ravine, clogged with snow, in whose bottom a burn roared. It was a water of little size, and, in summer weather, one might all but have leaped it. Now the snow had swollen it to the semblance of a torrent, and it chafed and eddied in the little gorge, a streak of dark, angry water against the dim white banks. There was nothing for it but to enter and struggle across, and yet, as I looked at the ugly swirl, I hesitated. I was nigh numbed with cold, my horse was aching from its stumbling, there was little foothold on the opposing bank. I turned to Nicol, who sat with his teeth shaking with the bitter weather.

  “There is naught for it,” said I, “but to risk it. There is no use in following it, for we shall find no better place in a ravine like this.”

  Even as I spoke my servant had taken the plunge, and I saw horse and man slip off the snowy bank into the foam. I followed so closely that I lost all sight of them. To this day I remember the feelings of the moment, the choking as an icy wave surged over my mouth, the frantic pulling at the bridle-rein, the wild plunging of my horse, the roar of water and the splash of swimming. Then, with a mighty effort, my brave animal was struggling up the further side, where my servant was already shaking the water from his clothes.

  This incident, while it put me in better heart, vastly added to my bodily discomfort. An icy wind shivering through dripping garments may well chill the blood of the stoutest. And for certain the next part of the way is burned on my memory with a thousand recollections of utter weariness and misery. Even my hardy servant could scarce keep from groaning, and I, who was ever of a tenderer make, could have leaned my head on my horse’s neck and sobbed with pure feebleness.

  The country was now rough with tanglewood, for we were near the last spur of the hills, ere they break down on the river. Somewhere through the gloom lights were shining and moving, as I guessed from a ship on the water. Beyond were still others, few in number, but fixed as if from dwelling-houses. Here at last, I thought, is the town of Dumbarton which I am seeking, and fired with the hope we urged on the more our jaded beasts.

  But lo! when we came to it, ‘twas but a wayside inn in a little clachan, where one solitary lamp swung and cast a bar of light over the snowy street. I hammered at the door till I brought down the landlord, shivering in his night-dress. It might be that my cousin had halted here, so I asked the man if he had any travellers within.

  “Nane, save twae drunk Ayr skippers and a Glesca packman, unless your honour is comin’ to keep them company.”

  “Has anyone passed then?” I cried.

  “How could I tell when I’ve been sleepin’ i’ my bed thae sax ‘oor?” he coughed, and, seeing we were no sojourners, slammed the door in our face.

  We were numb and wretched, but there was naught for it but to ride on further to the town. It could not be far, and there were signs of morn already in the air. The cold grew more intense and the thick pall of darkness lifted somewhat toward the east. The blurred woods and clogged fields at our side gradually came into view, and as, heart-sick and nigh fordone with want of sleep, we rounded the great barrier ridge of hill, an array of twinkling lights sprang up in front and told us that we were not far from our journey’s end. Nevertheless, it was still dark when we rode into a narrow, cobbled street and stopped at the first hostelry.

  Now, both the one and the other were too far gone with weariness to do more than drop helplessly from the horses and stagger into the inn parlour. They gave us brandy, and then led us to a sleeping-room, where we lay down like logs and dropped into a profound slumber.

  When we awoke the morning was well advanced. I was roused by Nicol, who was ever the more wakeful, and without more delay we went down and recruited our exhausted strength with a meal. Then I summoned the landlord, and asked, more from habit than from any clear expectation, whether any travellers had lodged over night.

  The man answered shortly that there had been a gentleman and a maid, with two serving-men, who had but lately left.

  In a great haste I seized on my hat and called loudly for the horses.’ ‘Where did they go?” I said; “ by what way — Quick, tell me.”

  “They took the road doun to the ferry,” said he, in great amazement. “It’s no an ‘oor since they gaed.”

  Thereupon I flung him his lawing, and we rushed from the house.

  V. — EAGLESHAM

  IT WAS dawning morn, grey and misty, with a thaw setting in on the surface of the snow. Down the narrow, crooked streets, with a wind shivering in our teeth, we went at a breakneck gallop. I lashed my horse for its life, and the poor brute, wearied as it was by the toils of the night, answered gallantly to my call. Sometimes, in a steep place, we slipped for yards; often I was within an ace of death; and at one street-turning with a mighty clatter Nicol came down, though the next minute he was up again. A few sleepy citizens rubbed their eyes and stared from their windows, and in the lighted doorway of a tavern, a sailor looked at us wonderingly.

  In less time than it takes to tell, we were at the water-edge. Here there is a rough quay, with something of a harbour behind it, where lie the sugar-boats from the Indies, when the flood-tide is too low to suffer them to go up stream to the city. Here, also, the ferry four times daily crosses the river.

  Before us the water lay in leaden gloom, with that strange, dead colour which comes from the falling of much snow. Heavy waves were beginning to roll over the jetty, and a mist was drooping
lower and ever lower. Two men stood by an old anchor coiling some rope. We pulled up our horses and I cried out in impatience where the ferry might be.

  “Gone ten meenutes syne,” said one, with no change on his stolid face. “There she is gin ye hae een i’ your held to see.”

  And he pointed out to the waste of waters. I looked and saw a sail rising and sinking in the trough of the waves.

  “When does she return?” I cried out, with many curses on our laggard journey.

  “Whiles in an ‘oor, whiles in twae. She’ll be twae the day ere she’s back, for the ferryman, Jock Gellatly, is a fou’ as the Baltic wi’ some drink that a young gentleman gave him.”

  So we turned back to the harbour tavern, with all the regrets of unsuccess.

  The man had said two hours, but it was nearer three, ere that wretched shell returned, and, when it came, ‘twas with a drunken man who could scarce stagger ashore. I was in no mood for trifling.

  “Here, you drunken swine,” I cried, “will you take us across and be quick about it?”

  “I maun hae anither gless o’ Duncan’s wheesky,” said the fellow, with a leer.

  “By God, and you will not,” I cried. “Get aboard and make no more delay, or, by the Lord, I’ll throw you into the stream.”

  The man hiccuped and whined. “I canna, I canna, my bonny lad. I had ower muckle guid yill afore I sterted, and I maun hae some wheesky to keep it doon. I’m an auld man, and the cauld air frae the water is bad for the inside. Let me be, let me be,” and he lay down on the quay with the utter helplessness of a sot.

  “Here is a devil of a mess,” I cried to Nicol. “What is to be done?”

  “I’ll hae to tak the boat mysel’. Laird,” said my servant, quietly. “If I droon ye, dinna complain.”

  Indeed, I was in no mood for complaining at anything which would carry me further on my quest. With some difficulty we got the horses aboard and penned them in the stalls. Then Nicol hoisted the sail, and we shoved off, while I kept those at bay with a boat-hook who sought to stop us. Once out on the stormy waters I was beset with a thousand fears. I have ever feared the sea, and now, as we leaped and dived among the billows, and as the wind scoured us like a threshing floor, and, above all, as the crazy boat now almost lay sideways on the water, I felt a dreadful sinking of my courage, and looked for nothing better than immediate death. It was clear that Nicol, who knew something of seamanship as he knew of most things, had a hard task to keep us straight, and by his set face and white lips, I guessed that he, too, was not without his fears. Nevertheless, the passage was narrow, and in less time than I had expected, we saw a dim line of sand through the fog. Running in there, we beached the coble, and brought the horses splashing to shore.

  The place was dreary and waste, low-lying, with a few huts facing the river. Beyond the land seemed still flat, though, as far as the mist suffered me to see, there seemed to be something of a rise to the right. My feet and hands were numbed with cold, and the wound in my wrist, which I got in scaling the wall, smarted till it brought the water to my eyes. I was so stiff I could scarce mount horse, and Nicol was in no better plight.

  We rode to the nearest cottage and asked whither the folk had gone who landed with the last ferry. The woman answered gruffly that she had seen none land, and cared not. At the next house I fared little better; but at the third I found a young fisher lad, who, for the sake of a silver piece, told me that they had headed over the moor about three hours ago. “And what lies beyond the moor?” I asked. “Beyond the muir,” said he, “is a muckle hill they ca’ Mistilaw, a’ thick wi’ bogs, and ayont it there are mair hills and mosses, and syne if ye ride on ye’ll come to Eaglesham, whaur the muirs end and the guid lands begin. I yince was ower there wi’ my faither, aboot a cowt, and a braw bit place it is, and no like hereaways.”

  So Nicol and I, with dogged hearts and numbed bodies, rode into the black heath where there was no road. The snow had lost all hardness and was thick and clogging to our horses’ feet. We made as good speed as we could, but that, after all, was little. About midday we had crossed the first part of our journey and were clambering and slipping over the shoulder of Mistilaw. This hill is low and trivial contrasted with our great Tweedside hills, but it well deserves its name, for it is one vast quagmire, where at all seasons mists and vapours hang. Beyond it, and all through the afternoon, we struggled among low hills and lochs. We halted at a solitary shepherd’s hut among the wilds, and ate a vile meal of braxy and oaten-cake. Then again we set forth, and, in the darkening, came to the wide moor which is the last guard of the wastes and borders the pleasant vale of the Cart.

  Now here I fell into a great fit of indecision. It was clear that Gilbert and Marjory were but a little way off in the House of Eaglesham, and I had almost reached the end of my travels. But here my plans came to a sudden end. Was I to ride forward and boldly demand my cousin to let her go — I knew my cousin’s temper; he could make but one reply, and at last some end would be placed to our feud. But with this came another thought. Gilbert was not a man of one device but of many. If I sought to wrest my lady from his hands by force, it was most likely that he would be the winner. For he was ever ripe for high, bold and dastardly policies, and at such a time was little likely to be punctilious.

  So in my extremity I fell to consulting with Nicol, and between us we devised a plan. I liked it so well that I lost all dismal forebodings and proceeded to put it in action. Night fell just as we came to the meadows above the village, and the twinkling lights of the place served as our guides. There was an inn there which I remembered of old time, for the innkeeper had come originally from Tweeddale. At first I would shun the place, but then I remembered that the man was dead these half-dozen years, and all the place so changed that I was secure from recognition, even had I not been so disguised and clad. So without any fear we rode up to the door and sought admittance.

  The place was roomy and wide; a clean-swept floor, with a fire blazing on the hearth, and a goodly smell of cooked meat everywhere. They brought us a meal, which we ate like hungry men who had been a long day’s journey in a snow-bound world. Then I lay back and stared at the firelight, and tried hard to fix my mind on the things which were coming to pass. I found it hard to determine whether I was asleep or awake, for the events of the past hours were still mere phantasmagoria in my memory. Through all the bewildering maze of weariness and despair, and scrupulosity of motive, there was still that one clear thought branded on my mind. And now, as I sat there, the thought was alone, without any clear perspective of the actors or the drama to be played. I scarce thought of Marjory, and Gilbert was little in my mind, for the long series of cares which had been mine for so many days had gone far to blunt my vision, and drive me to look no further than the next moment or the next hour. I was dull, blank, deadened with this one unalterable intention firm in my heart, but, God knows! little besides.

  About nine or ten, I know not rightly, my servant roused me and bade me get ready. He had ordered the landlord to have the horses round to the door, giving I know not what excuse. I mounted without a thought, save that the air was raw and ugly. We rode down the silent street out on to the heath, where the snow was deeper, and our steps all but noiseless. The night was clear and deadly chill, piercing to the marrow. A low snow-fog clothed the ground, and not a sound could we hear in that great, wide world, save our own breathing and our horses’ tread. A sort of awe took me at the silence, and it was with solemn thoughts that I advanced.

  In a mile we left the heath, and, dipping down into the valley of the stream, entered a wood of pines. Snow powdered us from the bare boughs, and a dead branch crackled underfoot. Then all of a sudden, black and cold and still, from the stream-side meadows and all girt with dark forest, rose the house. Through the tree trunks it looked ghostly as a place of the dead. Then I remembered that this was the hill-front, where no habitable rooms were; so, marvelling no more at the dearth of light, we turned sharp to the left and came on the side looking
to the river.

  Two lights twinkled in the place, one in the basement, and one in the low, first story. 1 cast my memory back over old days. One was from the sitting-parlour where the old Gilbert Burnet had chosen to spend his days, and the other — ah, I had it, ‘twas from the sleeping-room of the old Mistress Burnet, where she had dragged out her last years and drawn her last breath. But for these there was no other sign of life in the house.

  We crossed the snowy slope to the black shadow of the wall, where we halted and consulted. By this time some life and spirit had come back to my movements, and I held myself more resolutely. Now I gave my servant his orders. “If so happen we get Mistress Marjory safe,” said I, “you will ride off with her without delay, down the valley to the Clyde and then straight towards Tweeddale. You will get fresh horses at Hamilton, and till then these will serve your purpose. Once in her own countryside there remains nothing for you save to sec that you do her bidding in everything. If God so will it, I will not be long in returning to you.”

  Then, with no more words, we set our faces to our task.

  The light in the window above us still shone out on the white ground. Many yards to our left another patch of brightness marked where the other lamp burned. There was need of caution and stillness, else the master of the place would hear. I kicked my shoes from my feet, though it was bitter cold, and set myself to the scaling the wall. The distance was little, scarce twenty feet, and the masonry was rough-hewn and full of projecting stones, yet I found the matter as hard as I could manage. For my hands were numbed with the excessive chill, and the cut in my wrist still ached like the devil. I was like to swoon twenty times ere I reached the corner of the window. With a sob of exhaustion I drew myself up and stared at the curtained window.

  Very gently I tapped on the pane, once, twice, three times. I heard a quick movement of surprise within, then silence once more, as if the occupant of the room thought it only the snow drifting. Again I rapped, this time with a sharp knock, which men use who wait long outside a gate in a windy night. Now there could be no doubt of the matter. A hand drew the curtains aside, and a timid little face peered out. Then of a sudden the whole folds were swept back and my lady stood before me.