Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  She wore her riding-dress still, but a shawl of some white stuff was flung around her shoulders. There she stood before my sight, peering forth into the darkness, with surprise, fright, love, joy chasing one another across her face, her dear eyes sad and tearful, and her mouth drawn as with much sorrow, and her light hair tossed loosely over her shoulders. It was many lone and dismal months since I had seen her, months filled with terrors and alarums, and heart-sickening despair. And now, as she was almost within my reach at last after so many days, my heart gave a great bound, and with one leap the burden of the past shook itself from my shoulders.

  “Open the window, dear,” I cried, and with trembling hands she undid the fastenings and swung the lattice open. The next moment I had her in my arms, and felt her heart beating close to mine, and the soft, warm touch of her neck. “Marjory lass,” I cried, “how I have missed you, dear! But now I have you and shall never leave you more.” And I drew her closer to me, while she could only sob the more.

  Then, with a mighty effort, I recalled myself to the immediate enterprise. The sound of the horses shuffling the snow without forced on me the need of action.

  “My servant is without with horses,” I said. “You must go with him, dear. It is our only safety. By to-morrow you will be in Tweeddale, and in a very little while I will come to you.”

  “But do you not go just now?” she cried, in anxiety, still clinging to me.

  “No, Marjory dear,” said I, soothing her as best I could, “I cannot come yet. There are some things which need my special care. If you think yourself, you will see that.”

  “Is it aught to do with Gilbert Burnet — Oh, I dare not leave you with him. Come with me, John, oh, come. I dare not, I dare not.” And the poor child fell to wringing her hands.

  “Marjory,” I said, “if you love me do as I bid you. I will come to no scaith. I promise you I will be with you at Dawyck ere the week is out.”

  So she put a brave face on the matter, though her lips still quivered. I went to the window and looked down to where Nicol stood waiting with the horses. Then I thought of a plan, and, finding none better, I cried to him to mount to the window-sill, for I knew his prowess as a climber, and the uncommon toughness of his arm. The horses were too jaded and spiritless to need any watching.

  I caught up my lady in my arms and stepped out upon the ledge. Then very carefully and painfully I lowered myself, still clinging to the sill, till I found a foothold in a projecting stone. Below us were Nicol’s arms and into them I gave my burden. I heard him clambering down by degrees, and in a very little, for the height was small, he had reached the ground. Then I followed him, slipping the last few feet, and burying myself in a bank of snow.

  I had brought a heap of warm furs from the room, and these I flung round my love’s shoulders. My heart ached to think of her, weary from the day’s hard riding, setting forth again into the cold of a November night.

  “Oh, John,” she said, “no sooner met than parted. It is ever our fate.”

  “It will be the last time, dear,” I said, and I kissed her face in her hood.

  Then, with many injunctions to my servant, I bade them good-bye, and watched the figure which I loved best in all the world, disappear into the darkness. With a sad and yet cheerful heart I turned back and clambered again into the chamber.

  There were Marjory’s things scattered about, as of one who has come from a long journey. Something on a table caught my eye, and, taking it up, I saw it was a slip of withered heather. Then I minded how I had given it her one summer long ago on the Hill of Scrape.

  I kicked off my boots, and in utter weariness of body and mind, I flung myself on the bed and was soon asleep.

  VI. — I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET

  I SLEPT till dawn the dreamless sleep of those who have drowned care in bodily exertion. It was scarce light when I awoke, and, with the opening of the eyes, there came with a rush the consciousness of my errand. I leaped out of bed, and sitting on the edge considered my further actions.

  First I sought to remove from my person some of the more glaring stains of travel. There was water in the room, bitter cold and all but frozen, and with it I laved my face and hands.

  Then I opened the chamber door and stepped out into one of the long corridors. The house was still, though somewhere in the far distance I could hear the bustle of servants. I cast my mind back many years, and strove to remember where was the room where the morning meal was served. I descended the staircase to the broad, high hall, but still there were no signs of other occupants. One door I tried, but it was locked; another, with no better fate, till I began to doubt my judgment. Then I perceived one standing ajar, and, pushing it wide, I looked in. Breakfast was laid on the table, and a fire smoked on the hearth. I entered and closed the door behind me.

  There was a looking-glass at the far end, and, as I entered, I caught a glimpse of my figure. Grim as was my errand, I could have laughed aloud at the sight. My hair unkempt, my face tanned to the deepest brown, my strange scarlet clothes, marred as they were by wind and weather, gave me a look so truculent and weird that I was half afraid of myself. And then this humour passed, and all the sufferings of the past, the hate, the despairing love, the anxious care came back upon me in a flood, and I felt that such garb was fitting for such a place and such a season.

  I warmed my hands at the blaze and waited. The minutes dragged slowly, while no sound came save the bickering of the fire and the solemn ticking of a clock. I had not a shade of fear or perturbation. Never in all my life had my mind been so wholly at ease. I waited for the coming of my enemy, as one would wait on a ferry or the opening of a gate, quiet, calm, and fixed of purpose.

  At last, and it must have been a good hour, I heard steps on the stair. Clearly my cousin had slept long after his exertions. Nearer they came, and I heard his voice giving some orders to the servants. Then the door was opened, and he came in.

  At first sight I scarcely knew him, so changed was he from the time of our last meeting. He was grown much thinner and gaunter in countenance, nor was his dress so well-cared for and trim as I remembered him. The high, masterful look which his face always wore had deepened into something bitter and savage, as if he had grown half-sick of the world and cared naught for the things which had aforetime delighted him. His habit of scorn for all which opposed him, and all which was beneath him, had grown on him with his years and power, and given him that look as of one born to command, ay, and of one to whom suffering and pain were less than nothing. As I looked on him I hated him deeply and fiercely, and yet I admired him more than I could bear to think, and gloried that he was of our family. For I have rarely seen a nobler figure of a man. I am not little, but in his presence I felt dwarfed. Nor was it only in stature that he had the preeminence, for his step was as light and his eye as keen as a master of fence.

  He had expected a very different figure to greet him at the other side of the table. In place of a lissom maid he saw a grim, rough-clad man waiting on him with death in his eyes. I saw surprise, anger, even a momentary spasm of fear flit across his face. He looked at me keenly, then with a great effort he controlled himself, and his sullen face grew hard as stone.

  “Good morning to you. Master John Burnet,” said he. “I am overjoyed to see you again. I had hoped to have had a meeting with you in the past months among your own hills of Tweedside, but the chance was denied me. But better late than never. I bid you welcome.”

  I bowed. “I thank you,” I said.

  “I have another guest,” said he, “whom you know. It is a fortunate chance that you should both be present. This old house of Eaglesham has not held so many folk for many a long day. May I ask when you arrived?” The man spoke all the while with great effort, and his eyes searched my face as though he would wrest from me my inmost thoughts.

  “An end to this fooling, Gilbert,” I said, quietly. “Marjory Veitch is no more in this house; with the escort of my servant she is on her road to Tweeddale. By t
his time she will be more than half-way there.”

  He sprang at me like a wild thing, his face suddenly inflaming with passion.

  “You, you?” he cried, but no words could come. He could only stutter and gape, with murder staring from his visage.

  As for me the passion in him roused in me a far greater.

  “Yes,” I cried, my voice rising so that I scarce knew it for mine. “You villain, liar, deceiver, murderer, by the living God, the time has now come for your deserts. You tortured my love and harassed her with hateful captivity; you slew her brother, your friend, slew him in his cups like the coward you are; you drove me from my house and lands; you made me crouch and hide in the hills like a fox, and hunted me with your hell-hounds; you lied and killed and tortured, but now I am free, and now you will find that I am your master. I have longed for this day, oh, for so long, and now you shall not escape me, Gilbert Burnet, this earth is wide, but it is not wide enough for you and me to live together. One or other of us shall never go from this place.”

  He made no answer but only looked me straight in the face, with a look from which the rage died by degrees. Then he spoke slowly and measuredly. “I think you are right, Cousin John,” said he, “the world is too small for both of us. We must come to a settlement.” And in his tone there was a spice of pity and regret. Then I knew that I had lied, and that this man was stronger than I.

  For a little we stood looking across the table at each other. There was an extraordinary attraction in the man, and before the power of his keen eyes I felt my wits trembling. Then, with his hand, he motioned me to sit down. “The morning air is rare, Cousin John. It will be better to finish our meal,” and he called to his servant to bring in breakfast.

  I have never eaten food in my life under stranger circumstances. Yet I did not fear aught, but satisfied my hunger with much readiness. As for him, he toyed and ate little. Once I caught him looking over at me with a shade of anxiety, of dread in his gaze. No word passed between us, for both alike felt the time too momentous for any light talk. As the minutes fled I seemed to discern some change in his manner. His brows grew heavier and he appeared to brood over the past, while his glance sought the pictures on the walls, and my face in turn, with something of fierceness. When all was over he rose and courteously made way for me to pass, holding the door wide as I went out. Then he led me to a little room at the other side of the hall, whence a window opened to the garden.

  “You wish to be satisfied,” he said, “and I grant you that the wish is just. There are some matters ‘twixt me and thee that need clearing. But, first, by your leave, I have something to say. You believe me guilty of many crimes, and I fling the charge in your teeth. But one thing I did unwittingly and have often repented of. Michael Veitch fell by his own folly and by no fault of mine.”

  “Let that be,” said I. “I have heard another tale.”

  “I have said my say; your belief matters naught to me. One thing I ask you. Where has the girl Marjory gone — If fate decides against you, it is but right I should have her.”

  “Nay,” I cried, passionately, “that you never shall. You have caused her enough grief already. She hates the sight of you even as I, and I will do nothing to make her fall into your hands.”

  “It matters little,” he said, with a shrug of his great shoulders. “It was only a trifling civility which I sought from you. Let us get to work.”

  From a rack he picked a blade, one such as he always used in any serious affray, single-edged and basket-hiked. Then he signed to me to follow, and opened the window and stepped out.

  The morning was murky and damp. Fog clothed the trees and fields, and a smell of rottenness hung in the air. I shivered, for my clothes were thin and old.

  Gilbert walked quickly, never casting a look behind him. First we crossed the sodden lawn, and then entered the pine wood, which I had skirted on the night before.

  In a little we heard the roaring of water and came to the banks of the stream, which, swollen by the melting snows, was raving wildly between the barriers of the banks. At the edge was a piece of short turf, some hundred yards square, and drier than the rest of the ground which we had traversed. Here Gilbert stopped and bade me get ready. I had little to do save cast my coat, and stand stripped and shivering, waiting while my enemy took his ground.

  The next I know is that I was in the thick of a deadly encounter, with blows rattling on my blade as thick as hail. My cousin’s eyes glared into mine, mad with anger and regret, with all the unrequited love and aimless scheming of months concentrated in one fiery passion. I put forth my best skill, but it was all I could do to keep death from me. As it was I was scratched and grazed in a dozen places, and there was a great hole in my shirt which the other’s blade had ripped. The sweat began to trickle over my eyes with the exertion, and my sight was half dazed by the rapid play.

  Now it so happened that I had my back to the stream. This was the cause of my opponent’s sudden violence, for he sought to drive me backwards, that, when I found myself near the water, I might grow bewildered. But I had been brought up to this very trick, for in the old days in Tweeddale, Tam Todd would have taken his stand near the Tweed and striven to force me back into the great pool. In my present danger these old memories came back to me in a flood, and in a second I was calm again. This, after all, was only what I had done a thousand times for sport. Could I not do it once for grim earnest?

  In a very little I saw that my cousin’s policy of putting ail his strength out at the commencement was like to be his ruin. He was not a man built for long endurance, being too full in blood and heavy of body. Soon his breath came thick and painfully; he yielded a step, then another, and still a third; his thrusts lacked force, and his guards were feeble. He had changed even from that tough antagonist whom I had aforetime encountered, and who taxed my mettle to the utmost. Had it not been that my anger still held my heart, and admitted no room for other thoughts, I would even have felt some compunction in thrusting at him. But now I had no pity in me. A terrible desire to do to him as he had done to my friends gripped me like a man’s hand. The excitement of the struggle, and, perhaps, the peril to my own life, roused my dormant hate into a storm of fury. I know not what I did, but shrieking curses and anathemas, I slashed blindly before me like a man killing bees. Before my sword point I saw his face growing greyer and greyer with each passing minute. He was a brave man, this I have always said for him and if any other in a like position, with an enemy at his throat and the awful cognisance of guilt, still keeps his stand and does not flee, him also I call brave.

  Suddenly his defence ceased. His arm seemed to numb and his blade was lowered. I checked my cut, and waited with raised point. An awful delight was in my heart, which now I hate and shudder to think on. I waited, torturing him. He tried to speak, but his mouth was parched and I heard the rattle of his tongue. Still I delayed, for all my heat seemed turned into deadly malice.

  Then his eyes left my face and looked over my shoulders. I saw a new shade of terror enter them. I chuckled, for now, thought I, my revenge has come. Of a sudden he crouched with a quick movement, bringing his hands to his face. I was in the act of striking, when from behind came a crack, and something whistled past my ear. Then I saw my cousin fall, groaning, with a bullet through his neck.

  In a trice my rage was turned from him to the unknown enemy behind. With that one shot all rancour had gone from my heart. I turned, and there, running through the trees up the river bank, I saw a man. At the first look I recognised him, though he was bent well-nigh double, and the air was thick with fog. It was the fellow, Jan Hamman.

  I ran after him at top speed, though he was many yards ahead of me. I have never felt such lightness in my limbs. I tore through thicket and bramble, and leaped the brooks as easily as if I were not spent with fighting and weak from the toils of months. My whole being was concentrated into one fierce attempt, for a thousand complex passions were tearing at my heart. This man had dared to come between us 5 thi
s man had dared to slay one of my house. No sound escaped my lips, but silently, swiftly, I sped after the fleeing figure.

  He ran straight up stream, and at every step I gained. Somewhere at the beginning he dropped his pistol; soon he cast away his cap and cloak; and when already he heard my hot breathing behind him he cried out in despair and flung his belt aside. We were climbing a higher ridge beneath which ran the stream. I was so near that I clutched at him once and twice, but each time he eluded me. Soon we gained the top, and I half-stumbled while he gained a yard. Then I gathered myself together for a great effort. In three paces I was on him, and had him by the hair; but my clutch was uncertain with my faintness, and, with a wrench, he was free. Before I knew his purpose he swerved quickly to the side, and leaped clean over the cliff into the churning torrent below.

  I stood giddy on the edge, looking down. There was nothing but a foam of yellow and white and brown from bank to bank. No man could live in such a stream. I turned and hastened back to my cousin.

  I found him lying as I had left him, with his head bent over to the side and the blood oozing from his neck-wound. When I came near he raised his eyes and saw me. A gleam of something came into them; it may have been mere recognition, but I thought it pleasure.

  I kneeled beside him with no feelings other than kindness. The sight of him lying so helpless and still drove all anger from me. He was my cousin, one of my own family, and, with it all, a gentleman and a soldier.

  He spoke very hoarsely and small.

  “I am done for, John. My ill-doing has come back on my own head. That man “

  “Yes,” I said, for I did not wish to trouble a man so near his end with idle confessions, “I know, I have heard, but that is all past and done with.”