by John Buchan
“God forgive me,” he said, “I did him a wrong, but I have repaid it. Did you kill him, John?”
“No,” I said; “he leaped from a steep into the stream. He will be no more heard of.”
“Ah,” and his breath came painfully, “it is well. Yet I could have wished that one of the family had done the work. But it is no time to think of such things. I am going fast, John.”
Then his speech failed for a little and he lay back with a whitening face.
“I have done many ill deeds to you, for which I crave your forgiveness.”
“You have mine with all my heart,” I said, hastily. “But there is the forgiveness of a greater, which we all need alike. You would do well to seek it.”
He spoke nothing for a little. “I have lived a headstrong, evil life,” said he, “which God forgive. Yet it is not meet to go canting to your end, when in your health you have crossed His will.”
Once again there was silence for a little space. Then he reached out his hand for mine.
“I have been a fool all my days. Let us think no more of the lass, John. We are men of the same house, who should have lived in friendship. It was a small thing to come between us.”
A wind had risen and brought with it a small, chill rain. A gust swept past us and carried my cast-off” cloak into the bushes. “Ease my head,” he gasped, and when I hasted to do it, I was even forestalled. For another at that moment laid His hand on him, and with a little shudder his spirit passed to the great and only judge of man’s heart.
I walked off for help with all speed, and my thoughts were sober and melancholy. Shame had taken me for my passion and my hot-fit of revenge; ay, and pity and kindness for my dead opponent. The old days when we played together by Tweed, a thousand faint, fragrant memories came back to me, and in this light the last shades of bitterness disappeared. Also the great truth came home to me as I went, how little the happiness of man hangs on gifts and graces, and how there is naught in the world so great as the plain virtues of honour and heart.
VII. — OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE
OF THE EVENTS of the time following there is little need to give an exact account. There was some law business to be gone through in connection with my cousin’s death and the disposing of the estate, which went to an East country laird, a Whig of the Whigs, and one like to make good and provident use of it. Then, when I would have returned to Tweeddale, I received a post from my good kinsman, Dr. Gilbert Burnet, which led me first to Edinburgh and then so far afield as London itself. For it was necessary, in the great confusion of affairs, that I should set myself right with the law and gain some reparation for my some-time forfeited lands.
So to the great city I went, posting by the main road from Edinburgh, and seeing a hundred things which were new and entertaining. I abode there most all the winter, during the months of December, January, February, and March, for there was much to do and see. My lodging was in my kinsman’s house near the village of Kensington, and there I met a great concourse of remarkable folk whose names I had heard of and have heard of since. Notably, there were Master John Dryden, the excellent poet, my Lord Sandwich, and a very brisk, pleasing gentleman, one Mr. Pepys, of the Admiralty. I had great opportunity of gratifying my taste for books and learned society, for my kinsman’s library was an excellent one, and his cellars so good that they attracted all conditions of folk to his house. Also I had many chances of meeting with gentlemen of like degree with myself, and many entertaining diversions we had together. Nor did I neglect those in Tweeddale, for I sent news by near every post that went to the North.
But when the spring came, and there was no further need for tarrying in the South, with a light heart I set off homewards once more. I journeyed by Peterborough and York in the company of one Sir C. Cotterell, a gentleman of Northumberland, and abode two days at his house in the moors, where there was excellent fishing. Then I came northwards by the great Northumberland road by the towns of Newcastle and Morpeth, and crossed the Cheviot Hills, which minded me much of my own glen. At Coldstream I crossed the Tweed, which is there grown a very broad, noble river, and then rode with all speed over the Lammermoors to Edinburgh. I stayed there no longer than my duty demanded; and when all was settled, one bright spring day, just after midday, set out for Barns.
The day, I remember, was one of surprising brightness, clear, sunshiny, and soft as midsummer. There are few ways I know better than that from the capital to my home — the bare, windy moorlands for one half, and the green glens and pleasant waters of the other. It was by this road that I had come to Leith to ship for Holland; by this road that I had ridden on that wild night ride to Dawyck. Each spot of the wayside was imprinted on my memory, and now that my wanderings were over, and I was returning to peace and quiet, all things were invested with a new delight. Yet my pleasure was not of the brisk, boisterous order, for my many misfortunes had made me a graver man, and chastened my natural spirits to a mellow and abiding cheerfulness.
At Leadburn was the inn where I had first met my servant Nicol, my trusty comrade through so many varying fates. I drank a glass of wine at the place for no other cause than a sentimental remembrance. The old landlord was still there, and the idle ostlers hung around the stable doors, as when I had passed before. Down in the bog-meadow the marsh-marigolds were beginning to open, and the lambs from the hillside bleated about their mothers. The blue, shell-like sky overhead arched without a cloud to the green, distant hills.
When I came to the place on the Tweedside road, called the Mount Bog, I dismounted and lay down on the grass. For there the view opens to the hills of my own countryside. A great barrier of blue, seamed with glens, all scarred in spots with rock and shingle, lifting serene brows from the little ridges to the wide expanse of the heavens. I named them one by one from east to west — Minchmoor, though it was hidden from sight, where fled the great Montrose after the fatal rout of Philiphaugh; the broad foreheads of the Glenrath heights above my own vale of Manor, Dollar Law, Scrape, the Drummelzier fells, the rugged Wormel, and, fronting me, the great Caerdon, with snow still lining its crannies. Beyond, still further and fainter lines of mountain, till like a great tableland the monstrous mass of the Broad Law barred the distance. It was all so calm and fragrant, with not a sound on the ear but the plash of little streams and the boom of nesting snipe. And above all there was the thought that now all peril had gone, and I was free to live as I listed and enjoy life as a man is born to do, and skulk no more at dyke-sides, and be torn no longer by hopeless passion.
When I rode through the village of Broughton and came to the turn of the hill at Dreva, the sun was already westering. The goodly valley, all golden with evening light, lay beneath me. Tweed was one belt of pure brightness, flashing and shimmering by its silver shores and green, mossy banks. Every wood waved and sparkled in a fairy glow, and the hills above caught the radiance on their broad bosoms. I have never seen such a sight, and for me at that hour it seemed the presage of my home-coming. I have rarely felt a more serene enjoyment, for it put me at peace with all the earth, and gilded even the nightmare of the past with a remembered romance. To crown it there was that melodious concert of birds, which one may hear only on such a night in this sweet time o’ year. Throstles and linnets and the shriller mountain larks sang in the setting daylight, till I felt like some prince in an eastern tale who has found the talisman and opened the portals of the Golden Land.
Down the long, winding hill-path I rode, watching the shadows flit before me, and thinking strange thoughts. Fronting me over the broad belt of woodland, I saw the grey towers of Dawyck, and the green avenues of grass running straight to the hill.
By and by the road took me under the trees, among the cool shades and the smell of pine and budding leaves. There was a great crooning of wood-doves, and the sighing of the tenderest breezes. Shafts of light still crept among the trunks, but the soft darkness of spring was almost at hand. My heart was filled with a great exaltation. The shadow of the past seemed t
o slip from me like an old garment.
Suddenly I stopped, for somewhere I heard a faint melody, the voice of a girl singing. ‘Twas that voice I would know among ten thousand, the only one in all the world for me. I pulled up my horse and listened as the notes grew clearer, and this was what she sang:
“First shall the heavens want starry light,
The seas be robbed of their waves;
The day want sun, the sun want bright,
The night want shade, and dead men graves;
The April, flowers and leaf and tree,
Before I false my faith to thee.
To thee, to thee.”
There came a pause, and then again, in the fragrant gloaming, the air went on:
“First shall the tops of highest hills
By humble plains be overpry’d;
And poets scorn the Muses’ quills,
And fish forsake the water-glide;
And Iris lose her colour’d weed
Before 1 fail thee at thy need.”
I Stood in shadow and watched her as she came in sight, sauntering up the little, green glade, with a basket of spring flowers swinging on her arm. Her hat of white satin hung loose over her hair, and as she walked lightly, now in the twilight, now in a sudden shaft of the western sun, she looked fairer than aught I had ever seen. Once more she sang with her clear voice:
“First direful Hate shall turn to Peace,
And Love relent in deep disdain;
And Death his fatal stroke shall cease.
And Envy pity every pain;
And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile,
Before I talk of any guile.”
But now the darkness had come in good earnest, and I could scarce see the singer. “First Time shall stay,” the voice went on:
“First Time shall stay his stayless race.
And Winter bless his brows with corn;
And snow bemoisten July’s face.
And Winter, Spring and Summer mourn.”
Here the verse stopped short, for I stepped out and stood before her.
“Oh, you have come back,” she cried. “At last, and I have looked so long for you.”
“Indeed, dear lass, I have come back, and by God’s grace to go no more away.”
Then leading my horse, I walked by her side down the broad path to the house. We spoke nothing, our hearts being too busy with the delights of each other’s presence. The crowning stone was added to my palace of joy, and in that moment it seemed as if earth could contain no more of happiness, and that all the sorrows of the past were well worth encountering for the ecstasy of the present. To be once more in my own land, with my own solemn hills looking down upon me, and that fair river wandering by wood and heather, and my lady at my side, was not that sufficient for any man — The purple, airy dark, odorous with spring scents, clung around us, and in the pauses of silence the place was so still that our ears heard naught save the drawing of our breath.
At the lawn of Dawyck I stopped and took her hands in mine.
“Marjory,” I said, “once, many years ago, you sang me a verse and made me a promise. I cannot tell how bravely you have fulfilled it. You have endured all my hardships, and borne me company where I bade you, and now all is done with and we are returned to peace and our own place. Now it is my turn for troth-plighting, and I give you it with all my heart. God bless you, my own dear maid.” And I repeated softly:
“First shall the heavens want starry light,
The seas be robbed of their waves;
The day want sun, the sun want bright,
The night want shade, and dead men graves;
The April, flowers and leaf and tree,
Before I false my faith to thee.”
And I kissed her and bade farewell, with the echo still ringing in my ears, “to thee, to thee.”
I rode through the great shadows of the wood, scarce needing to pick my path in a place my horse knew so well, for once again I was on Maisie. The stillness clung to me like a garment, and out of it, from high up on the hillside, came a bird’s note, clear, tremulous, like a bell. Then the trees ceased, and I was out on the shorn, green banks, ‘neath which the river gleamed and rustled. Then, all of a sudden, I had rounded the turn of the hill, and there, before me in the dimness, stood the old grey tower, which was mine and had been my fathers’ since first man tilled a field in the dale. I crossed the little bridge with a throbbing heart, and lo! there was the smell of lilac and gem-tree blossom as of old coming in great gusts from the lawn. Then all was confusion and much hurrying about and a thousand kindly greetings. But in especial I remember Tam Todd, the placid, the imperturbable, who clung to my hand, and sobbed like the veriest child, “Oh, Laird, ye’ve been lang o’ comin’.”
VIII. — HOW NICOL PLENDERLEITH SOUGHT HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE
NOW, at last, I am come to the end of my tale, and have little more to set down. It was on a very fresh, sweet May morning, that Marjory and I were married in the old Kirk of Lyne, which stands high on a knoll above the Lyne Water, with green hills huddled around the door. There was a great concourse of people, for half the countryside dwelled on our land. Likewise, when all was done, there was the greatest feast spread in Barns that living man had ever seen. The common folk dined without on tables laid on the green, while within the walls the gentry from far and near drank long life and health to us till sober reason fled hot-foot and the hilarity grew high. But in a little all was over, the last guest had clambered heavily on his horse and ridden away, and we were left alone.
The evening, I remember, was one riot of golden light and rich shadow. The sweet-scented air stole into the room with promise of the fragrant out-of-doors, and together we went out to the lawn and thence down by the trees to the brink of Tweed, and along by the great pool and the water-meadows. The glitter of that brave, romantic stream came on my sight, as a sound of old music comes on the ears, bringing a thousand half-sad, half-joyful memories. All that life held of fair was in it — the rattle and clash of arms, the valour of men, the loveliness of women, the glories of art and song, the wonders of the great mother earth, and the re-creations of the years. And as we walked together, I and my dear lady, in that soft twilight in the green world, a peace, a delight, a settled hope grew upon us, and we went in silence, speaking no word the one to the other. By and by we passed through the garden where the early lilies stood in white battalions, and entered the dining-hall.
A band of light lay on the east wall where hung the portraits of my folk. One was a woman, tall and comely, habited in a grey satin gown of antique fashion.
“Who was she?” Marjory asked, softly.
“She was my mother, a Stewart of Traquair, a noble lady and a good. God rest her soul.”
“And who is he who stands so firmly and keeps hand on sword?”
“That was my father’s brother who stood last at Philiphaugh, when the Great Marquis was overthrown. And he with the curled moustachios was his father, my grandfather, of whom you will yet hear in the countryside. And beyond still is his father, the one with the pale, grave face, and solemn eyes. He died next his king at the rout of Flodden. God rest them all; they were honest gentlemen.”
Then there was silence for a space, while the light faded, and the old, stately dames looked down at us from their frames with an air, as it seemed to me, all but kindly, as if they laughed to see us playing in the old comedy which they had played themselves.
I turned to her, with whom I had borne so many perils.
“Dear heart,” I said, “you are the best and fairest of them all. These old men and women lived in other times, when life was easy and little like our perplexed and difficult years. Nevertheless, the virtue of old times is the same as for us, and if a man take but the world as he find it, and set himself manfully to it with good heart and brave spirit, he will find the way grow straight under his feet. Heaven bless you, dear, for now we are comrades together on the road, to cheer each other when the feet grow weary.”
/> On the morning of the third day from the time I have written of, I was surprised by seeing my servant, Nicol, coming into my study with a grave face, as if he had some weighty matter to tell. Since I had come home, I purposed to keep him always with me, to accompany me in sport and see to many things on the land, which none could do better than he. Now he sought an audience with a half-timid, bashful look, and, when I bade him be seated, he flicked his boots uneasily with his hat and looked askance.
“I hae come to bid ye fareweel, sir,” at length he said, slowly.
I sprang up in genuine alarm.
“What nonsense is this?” I cried. “You know fine, Nicol, that you cannot leave me. We have been too long together.”
“I maun gang,” he repeated, sadly; “I’m loth to dae ‘t, but there’s nae help for ‘t.”
“But what?” I cried. “Have I not been a good friend to you, and your comrade in a thousand perils? Is there anything I can do more for you ,? Tell me, and I will do it.”
“Na, na, Maister John, ye’ve aye been the best o’ maisters. I’ve a’ thing I could wish; dinna think I’m no gratefu’.”
“Then for Heaven’s sake tell me the reason, man. I never thought you would treat me like this, Nicol.”
“Oh, sir, can ye no see?” the honest fellow cried with tears in his eyes. “Ye’ve been sae lang wi’ me, that I thocht ye kenned my natur’. Fechtin’ and warstlin’ and roamin’ aboot the warld are the very breath o’ life to me. I see ye here settled sae braw and canty, and the auld hoose o’ Barns lookin’ like itsel’ again. And I thinks to mysel’, ‘Nicol Plenderleith, lad, this is no for you. This is no the kind of life that ye can lead. Ye’ve nae mair business here than a craw among throstles.’ And the thocht maks me dowie, for I canna get by ‘t. I whiles think o’ mysel’ bidin’ quiet here and gettin’ aulder and aulder, till the time passes when I’m still brisk and venturesome, and I’m left to naething but regrets. I maun be up and awa’, Laird, I carena whither. We a’ made different, and I was aye queer and daft and no like ither folk. Ye winna blame me.”
