by John Buchan
I tried to dissuade him, but it was to no purpose. He heard me patiently, but shook his head. I did not tax him with ingratitude, for I knew how little the charge was founded. For myself I was more sorry than words, for this man was joined to me by ties of long holding. I longed to see him beside me at Barns, an unceasing reminder of my stormy days. I longed to have his sage counsel in a thousand matters, to have him at my hand when I took gun to the hills or rod to the river. I had grown to love his wind-beaten face and his shrewd, homely talk, till I counted them as necessary parts of my life. And now all such hopes were dashed, and he was seeking to leave me.
“But where would you go?” I asked.
“I kenna yet,” he said. “But there’s aye things for a man like me somewhere on the earth. I’m thinkin’ o’ gaun back to the abroad, whaur there’s like to be a steer for some time to come. It’s the life I want and no guid-fortine or bad-fortine, so I carena what happens. I trust I may see ye again, Maister John, afore I dee.”
There was nothing for it but to agree, and agree I did, though with a heavy heart and many regrets. I gave him a horse to take him to Leith, and offered him a sum of money. This he would have none of, but took, instead, a pair of little old pistols which had been my father’s.
I never saw him again, though often I have desired it, but years after I heard of him, and that in the oddest way. I corresponded to some little extent with folk in the Low Countries, and in especial with one Master Ebenezer van Gliecken, a learned man and one of great humour in converse. It was at the time when there was much fighting between the French and the Dutch, and one morn I received a letter from this Master van Gliecken, written from some place whose name I have forgot, a rascally little Holland town in the south. He wrote of many things — of some points in Latin scholarship, of the vexatious and most unpolitic state of affairs in the land, and finally concluded with this which I transcribe.
“Lastly, my dear Master John, I will tell you a tale which, as it concerns the glory of your countrymen, you may think worth hearing. As you know well, this poor town of ours has lately been the centre of a most bloody strife, for the French forces have assaulted it on all sides, and though by God’s grace they have failed to take it, yet it has suffered many sore afflictions. In particular there was a fierce attack made upon the side which fronts the river, both by boat and on foot. On the last day of the siege, a sally was made from the gate of the corner tower, which, nevertheless, was unsuccessful, our men being all but enclosed and some of the enemy succeeding in entering the gate. One man in particular, a Scot, as I have heard, Nicolo Plenderleet by name, with two others who were both slain, made his way to the battlements. The gate was shut, and, to all appearance, his death was certain. But they knew not the temper of their enemy, for springing on the summit of the wall, he dared all to attack him. When the defenders pressed on he laid about him so sturdily that three fell under his sword.
“Then when he could no longer make resistance, and bullets were pattering around him like hail, and his cheek was bleeding with a deep wound, his spirit seemed to rise the higher. For, shouting out taunts to his opponents, he broke into a song, keeping time all the while with the thrusts of his sword. Then bowing gallantly, and saluting with his blade his ring of foes, he sheathed his weapon, and joining his hands above his head, dived sheer and straight into the river, and, swimming easily, reached the French lines. At the sight those of his own side cheered, and even our men, whom he had so tricked, could scarce keep from joining.
“Touching the editions which you desired, I have given orders to the bookseller on the quay at Rotterdam to send them to you. I shall be glad, indeed, to give you my poor advice on the difficult matters you speak of, if you will do me the return favour of reading through my excursus to Longinus, and giving me your veracious opinion. Of this I send you a copy.
“As regards the Scot I have already spoken of, I may mention for your satisfaction that in person he was tall and thin, with black hair, and the most bronzed skin I have ever seen on a man....”
When I read this letter to Marjory, her eyes were filled with tears, and for myself I would speak to no one on that day.
IX. — THE END OF ALL THINGS
I AM writing the last words of this tale in my house of Barns after many years have come and gone since the things I wrote of. I am now no more young, and my wife is no more a slim maid, but a comely woman. The years have been years of peace and some measure of prosperity. Here in Tweeddale life runs easily and calm. Our little country matters are all the care we know, and from the greater world beyond there comes only chance rumours of change and vexation. Yet the time has not been idle, for I have busied myself much with study and the care of the land. Many have sought to draw me out to politics and statecraft, but I have ever resisted them, for after all what are these things of such importance that for them a man should barter his leisure and piece of mind — So I have even stayed fast in this pleasant dale, and let the bustle and clamour go on without my aid.
It is true that more than once I have made journeys even across the water, and many times to London, on matters of private concern. It was during one of these visits to Flanders that I first learned the importance of planting wood on land, and resolved to make trial on my own estate. Accordingly I set about planting on Barns, and now have clothed some of the barer spaces of the hills with most flourishing plantations of young trees, drawn in great part from the woods of Dawyck. I can never hope to reap the benefit of them myself, but haply my grandchildren will yet bless me, when they find covert and shade where before was only a barren hillside.
Also in Tweed I have made two caulds, both for the sake of the fish and to draw off streams to water the meadows. In the wide reaches of water in Stobo Haughs I have cut down much of the encumbering brushwood and thus laid the places open for fishing with the rod. Also with much labour I have made some little progress in clearing the channel of the river in places where it is foully overlaid with green weed. The result, I am pleased to think, has been good, and the fish thrive and multiply. At any rate, I can now make baskets that beforetime were counted impossible. My crowning triumph befell me two years ago in a wet, boisterous April, when, fishing with a minnow in the pool above Barns, I landed a trout of full six pound weight.
The land, which had fallen into neglect in my father’s time and my own youth, I did my utmost to restore, and now I have the delight of seeing around me many smiling fields and pleasant dwellings. In the house of Barns itself I have effected many changes, for it had aforetime been liker a border keep than an orderly dwelling. But now, what with many works of art and things of interest gathered from my travels abroad, and, above all, through the dainty fingers of my wife, the place has grown gay and well-adorned, so that were any of its masters of old time to revisit it they would scarce know it for theirs.
But the work which throughout these years has lain most near to my heart has been the studies which I have already spoken of. The fruit of them, to be sure, is less than the labour, but still I have not been idle. I have already in this tale told of my exposition of the philosophy of the Frenchman Descartes, with my own additions, and my writings on the philosophy of the Greeks, and especially of the Neo-Platonists — both of which I trust to give to the world at an early time. As this story of my life will never be published, it is no breach of modesty here to counsel all, and especially those of my own family, who may see it, to give their attention to my philosophical treatises. For though I do not pretend to have any deep learning or extraordinary subtlety in the matter, it has yet been my good fate, as I apprehend it, to notice many things which have escaped the eyes of others. Also I think that my mind, since it has ever been clear from sedentary humours and the blunders which come from mere knowledge of books, may have had in many matters a juster view and a clearer insight.
Of my own folk I have little to tell. Tam Todd has long since gone the way of all the earth, and lies in Lyne Kirkyard with a flat stone above him. New faces are i
n Barns and Dawyck, and there scarce remains one of the old serving- men who aided me in my time of misfortune. Also many things have changed in all the countryside, and they from whom I used to hear tales as a boy are now no more on the earth. In Peebles there are many new things, and mosses are drained and moors measured out, till the whole land wears a trimmer look. But with us all is still the same, for I have no fancy for change in that which I loved long ago, and would fain still keep the remembrance. Saving that I have planted the hillsides, I have let the moors and marshes be, and to-day the wild-duck and snipe are as thick on my land as of old. As for myself, I trust I have outgrown the braggadocio and folly of youth. God send I may not have also outgrown its cheerfulness and spirit! For certain I am a graver man and less wont to set my delight in trifles. Of old I was the slave of little things — weather, scene, company; but advancing age has brought with it more of sufficiency unto myself. The ringing of sword and bridle has less charm, since it is the reward of years that a man gets more to the core of a matter and has less care for externals. Yet I can still feel the impulses of high passion, the glory of the chase, the stirring of the heart at a martial tale. Now, as I write, things are sorely changed in the land. For though peace hangs over us at home, I fear it is a traitor’s peace at the best, and more horrific than war. Time-servers and greedy sycophants sit in high places, and it is hard to tell if generous feeling be not ousted by a foul desire of gain. It is not for me to say. I have no love for king or parliament, though much for my country. I am no hot-headed king’s man; nay, I never was; but when they who rely upon us are sold for a price, when oaths are broken and honour driven away, I am something less of one than before. It may be that the old kings were better, who ruled with a strong hand, though they oft ruled ill. But, indeed, I can say little; here in this valley of Tweed a man hears of such things only as one hears the roar of a stormy sea from a green inland vale.
As I write these last words, I am sitting in my old library at Barns, looking forth of the narrow window over the sea of landscape. The afternoon is just drawing to evening, the evening of a hot August day, which is scarce less glorious than noon. From the meadow come the tinkling of cattle bells and the gentle rise and fall of the stream. Elsewhere there is no sound, for the summer weather hangs low and heavy on the land. Just beyond rise the barrier ridges, green and shimmering, and behind all the sombre outlines of the great hills. Below in the garden my wife is plucking flowers to deck the table, and playing with the little maid, who is but three years old to-day. Within the room lie heavy shadows and the mellow scent of old books and the faint fragrance of blossoms.
And as I look forth on this glorious world, I know not whether to be glad or sad. All the years of my life stretch back till I see as in a glass the pageant of the past. Faint regrets come to vex me, but they hardly stay, and, as I look and think, I seem to learn the lesson of the years, the great precept of time. And deep in all, more clear as the hours pass and the wrappings fall off, shines forth the golden star of honour, which, if a man follow, though it be through quagmire and desert, fierce faces and poignant sorrow, ‘twill bring him at length to a place of peace.
But these are words of little weight and I am too long about my business. Behold how great a tale I have written unto you. Take it, and, according to your pleasure, bless or ban the narrator. Haply it will help to while away a winter’s night, when the doors are barred and the great logs crackle, and the snow comes over Caerdon.
THE END
A LOST LADY OF OLD YEARS
First published in 1899, this historical novel is set in Scotland in 1745, during the Jacobite Rebellion. It is a dark tale of loyalty and betrayal, recounting the adventures of Francis Birkenshaw, an unsettled youth from Edinburgh, on the road to Culloden Moor. Although the Jacobite cause means little to him at first, when he has a chance meeting with Margaret Murray, the beautiful wife of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s secretary, he is offered a tempting opportunity for profit and adventure. Birkenshaw soon finds himself involved with the infamous traitor and turncoat John Murray of Broughton.
The first edition
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I. The Birkenshaws of That Ilk and Their Fortunes.
CHAPTER II. How Mr. Francis Birkenshaw Departed His Native City.
CHAPTER III. Forth and Tweed.
CHAPTER IV. A Journey in Late Summer.
CHAPTER V. The Portrait of a Lady.
CHAPTER VI. On the Edinburgh Highway.
CHAPTER VII. Of a Lady on a Grey Horse.
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER VIII. The Journey to the North.
CHAPTER IX. My Lord of Lovat.
CHAPTER X. Waste Places.
CHAPTER XI. The Prince’s Cabinet of War.
CHAPTER XII. After Culloden.
CHAPTER XIII. Crabbed Age and Youth.
CHAPTER XIV. How Mr. Francis Came to the Lowlands Once More.
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER XV. The House of Broughton.
CHAPTER XVI. A Council of Honour.
CHAPTER XVII. A Journey to the South.
CHAPTER XVIII. Of an Interview in an Unlikely Place.
CHAPTER XIX. The Last of the Secretary.
CHAPTER XX. The Death of the Lord Lovat.
CHAPTER XXI. The Temptation of Mr. Francis.
CHAPTER XXII. A Long Leave-Taking.
CHAPTER XXIII. In the Nature of a Postscript.
The Battle of Culloden by David Morier. The Jacobite rising of 1745was the attempt by Charles Edward Stuart to regain the Scottish throne for the exiled House of Stuart and recreate an absolute monarchy in Scotland and the United Kingdom. Bonnie Prince Charlie sailed to Scotland and raised the Jacobite standard at Glenfinnan in the Scottish Highlands, where he was supported by a gathering of Highland clansmen.
TO DUNCAN GRANT WARRAND
My Dear Duncan:
To you, the well-read historian, there is little need to say that every event in this tale is not recorded for gospel. It is the story of the bleak side of the Forty-five, of goodness without wisdom, of wisdom first cousin to vice, of those who, like a certain Lord, had no virtue but an undeniable greatness. You will ask my authority for Francis’s mission to Lovat, — or the singular conduct of Mr. John Murray. You will inquire how the final execution came six months too soon, and you will ransack Broughton’s Journal in vain to find my veracious narrative of the doings of his beautiful wife. Such little matters are the chronicler’s licence. But some excuse is needed for the introduction of your kinsman, the lord President, and the ragged picture of so choice a character. My apology must be that my canvas is no place for honest men, and the Laird of Culloden would have been discredited by his company.
But, such as it is, I dedicate to you this chronicle of moorland wars, for the sake of an “auld Highland story” which neither of us would wish to see forgotten.
J. B.
“E’en so, swimmingly appears,
Through one’s after-supper musings,
Some lost lady of old years
With her beauteous vain endeavour
And goodness unrepaid as ever.”
— Browning.
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I. The Birkenshaws of That Ilk and Their Fortunes.
When Gideon Birkenshaw — of Birkenshaw Tower in the Forest and the lands of Markit beneath the brow of remote Cheviot — was summoned by death to his account, he left all to his eldest son and turned the other penniless upon the world. Robert, the heir, stepped unthinking into the dead man’s shoes, and set himself to the family task of amassing gear. He was a man already grim and aging at thirty, with the stoop of an inquisitor and deep eyes to search out the intents of the heart. Of old the house had been insignificant raiders, adding field to field and herd to herd by a method which it seemed scarce fair to call plunder, so staidly was it pursued. No minstrel sang their deeds, no tale of them was told at nightfall in the village, but in all decency and hardness they went like oxen to their restin
g-places. They cared naught for politics, but every now and again the stock bred a religious enthusiast. A Birkenshaw had served with the Lords of the Congregation, and another had spoken his testimony in the face of the Grassmarket and a thousand people, and swung off valiantly into eternity. The watchword of all was decency and order, and as peace settled upon the land they had left off their old huntings and harryings and fallen to money-making with the heartiest good-will. And they prospered deservedly. While the old poor Lamberts, Horsebrocks, and Burnets, whose names were in a hundred songs and tales, who had fought with quixotic gallantry forever on the losing side, and spent their substance as gaily as they had won it, sank into poverty and decline, the crabbed root of the Birkenshaws budded and put forth shoots. With anxious eyes and prayerful lips they held on their wonted path, delighting in the minutes of bargaining and religious observance, yet full of pride of house and brave with the stubborn valour of the unimaginative.
It was indeed their pride of race, their inherited spirit, and their greater wealth which alone marked them off from the burly farmers of the countryside. To see them at kirk or market, their clothes were as coarse, their talk as rude, and their companions the same as their neighbours of the sheep-farms. But all knew and owned the distinction. Somewhere in the heavy brow and chin of a Birkenshaw there lurked passion and that ferocity which can always awe the born retainer. The flashes were scarce, but they were long remembered. When a son of the house broke the jaw of Chasehope for venturing to sell him a useless collie bitch, the countryside agreed that the man but got his deserts for seeking to overreach a Birkenshaw beyond the unwritten rules of dealing. And darker stories were told — of men maimed and slain in change-houses, even it was whispered at the door of the House of God, for chancing in their folly upon the family madness.
