Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  But this new mood of his lady’s matched his own, and relieved him of one difficulty. For with all his compassion he had a horror of tears, a shrinking from the pathetic; and the spectacle of a weak woman looking to him alone for aid could in certain moods arouse only repugnance. But now all dealings between the two were passionless and kindly. This tall lady was again the mistress, and he waited to do her bidding. He asked her purposes.

  “There can be but one way,” said she. “He will go to London, and there I must follow him. I cannot hope to mend matters, for I am poor and have little purchase, but I may see him and try. I have no hope, Mr. Birkenshaw, but it is better to press on in some sort of endeavour than eat out my heart here in despair.”

  “But where can you bide in London?” asked Francis. It was his duty to look after the plain fact in the wrapping of the romantic.

  “I do not know,” she said, “unless with my cousin Lady Manorwater, who is of my religion, and if all else fails will take me with her over-seas.”

  “But how will you make the journey?” he asked.

  “Why, how would I make it but alone, with my own horses and the one servant who is left me?” she said, with a faint attempt at vivacity.

  “But who is to see to your lodging on the road and guide you safe through an unsettled country?” he asked again.

  “Ah, I cannot tell. I must use my mother wit — and there is all the need in the world for hurry;” and she twisted her hands with a sad gesture of impotence.

  “And above all, my lady, is it likely that you will convince your husband in a hurried sight of him, if you failed before his arrest when you had leisure and safety?”

  “I can but try,” she said simply. Then, “Oh, Mr. Birkenshaw, the thing is less a journey of hope than of despair. I well know that I have left nothing undone, and that may be a solace in the dark years that remain to me.”

  She spoke so sadly that Francis was moved, and the old sentiment began to rise in his heart.

  “I owe a duty to — a great Highland lord,” he said, “which I must sometime fulfil. If you go to the South I go also. Our journeys have the same purpose and may well lie together, and perhaps I may help you in some of the difficulties of the road.”

  At his words, her face shone for a moment with gratitude, then it suddenly paled. “I will only be a drag, and my company will be the least safe in the world for you. I am already deep in your debt, and I cannot accept this service.”

  “But if the lord be the Lord Lovat,” said Francis, “if I have sworn to him that I would keep the Secretary from any such step though I followed him to the Tower, will this not change your decision?”

  “But you said yourself that the errand was idle. How will you get a sight of him; and even if you see him how will you bring him to a better mind?”

  “I can but trust to chance to show me a way,” said he, speaking thoughts which had been with him on his road from the Highland glens. “I do not value my life at overmuch, and for a desperate man there are many paths. But if the mischief is not done and he still lie unconfessed in the Tower, there is some hope; for a road may be found out of that place even for Mr. Murray of Broughton.” Yet while he spoke he felt the futility of such a scheme — these two folk in a moorland house half a thousand miles from the capital, plotting a great state crime.

  But to the lady it seemed a way out of all perplexities. “We can do as Lady Nithsdaill did, as Anne Carew and Sir John Haltwhistle, and many others. Oh what a thing is a bold man’s mind! With you to help me I have hope, and I thank you from my heart, for it is most noble and generous to risk your life in my desperate cause. I cannot thank you, but God knows I shall ever remember.” And as cheek and brow flushed with the emotion of the feelings, Francis for a moment sat lord and king in a crazy palace of cloud.

  “We must not delay,” said she, “for they will let no grass grow under their feet now they have got him. I have already made preparations for the journey, and I cannot see how two people should not travel quicker than a body of horse. There is my maid Anne who will follow me to the end of the world, and I will take a serving-man to see to the horses. You will find me the road, Mr. Francis?”

  Francis felt anew the desperation of his quest, but he had not the heart to throw obstacles in the way. This heroic lady might bid him steal the crown-jewels, were her mind to be set at ease by such a deed.

  “I accept the charge, my lady. God grant we meet with a happy fortune!”

  “Nay, but I will have no ‘my ladies’ or ‘Mrs. Murrays’ or ‘madames,’” she cried. “Do you not see that the quest is ours, and we cannot enter upon it with a hedge of formalities between us? You have shown yourself a gallant gentleman, sir, and we set out on this journey as sister and brother. You will be Francis to me, and let me be Margaret, and then we shall be the better friends.” She spoke simply, but a blush rose to her cheek, and she played with the tassel of her chair.

  Francis bowed, himself in turn violently out of composure. It was a wise rule for both; but the sudden change in his position, the dizzy companionship of a dream, threw him out of his bearings.

  He rose and went to a window which looked over a courtyard to a long wooded valley. There was now no bustle in the place, no moving of horses, nor running of serving-men. Only in a corner stood a great travelling-coach, which a single groom had washed and made ready, and was passing a brush over the panels.

  Mrs. Murray had come over to his side, and looked on at the picture. He could not forbear to glance at her as she stood by his shoulder, so tall that her hair was but little below his cheek; and he noticed that her eye had filled as she gazed.

  “What is the fellow doing?” he asked.

  “He is doing my commands,” she said. “Can you not see his work? He is painting out the arms of Murray from the panel, that no roadside passer may know them and witness the tragedy of an old house.”

  He looked, and sure enough the man had all but obliterated any colour from the level black wood.

  “It was a handsome coat as one might see in all the land,” she said softly, as if speaking to herself. “First and fourth there was the old coat of Murray, three silver mullets on an azure chief with a black hunting-horn below on a silver field; second, it bore three silver fraises for the kinship to the house of Fraser, and third, the three gold cushions of the vanished house of Romanno. Did you know the motto and crest of Mr. Secretary Murray, Francis? There it is; Robin is almost at it, and soon it will be no more. A dove with an olive branch, and Pacis nuntia for a device! Now I wonder what old raider chose that foolish text to set below his arms. I had never heard that the Murrays carried peace to all men in their hearts, save — Ah, God help me! — that traitor’s peace that one of the house is now seeking! A dove with an olive branch. Ay, it is suitable irony, and I praise the wit and foresight of the old cynic who first wrote it. At any rate it is all done with now, and I go out to the world without blazon or history. Heigho, I feel quit of a load, and yet I am melancholy to-day over the end of so long a story.”

  Then Francis took his leave and went down to the village, where he found the landlord and held long consultation; for much of Mrs. Murray’s own possessions were to be left in his charge against that seizure of the house which must soon follow. But the main point was the line of journey, and here he found a ready informant. For in the old days of the ‘15 this man had travelled far into the Midlands of England, and since then had gone many times to the South with droves of cattle. He drew up an itinerary as far as his knowledge permitted, and gave it into Francis’ keeping, adding many prudent hints about lodging by the way and the least frequented paths. The honest fellow had much ado to speak clearly, for grief at the melancholy fortunes of his mistress choked his voice and confused his judgment “We hae a’ our troubles in thae times,” he cried, “but to see the sair end fa’ on our puir feckless leddy is eneuch to wring tears frae a heidstane. The men are to bide canty at hame, but the women must up and awa’ to weir their herts on a des
perate ploy. Lord, siccan days!”

  When he returned to the house on some small errand it was already drawing toward evening. He found Margaret in the same west-looking room, fingering for the last time her treasures. “I must carry little,” she said in answer to his look, “for a burdenless rider gangs easily, as the folk say, so I am taking a last look at certain old things for which I have a sort of affection. Men sit loose in those matters, but we women are cumbered about with a host of memories, and must always have our trinkets.” She placed some jewels in their case, and shutting it went towards a spinet which stood by the window. “I used to play old tunes on it,” she said, “for the amusement of my father when he tired of idleness in his latter days. It’s a long farewell to my spinet as to all else, but I must play one last air before I shut it. Have you any favourite catch, Francis?”

  Francis shook his head, for in truth he had little music in his soul save of the large rough-and-ready order.

  “Then I will play you an old tune of the Cause, which loyal ladies have sung for many years and will doubtless sing for years to come, seeing that there is little hope of their dreams being fulfilled. It is called ‘Lady Keith’s Lament,’ and the music was made by the King’s own piper, who was a Macrimmon of the Macleods. It goes haltingly to a spinet, but you shall hear it.” And she played a wild melody, singing to it some such words as these: —

  “A’ are gane, the gude, the kindly,

  Low in the moss and far on the sea,

  Men o’ the North, men o’ the muirlands,

  Brave to battle and laith to flee.

  I was aince a lady o’ pride,

  High my hame abune the heather;

  Now my silken gown I tine,

  I maun fare in wind and weather.

  “Kin and kith in weary battle

  By stranger waters across the faem

  Fell, and dying had mind o’ sweet Argos,

  The man of auld and the hills of hame.

  The ship is rocking by the pier,

  The hour draws nigh when we maun pairt.

  Then fare thee weel, my loved, my dear,

  Bide I canna, though breaks my hert.”

  “They are rude, simple verses,” she said, “but to me they are extraordinarily touching. There are some other lines which tell of a brighter hope.” And with some enthusiasm in her voice she sang: —

  “But though I now maun wander dowie,

  And drap the tear on cheek sae pale,

  Yet shall our dule be turned to joy,

  For God maun let the richt prevail.

  My father was a gude lord’s son,

  My mither was an earl’s daughter;

  And I’ll be Lady Keith again

  The day the King comes ower the water.”

  As she finished, she sat for a long time motionless, looking out of the western windows. As for Francis, he fell into a like mood, and neither spoke for long. The sight of this woman, young, unfortunate, bright with a long-descended, subtle beauty, sitting there singing a sad old ballad on that last day of calm before the stormy morrow, moved him more than he could tell. Something in the haunting notes of her voice, the sunset light on her hair, or the long line of golden hill-land which gleamed from the window, seemed to him an epitome of all the fervours and sorrows of life. He sat musing till Margaret rose and shut the spinet.

  “It is time to have done with old songs, Francis. Henceforth it is grimmer work for you and me.”

  CHAPTER XVII. A Journey to the South.

  From Broughton to Moffat is a short day’s journey even for an old travelling coach, but the way is rough and grass-grown up the narrow glen of Tweed to the high moors and the precipitous source of the Annan. Thence in a long day through pleasant Annandale you may come to the Bridge of Esk and pass on to Carlisle walls. The two days were days of sunny, windless weather, and the clear air of the hill-tops put an edge upon the travellers’ spirits. Margaret seemed to forget her troubles, and after the way of woman, was interested in each passing face. As for Francis he had a heavier burden, but even he accepted the inevitable. He served the lady in a somewhat clumsy fashion, for he had no notion of the civilities of a fine society; but as the hours passed the two grew very excellent companions, while some spice of humour enlivened their sombre talk. For take any two clear and honest souls and set them in such a position; you will find them at first constrained and foolish, but as time goes on they will know each other for the human being that he or she may be, and look sanely into the future.

  Carlisle was in an extraordinary stir, what with things political and the yearly summer fair. Daily batches of prisoners came South to these walls, and soon many brave hearts sighed out their life from a tow on the Gallows-hill. Farmers from the hills were everywhere in the streets, drovers and wide-eyed shepherds thronged the ports; and each inn was filled with brown-faced bedlamites who made the night hideous with their din. In a little inn near the south gate, Francis found lodging; this much he had settled at Broughton, for the place was quiet, and the landlord no ill friend to the lost cause. There he left Margaret and her two servants, and went out to the streets in the late evening to ponder over the tangle of his affairs.

  Money must soon be thought of, for his funds were already running low. He had no knowledge of the lady’s wealth, but though she had been amply rich he would have died sooner than let her pay a single crown. When she came to Lady Manorwater’s house his task would be ended; meantime she was his charge, the journey was by his advice, and he alone would see to the lawing. It was an old-faced, grim-looking man who stalked through the rabble of drovers in the noisy, darkening street.

  Suddenly he brushed against a man who stared full in his eyes. It was the face of an elderly grizzled gentleman, clad in stout, simple country clothes, with a long jowl and deep eyebrows. Something in the air demanded recognition, and Francis involuntarily stopped. The man did likewise, and for a second the two blocked the causeway. Then like a flash came a happy intuition to Francis’ brain. “May I have a word with you, sir?” he asked.

  The stranger nodded and led the way across the street to a little public, where he climbed a stair to a room above the causeway. The place was still yellow with sunset, and in a mirror on the wall Francis saw his own reflection. He almost cried aloud, for save for the twenty or thirty years’ difference in age his was almost a double of his companion’s face. His chance thought was now certainty.

  “And now, sir, what is your business with me?” said the elder man.

  “Why, my business is simple,” said Francis. “I have come to claim kinship, sir. You, I think, are my uncle Robert?”

  “So,” said the man solemnly, “I jaloused as much the first glisk I got of ye. Ye will be Francie’s son. Ye favour him, save that ye’re sae muckle wiser-lookin’ as ye seem less drunken. God, man, ye have the Birkenshaw glower maist uncannily in your een. Ye are the leevin’ image o’ my father. And what is it ye seek wi’ me, nevoy Francis? Abune a’, what brings ye to Carlisle toun in thae days o’ war?”

  “Listen to me,” said the other, “and I will tell ye a bit story.” And briefly he told of the last year, of his wanderings and his toils, and now of his final charge. The man heard him out with a grim face.

  “Ye are like your kind, Francie, you and your trokings wi’ outlawed Jaicobites. There was never a Birkenshaw afore took up wi’ sic a bairnly cause.”

  “I have heard bits o’ the family history,” said Francis, “but I never heard that it was the wont of our folk to leave a man when his back was at the wall or to refuse a woman aid.”

  “Ye may put it that way if ye like,” said the man, “but ye canna deny that it’s unprofitable.”

  “Then I leave that branch of the family’s work to you, my dear uncle. I am content if I can keep a coat on my back. Has Markit paid well these last years?”

  “Off and on,” grumbled the other. “The land’s ower unsettled for peaceable folk to dae guid business.”

  “Because I am about to ask
the loan of a hundred guineas,” said Francis, boldly.

  “A hundred guineas,” cried Mr. Robert Birkenshaw. “A hundred golden guineas! The man’s mad! Heard ye ever the like o’ sic a speiring! A hundred guineas, quotha! Mair like a hundred pence!”

  “But you will give it me?” said Francis, “seeing that a journey cannot be decently finished without gold.”

  “But what’s the need o’ the journey, man? Gang back to Dysart to Gregor Shillinglaw and clerk awa’ among the writer lads like an honest man.”

  “You know fine you would never have me do that,” said Francis. “Is our auld house fallen so low as to neglect a plain duty for lack of gear?”

  Mr. Robert Birkenshaw presented a lamentable sight, his face red with emotion and twitching between love of his gold and the impulses of an honest heart. “What can I dae?” he cried miserably. “I’m no mean and I wad uphaud the family honour, but I’m dooms puir though folk ca’ me rich.” Then with a splutter he took out a bag of gold from a flap-pocket and flung it on the table. “Damn ye, Francie, tak’ it,” he cried. “Tak’ it and use it weel. I’ve nae bairns, and whae’s to lend to the family if it’s no mysel’? Ye say ye are serving a leddy. Sit ye doon, and we’ll drink to her if she’s bonny. What’s her name?”