by John Buchan
CHAPTER VIII
I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS
The next month was, I think, the busiest in my life. For from theevening of my meeting with Michael Veitch my mind was firmly made up togo to travel abroad, and with this determination came all the countlesstroubles which a man must meet before he can leave his home. I was busynight and day, now down at Peebles, now riding up Manor and all over theBarns lands, seeing that all things were in right order ere mydeparture. I got together all the money I desired, and with drafts onthe Dutch bankers, which the lawyer folk in Edinburgh got for me, I wasin no danger of falling into poverty abroad.
On Tam Todd I laid the management of all things in my absence; and Tam,much impressed by his responsibility, though it was a task which he hadreally undertaken long before in the later years of my father's life,went about his work with a serious, preoccupied air, as of Atlas withthe world on his shoulders. I had much ado in getting ready my baggagefor the journey, for I wished to take little, being confident that Icould buy all things needful abroad. Jean Morran, on the other hand,would have had me take half the plenishing of the house of Barns, fromlinen sheets to fresh-kirned butter, for I could not persuade her tothink otherwise than that I was going into a desolate land among heathensavages.
Then I had to visit many folk up and down Tweed to take farewell; and Ihad so many letters given me to men of standing abroad, that, if I haddelivered them all, I should have had to spend more time than I cared.One I valued more than any other--a letter written by Master GilbertBurnet, of London, to a professor in the university of Leyden--which Ihoped would bring me into the company of scholars. For I had changed myoriginal intention of going to the wars, first, because I found onexamination that, in my inmost heart, I had that hankering afterlearning which would never be sated save by a life with some facilitiesfor study; second, because, now that I was the sole member of the house,it behooved me to bide on the land and see to it, and any such thing assoldiering would keep me away for too great a time. I sent, too, to theCollege Library at Glasgow, for all the books on the Low Countries to behad, and spent much profitable time reading of the history of the place,and how the land lay.
During these days I was much in the company of the new master of Dawyck,and a most delectable comrade I found him. He had a vast stock of talesand jests, collected in his travels, with which he would amuse hisfriends; he was something of a scholar, and could talk learnedly when hechose; and he was expert at all outdoor sports, pressing me hard at thesword-play, in which I prided myself on my skill. He was of a free,generous nature, and singularly courteous to all, high and low, rich andpoor alike. Yet, with all these excellencies, there was much that Iliked ill about him, for he was over-fond of resorting to the taverns atPeebles, where he would muddle his wits in the company of his inferiors.His life at Dawyck was none of the most regular, though, indeed, I havelittle cause to blame him, being none so good myself; though the vice ofover-indulging in wine was one that Providence always mercifully kept mefrom.
He came perhaps every third day to Barns to ride with me in the haugh,and he would abide to supper-time, or even over night, making me fearfor Marjory's peace of mind. To his sister he was most dutiful andkind, and I was glad to think that now the days might be more pleasantfor her with her brother in the house. And it pleased me to think thatwhen I went abroad, my lady would be left in no bad keeping.
The days, the short January days, passed quickly over my head, and,almost ere I knew, the time had come for my departure. And now, whenthe hour came so nigh, I felt some pain at the thought of leaving homeand my beloved countryside for unknown places; though, to tell thetruth, such thoughts were not ill to dispel by the contemplation of thepleasures in prospect. Yet it was with mingled feelings that I rodeover to Dawyck on a sharp Monday afternoon to bid Marjory farewell.
I found her in the low, dim room, looking to the west, where she waswont to sit in winter. A great fire crackled cheerily on the hearth,and many little devices about the place showed a woman's hand. Holly,with scarlet berries, put colour into the sombre walls, and Marjoryherself, brighter than any flower, made the firelight dull in thecontrast; so fair she looked, as she greeted me, with her bright hairand unfathomable eyes.
"I have come to see you for the last time, Marjory," I said; "to-morrowI set out on my travels."
"I am vexed that you are going away," and she looked at me sadly; "itwill be lonely in Tweeddale without you."
"My dear lass, I will not be long. Two years at the longest, and then Iwill be home to you, and travel no more. What say you, Marjory?"
"Your will be done, John. Yet I would I could have gone with you."
"I would you could, my dear," I said. "But that might scarce be. Youwould not like, I think, to sail on rough seas, or bide among towns andcolleges. You love the woods too well."
"Wherever you were," said she, with her eyes drooped, "I would becontent to be."
"But Marjory, lass," I spoke up cheerfully, for I feared to make hersad, "you would not like me to stay at home, when the world is so wide,and so many brave things to be seen."
"No, no. I have no love for folks who bide in the house like children.I would have you go and do gallantly, and come home full of fine tales.But where do you mean to go, and how will you pass your time?"
"Oh," said I, "I go first to Rotterdam, where I may reside for a while.Then I purpose to visit the college at Leyden, to study; for I wouldfain spend some portion of my time profitably. After that I know notwhat I will do, but be sure that I will be home within the two years.For, though I am blithe to set out, I doubt not that I will be blitherto come back again."
"I trust you may not learn in those far-away places to look down onTweeddale and the simple folks here. I doubt you may, John; for you arenot a steadfast man," and, at this, she laughed and I blushed, for Ithought of my conduct at Glasgow.
"Nay, nay," I answered; "I love you all too well for that. Though theEmperor of Cathay were to offer me all his treasure to bide away, Iwould come back. I would rather be a shepherd in Tweeddale than a noblein Spain."
"Brave words, John," she cried, "brave words! See you hold to them."
Then after that we fell to discussing Michael, and his ways of amusinghimself; and I bade Marjory tell her brother to look in now and then atBarns to see how Tam Todd fared. Also I bade her tell him that it wasmy wish that he should hunt and fish over my lands as much as hepleased. "And see you keep him in order," I added, laughing, "lest heslip off to the wars again."
"Oh, John," she said, with a frightened look, "do not speak so. That iswhat I fear above all things, for he is restless, even here, and mustever be wandering from one place to another."
"Tut, my dear," I said; "Michael, be sure, is too honest a man to leaveyou again, when I am off, once I have left you in his care. Have nofear for him. But we are getting as dull as owls, and it is many dayssince I heard your voice. I pray you sing me a song, as you used to doin the old days. 'Twill be long ere I hear another."
She rose and went without a word to her harpsichord and struck a fewnotes. Now Marjory had a most wonderful voice, more like a linnet'sthan aught else, and she sang the old ballads very sweetly. But to-dayshe took none of them, but a brisk martial song, which pleased memarvellously well. I will set down the words as she sang them, for Ihave hummed them many a time to myself:
"Oh, if my love were sailor-bred And fared afar from home, In perilous lands, by shoal and sands, If he were sworn to roam, Then, O, I'd hie me to a ship, And sail upon the sea, And keep his side in wind and tide To bear him company.
"And if he were a soldier gay, And tarried from the town, And sought in wars, through death and scars, To win for him renown, I'd place his colours in my breast, And ride by moor and lea, And win his side, there to abide, And bear him company.
"For sooth a maid, all unafraid, Should b
y her lover be, With wile and art to cheer his heart, And bear him company."
"A fine promise, Marjory," I cried, "and some day I may claim itsfulfilment. But who taught you the song?"
"Who but the Travelling Packman, or, maybe, the Wandering Jew?" shesaid, laughingly; and I knew this was the way of answer she used whenshe would not tell me anything. So, to this day, I know not whence shegot the catch.
Then we parted, not without tears on her part, and blank misgivings onmy own. For the vexed question came to disturb me, whether it was notmere self-gratification on my part thus to travel, and whether my morehonourable place was not at home. But I banished the thoughts, for Iknew how futile they were, and comforted my brave lass as best I could.
"Fare thee well, my love," I cried, as I mounted my horse, "and Goddefend you till I come again"; and, whenever I looked back, till I hadpassed the great avenue, I saw the glimmer of Marjory's dress, and feltpricked in the conscience for leaving her.
