by John Buchan
CHAPTER III
THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK
I knew well that I had little time to lose, and that what must be donemust be done quickly. So as soon as the tails of them were round thehillside, I came out from my hiding-place and mounted Maisie once more.I thanked the landlord, and with a cry that I would remember him if Iever got my affairs righted again, I turned sharply through the burn anddown the path to Peebles. It was touch or miss with me, for it wasunlikely that the highway between the west country and the vale ofPeebles would be freed from the military.
Yet freed it was. It may have been that the folk of Tweedside werelittle caring about any religion, and most unlike the dour carles of theWestlands, or it may have been that they were not yet stirring. At anyrate I passed unmolested. I struck straight for the ridge of Dreva, androunding it, faced the long valley of Tweed, with Rachan woods andDrummelzier haughs and the level lands of Stobo. Far down lay theforest of Dawyck, black as ink on the steep hillside. Down by the TweedI rode, picking my way very carefully among the marshes, and guardingthe deep black moss-holes which yawned in the meadows. Here daybreakcame upon us, the first early gleam of light, tingling in the east, andchanging the lucent darkness of the moonlit night to a shadowy greysunrise. Scrape raised his bald forehead above me, and down the glen Ihad a glimpse of the jagged peaks of the Shieldgreen Kips, showing sharpagainst the red dawn. In a little I was at the avenue of Dawyck, androde up the green sward, with the birds twittering in the coppice, eagerto see my love.
The house was dead as a stone wall, and no signs of life came fromwithin. But above me a lattice was opened to catch the morning air. Ileapt to the ground and led Maisie round to the stables which I knew sowell. The place was deserted; no serving-man was about; the stallslooked as if they had been empty for ages. A great fear took my heart.Marjory might be gone, taken I knew not whither. I fled to the door asthough the fiend were behind me, and knocked clamorously for admittance.Far off in the house, as it were miles away, I heard footsteps and theopening of doors. They came nearer, and the great house-door was openedcautiously as far as possible without undoing the chain; and from withina thin piping inquired my name and purpose.
I knew the voice for the oldest serving-man who dwelt in the house.
"Open, you fool, open," I cried. "Do you not know me? The Laird ofBarns?"
The chain was unlocked by a tremulous hand.
"Maister John, Maister John," cried the old man, all but weeping. "Is'tyoursel' at last? We've had sair, sair need o' ye. Eh, but she'll beblithe to see ye."
"Is your mistress well?" I cried with a great anxiety.
"Weel eneuch, the puir lass, but sair troubled in mind. But that'll a'be bye and dune wi', noo that ye're come back."
"Where is she? Quick, tell me," I asked in my impatience.
"In the oak room i' the lang passage," he said, as quick as he couldmuster breath.
I knew the place, and without more words I set off across the hall,running and labouring hard to keep my heart from bursting. Now at lastI should see the dear lass whom I had left. There was the door, alittle ajar, and the light of a sunbeam slanting athwart it.
I knocked feebly, for my excitement was great.
"Come," said that voice which I loved best in all the world.
I entered, and there, at the far end of the room, in the old chair inwhich her father had always sat, wearing the dark dress of velvet whichbecame her best, and with a great book in her lap, was Marjory.
She sprang up at my entrance, and with a low cry of joy ran to meet me.I took a step and had her in my arms. My heart was beating in a mightytumult of joy, and when once my love's head lay on my shoulder, I carednot a fig for all the ills in the world. I cannot tell of that meeting;even now my heart grows warm at the thought; but if such moments begiven to many men, there is little to complain of in life.
"O John," she cried, "I knew you would come. I guessed that everyfootstep was yours, coming to help us. For oh! there have been suchterrible times since you went away. How terrible I cannot tell you,"and her eyes filled with tears as she looked in mine.
So we sat down by the low window, holding each other's hands, thinkingscarce anything save the joy of the other's presence. The primroseswere starring the grass without, and the blossom coming thick and faston the cherry trees. So glad a world it was that it seemed as if allwere vanity save a dwelling like the Lotophagi in a paradise ofidleness.
But I quickly roused myself. It was no time for making love when theenemy were even now at the gates.
"Marjory, lass," I said, "tell me all that has been done since I wentaway."
And she told me, and a pitiful tale it was--that which I had heard fromNicol, but more tragic and sad. I heard of her brother's ruin, how thebrave, generous gentleman, with a head no better than a weathercock, hadgone down the stages to besotted infamy. I heard of Gilbert's masterfulknavery, of his wooing at Dawyck, and how he had despoiled the house ofBarns. It seemed that he had spent days at Dawyck in the company ofMichael Veitch, putting my poor Marjory to such a persecution that Icould scarce bide still at the hearing of it. He would importune hernight and day, now by gallantry and now by threats. Then he would seekto win her favour by acts of daring, such as he well knew how to do.But mostly he trusted to the influence of her brother, who was his aiderand abetter in all things. I marvelled how a gentleman of family couldever sink so low as to be the servant of such cowardice. But so it was,and my heart was sore for all the toils which the poor girl had enduredin that great, desolate house, with no certain hope for the future. Shedurst not write a letter, for she was spied on closely by hertormentors, and if she had bade me return, they well knew I would comewith the greatest speed, and so in knowing the time of my arrival, wouldlay hands on me without trouble. The letter which reached me was sealedunder her brother's eyes and the postscript was added with the greatestpains and sent by Tam Todd, who sat at Barns in wrath and impotence.Truly things had gone wrong with a hearty good-will since I had riddenaway.
But the matter did not seem much better now that I had returned. I wasan outlawed man, with no dwelling and scarce any friends, since the menof my own house were either hostile or powerless to aid. My estates werea prey to my enemies. I had naught to trust to save my own good fortuneand a tolerably ready sword, and, to crown all, my love was in thedirest danger. If she abode at Dawyck the bitter persecution must berenewed, and that the poor maid should suffer this was more than I couldendure. I had no fear of her faithfulness, for I knew of old hersteadfast heart and brave spirit, but I feared my cousin as I feared noother on earth. He cared not a fig for the scruples of ordinary men,and he was possessed of a most devilish cunning, before which I feltpowerless as a babe. Yet I doubtless wronged him by suspicion, for,after all, he was a Burnet, and fought openly as a man of honour should.But he had a gang of marauding ruffians at his heels, and God alone knewwhat might happen.
At all events, I must wait till what time my servant Nicol should arrivefrom Leith. I had no fear of his failing, for he had the readiest witthat ever man had, and I verily believe the longest legs. He should beat Dawyck ere noonday, when he should advise me as to my course. Norwas there any immediate danger pressing, for so long as Gilbert abode atLeith he could not come to Dawyck, and unless our schemes grievouslymiscarried, he could not yet have been apprised of my escape. Moreover,the soldiers to whom I had given the slip the night before, could as yethave no inkling either of my identity or my present harbour. So for themeantime I was safe to meditate on the future.
Marjory, woman-like, was assured that now I had come back her sorrowswere at an end. She would hear nothing of danger to be. "Now that youare here, John," she would say, "I am afraid of nothing. I do not careif Gilbert return and plague me a thousandfold more; I shall wellsupport it if I know that you are in the land. It is for you I fear,for what must you do save go to the hills and hide like the hillmen inc
aves and peatbogs? It is surely a sad use for your learning, sir."
So the morning passed so quickly that I scarce knew it. We wenttogether to a little turret-room facing the north and fronting the broadavenue which all must pass who come to the house; and here we waited forthe coming of Nicol. I felt a fierce regret as I looked away over thewoods and meadows to the little ridge of hills beyond which lay Barns,and saw the fair landscape all bathed in spring sunshine. It was sostill and peaceful that I felt a great desire to dwell there withMarjory in quiet, and have done forever with brawling and warfare. Ihad come home from the Low Countries with a longing for the plaincountry life of Tweeddale, such as I had been bred to. I was preparedin heart to get ready my fishing-rods and see to my guns, and beginagain my long-loved sports. But harsh fate had decreed otherwise, and Iwas to fare forth like a partridge on the mountains, and taste the joysof the chase in a new manner. But at the thought my spirits rose again.I would love dearly to play a game of hide-and-go-seek with my cousinGilbert, and so long as I had my sword and my wits about me, I did notfear. My one care was Marjory, and this, in truth, was a sore one. Icursed my cousin right heartily, and all his belongings, and vowed, deepdown in my heart, to recompense him some day for all his doings.
It is true that all this while it lay open to me to brazen it out beforeHis Majesty's Council, and try to clear my name from guilt. But as thehours passed this method grew more distasteful to me. There I should bein a strange place among enemies and scenes of which I knew nothing.Innocent though I might be, it was more than likely that I should findmyself worsted. More, it seemed the gallanter thing to contest thematter alone among the hills, a fight between soldiers, with no solemnknaves to interfere. So by this time I had all but resolved on thecourse which my servant had first advised.
About twelve of the clock we saw a long figure slinking up the avenue,keeping well in the shade of the trees, and looking warily on all sides.I knew my man, and going down to the door, I set it open, and waited forhis coming. Nor did I wait long. When he saw me he changed his walk fora trot, and came up breathing hard, like a hound which has had a longrun. I led him into the dining-hall, and Marjory prepared for him foodand drink. Never a word spoke he till he had satisfied his hunger.Then he pushed back his chair, and looking sadly at my lady, shook hishead as though in dire confusion.
"A bonny bigging, Maister John," he said, "but ye'll sune hae to leaveit."
"That's a matter on which I have waited for your coming," said I, "but Iwould hear how you fared since I left you."
"I've nae guid news," he said sadly, "but such as they are ye maun e'enhear them."
And this was the tale he told.
