by John Buchan
CHAPTER V
I CLAIM A PROMISE, AND WE SEEK THE HILLS
And now I set myself resolutely to think out something that might be thesaving of my life and my love. I was in a perilous case, for whenGilbert found that I had escaped him, he would come on forthwith toDawyck, and, in all likelihood, be here ere nightfall. One thing wasclear--that I could not bide myself nor leave Marjory to his tendermercies. The hills for me; and for her--ah, that was the rub in thematter!
At last I made out some semblance of a plan. On the edge of Douglasdale,in the shire of Lanark, dwelt William Veitch at the house of Smitwood,the uncle of the dead Sir John, an old man well fallen in the vale ofyears. He was unmolested by all, being a peaceable soldier who hadserved God and the king in his day, and now thought of nothing savemaking a good ending. He would gladly take the lass, I knew, andshelter her till such time as I should come and take her again. Norwould Gilbert follow her thither, for no word should come to his ear ofher destined harbour, and he knew naught of the place nor therelationship. The plan came upon me with such convincing force that Itook no other thought on the matter. Nicol should be left there both asa guard of the place--and who so vigilant?--and as some means ofcommunication between me and my mistress. For my own part, when once Ihad seen my lass safely sheltered, I should take to the hills with alight heart. I should love to be free and careless among the widemoors, and try my wits in a fair contest against my sweet cousin.
I told the thing to Nicol and he gladly agreed. Then I sought outMarjory, who had gone to make some preparations for my flight, and foundher talking gravely to the old man, the only remaining servant. I drewher to the little oak parlour.
"Marjory, lass," I said, "I am but new come home, and I little thoughtto have to take flight again so soon. Do you mind ere I went to the LowCountries I came here to bid you farewell, and you sang me a song?"
"I mind it well," said she.
"Have you a remembrance of the air, my dear? How did it go?" and Iwhistled a stave.
"Ay, even so. You have a good ear, John."
"I think, too, that I have mind of a verse or so," said I. "There wasone which ran like this:
"'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.'
Was it not so?"
"Yes," she said, smiling; "how well you remember, John."
"And there was a refrain, too," I went on.
"'For sooth a maid, all unafraid, Should by her lover be, With wile and art to cheer his heart, And bear him company.'"
Marjory blushed. "Why do you remind me of my old song?" she said. "Itpains me, for I used to sing it ere the trouble came upon us, and whenwe were all as happy as the day was long."
"Nay," I said, "it is a song for the time of trouble. It was yourpromise to me, and I have come to claim its fulfilment. I am for thehills, Marjory, and I cannot leave you behind. Will you come and bearme company? I will take you to Smitwood, where even the devil and mycousin Gilbert could not follow you. There you will be safe till I comeagain when this evil time is past, for pass it must. And I will go tothe hills with a blithe heart, if once I knew you were in good keeping."
"Oh, John, to be sure I will follow you," she said, "even to the world'send. I will fare among rough hills and bogs if I may but be near you.But I will go to Smitwood, for most terribly I dread this place."
So it was all brought to a conclusion, and it but remained to make readywith all speed and seek the uplands. We trusted ourselves wholly toNicol's guidance, for he knew the ways as he knew his own name, and hada wide acquaintance with the hillmen and their hiding-places. On him itlay to find shelter for us on the road and guide us by the mostunfrequented paths. So we set about the preparing of provisions andsetting the house in order. The old man, who was the sole servantremaining, was left in charge of the place against our uncertain return.For myself I should have taken but one horse, Marjory's roan mare, andtramped along on foot; but Nicol bade me take Maisie, for, said he,"I'll tak ye by little-kenned ways, where ye may ride as easy as walk;and forbye, if it cam to the bit, a horse is a usefu' cratur for rinnin'awa on. I could trot fine on my feet mysel', but though ye're a guidman at the sma'-swird, Laird, I doubt ye'd no be muckle at that." Thewords were wise, so I saddled Maisie and prepared to ride her toSmitwood, and there leave her.
It was, I think, about three hours after midday when we were ready tostart on our journey. A strange cavalcade we formed--Marjory on theroan, dressed plainly as for the hills, and with a basket slung acrossthe saddlebow, for all the world like a tinker's pannier; I myself onMaisie, well-mounted and armed, and Nicol on foot, lean and ill-clad asever. It was not without a pang that we set out, for it is hard toleave the fair and settled dwellings of home for haphazard lodging amongrough morasses. Marjory in especial could scarce refrain from tears,while I own that as I looked down the vale and saw the woods of Barnsand the green hills of Manor, I could have found it in me to bedespondent.
But once we left the valley and began to ascend the slopes, our spiritsreturned. It was an afternoon among a thousand, one such as only Aprilweather and the air of the Tweed valley can bring. The sky wascloudless and the wind sharp, and every hill and ridge in the greatlandscape stood out clear as steel. The grass was just greening beneathour feet, the saugh bushes were even now assuming the little whitecatkins, and the whole air was filled with a whistling and twittering ofbirds. We took our road straight through the pine wood which clothesthe western slopes of Scrape. The ground was velvet-dry, and the deerfled swiftly as we neared their coverts. It was glorious to be abroadand feel the impulse of life stirring everywhere around. Yet I couldnot keep from the reflection that at this very time the day before I hadbeen nearing the port of Leith in the Seamaw, expecting nothing save apleasant homecoming, and thereafter a life of peace. Truly in one shortday and night I had led a somewhat active life, and now was fleeing fromthe very place I had most longed to return to.
Soon we left the woods and came out on the heathery brow of Scrape, andcrossing it, entered the deep glen where the burn of Scrape flows tojoin the Powsail. The heather had been burned, as is the custom here inthe early spring, and great clouds of fine white dust rose beneath thehooves of our horses. A dry crackling of twigs and the strident creak ofthe larger roots as they grated on one another, filled our ears. Thenonce more we ascended, high and ever higher, over rocks and treacherousgreen well-eyes and great spaces of red fern, till we gained the brow ofthe hill which they call Glenstivon Dod, and looked down into the littleglen of Powsail.
We crossed the lovely burn of Powsail, which is the most beautiful ofall Tweedside burns, since the water is like sapphire and emerald andtopaz, flashing in every ray like myriad jewels. Here we watered ourhorses, and once more took the hills. And now we were on the wild ridgeof upland which heads the glens of Stanhope and Hopecarton and Polmood,the watershed 'twixt the vales of Tweed and Yarrow. Thence the sight isscarce to be matched to my knowledge in the south country of Scotland.An endless stretching of hills, shoulder rising o'er shoulder, whileever and again some giant lifts himself clean above his fellows, and allthe while in the glen at our feet Tweed winding and murmuring.
I asked Nicol what was the purpose of our journey, for this was by nomeans the shortest way to Douglasdale and Smitwood. He answered that togo straight to our destination would be to run our heads into the lion'smouth. He purposed that we should go up Tweed to a hiding-place whichhe knew of on the Cor Water, and then make over by the upper waters ofthe Clyde and the Abington moors to the house of Smitwood. These werethe more deserted and least accessible places, whereas the villages andlowlands around the skirts of the hills were watched like the HighStreet of Edinburgh.
In a litt
le we passed the wild trough where the Stanhope Burn flowstoward Tweed. It was now drawing toward the darkening, and the deep,black glen seemed dark as the nether pit. Had we not had a guide towhom the place was familiar as his own doorstep, we should soon havebeen floundering over some craig. As it was, our case was not withoutits danger. It is not a heartening thing to go stumbling on hilltops inthe dusk of an April evening, with black, horrific hill-slopes sinkingon all sides. Marjory grew frightened, as I knew by the tightened clutchat her horse's rein, and her ever seeking to draw nearer me, but likethe brave lass that she was, she breathed never a word of it. Every nowand then an owl would swoop close to our faces, or a great curlew dartout of the night with its shrill scream, and vanish again into the dark.It was an uncanny place at that hour, and one little to be sought bythose who love comfort and peace. But the very difficulty of the waygladdened us, for it gave us assurance that we would be unmolested bywayfaring dragoons. By and by stars came out and the moon rose,glorious and full as on the night before, when I had ridden from Leith.Then it served to light my course to Dawyck, now to guide me from it.
We were now descending a steep hillside, all rough with _sklidders_, andcoming to the Water of Talla, which we forded at a shallow a littlebelow the wild waterfall called Talla Linns. Even there we could hearthe roar of the cataract, and an awesome thing it was in that lonelyplace. But we tarried not a minute, but urged our horses up a desperateravine till once more we were on the crest of the hills. And now adifferent land was around us. Far to the right, where the Talla joinsthe Tweed, we could mark the few lights of the little village ofTweedsmuir. The higher hills had been left behind, and we were on awide expanse of little ridges and moor which the people of Tweedsidecall "The Muirs," and which extends from the upper Clyde waters to thesource of the Annan and the monstrous hills which line its course. Ihad been but once before in the place, in the winter time, when I wasshooting the duck which come here in great plenty. To me, then, it hadseemed the bleakest place in God's creation, but now, under the silvermoonlight, it seemed like a fantastic fairyland, and the long, gleamingline of Tweed like the fabled river which is the entrance to that happydomain.
We were now near our journey's end, and in the very heart of the moorsof Tweed. The night was bright with moonlight, and we went alongspeedily. Soon we came to a narrow upland valley, walled withprecipitous green hills. Here Nicol halted.
"There'll be watchers aboot," he said, "and our coming 'ill hae beentellt to the folk in the cave. We'd better gang warily." So we turnedour horses up the glen, riding along the narrow strip of meadowlandbeside the burn. I had heard of the place before, and knew it for theCor Water, a stream famous for trout, and at this time, no less renownedamong the hillmen as a hiding-place. For in the steep craigs and screesthere were many caves and holes where one might lie hid for months.
Soon we came to a steep, green bank, and here we drew rein. Nicolwhistled on his fingers, with a peculiar, piercing note like a whaup'scry. It was answered by another from the near neighbourhood. AgainNicol whistled with a different pitch, and this time a figure came outas from the hillside, and spoke.
"Whae are ye," he said, "that come here, and what do ye seek? If yecome in the Lord's name, welcome and a night's lodging await ye. If no,fire and a sword."
"I'm Nicol Plenderleith," said my servant, "as weel ye ken, JohnLaidlaw. And these are twae gentlefolk, whose names are no convenientto be mentioned here, for hillsides hae ears. If ye come near, I'llwhisper it in your lug."
The man approached and appeared well-satisfied. He bade us dismount andled the horses off, while we waited. Then he returned, and bidding usfollow, led the way up a steep gully which scarred the hillside. In alittle he stopped at an out-jutting rock, and crept round the corner ofit. At the side next the hill was an opening large enough to allow aman of ordinary stature to pass, and here he entered and motioned us tofollow.
