by John Buchan
CHAPTER II
AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND
I slept like a log till the broad daylight on the next morn woke me, andwith all speed I got up and dressed. I found myself much refreshed inbody. My weariness was gone, and the dull languor which had oppressedme had given place to a singular freshness of spirit.
When I went below I found my servant ready and waiting, with the horsessaddled and my meal prepared. The soldiers had gone early, paying noscore; for when their liquor had left them they had wakened up to thesolemn conviction that this countryside was not like to be a pleasanthabitation for them for many months to come. So they had gone off toHeaven knows where, cutting my bridle-rein as a last token of theiraffection.
It was near ten o'clock ere we started, the two of us, on our road tothe West. I had travelled it many times, for it was the way to Glasgow,and I found myself calling up, whether I would or no, a thousandhalf-sad and half-pleasing memories. At this place I had stopped towater my horse, at this cottage I had halted for an hour, at this hostelI had lain the night. Had I not looked at my comrade every now andthen, I might have fancied that I was still the schoolboy, with his wideinterest in letters and life, and little knowledge of either, with halfa dozen letters in his pocket, looking forward with fear and hope totown and college. Heigh-ho! Many things had come and gone since then,and here was I still the same boy, but ah! how tossed and buffeted andperplexed. Yet I would not have bartered my present state for thosecareless and joyous years, for after all this is a rugged world, withGod knows how many sore straits and devilish temptations, but with somany fair and valiant rewards, that a man is a coward indeed who wouldnot battle through the one for the sweet sake of the other.
As we went Nicol talked of many things with a cheery good humour. Hiswas an adventure-loving mind, and there were few things which he wouldnot brave save the routine of settled life. Now, as the November suncame out, for the morn was frosty and clear, his face shone with thesharp air and the excitement of the ride, and he entertained me to hisviews on the world and the things in it. The ground was hard as steelunderfoot, the horse's hooves crackled through the little ice-coatedpools in the road, and a solitary thrush sang its song from a waysidewood and seemed like a silver trump calling to action and daring.
"What think ye o' the hills, Laird?" said my servant. "Ye've been langamong them, and ye'll ken them noo in anither way than if ye had justtrampit ower them after wild-jucks or ridden through them to Yarrow orMoffatdale. I've wandered among them since I was a laddie five 'earauld, and used to gang oot wi' my faither to the herdin'. And sincethen I've traivelled up Tweed and doun Tweed, and a' ower the Clydesideand the Annanside, no to speak o' furrin pairts, and I can weel say thatI ken naucht sae awfu' and sae kindly, sae couthy and bonny and hamely,and, at the same time, sae cauld and cruel, as juist thae green hillsand muirs."
"You speak truly," said I. "I've seen them in all weathers and I knowwell what you mean."
"Ay," he went on, "thae lawlands are very bonny, wi' the laigh meadows,and bosky trees and waters as still as a mill-pound. And if ye comedoun frae the high bare lands ye think them fair like Heev'n. But Icanna bide lang there. I aye turn fair sick for the smell o' moss andheather, and the roarin' and routin' o' the burn, and the air sae clearand snell that it gars your face prick and your legs and airmsstrauchten oot, till ye think ye could run frae here to the Heads o'Ayr."
"I know all of that," said I, "and more."
"Ay, there's far mair," said he. "There's the sleepin' at nicht on thegrund wi' naething abune you but the stars, and waukin' i' the mornin'wi' the birds singin' i' your lug and the wind blawin' cool and freearound you. I ken a' that and I ken the ither, when the mist crowds lowon the tap o' the hills and the rain dreeps and seeps, or when the snawcomes and drifts sae thick that ye canna stand afore it, and there'slife neither for man nor beast. Yet wi' it a' I like it, and if I michtchoose the place I wad like best to dee in, it would be in the lee sideo' a muckle hill, wi' nae death-bed or sic like havers, but juist togang straucht to my Makker frae the yirth I had aye traivelled on. Butwha kens?" and he spurred up his horse.
"Nicol," said I, after a long silence, "you know the errand we go on. Ihave told you it, I think. It is to find my cousin and Mistress Marjory.If God grant that we do so, then these are my orders. You shall takethe lady home to Tweeddale, to Dawyck, which is her own, and leave mebehind you. I may come back or I may not. If I do, all will be well.If I do not, you know your duty. You have already fulfilled it for somelittle time; if it happens as I say, you shall continue it to death.The lass will have no other protector than yourself."
"E'en as ye say," cried he, resuming his hilarity, though whether it wasreal or no I cannot tell. "But dinna crack aboot siccan things, Laird,or ye'll be makkin' our journey nae better than buryin'. It's awanchancy thing to speak aboot death. No that a man should be feared atit, but that he should keep a calm sough till it come. Ye mind thestory o' auld Tam Blacket, the writer at Peebles. Tam was deein', andas he was a guid auld man the minister, whae was great at death-beds andconsolation, cam to speak to him aboot his latter end. 'Ye're neardeath, Tammas,' says he. Up gets auld Tam. 'I'll thank ye no tomention that subject,' he says, and never a word wad he allow the puirman to speak."
So in this way we talked till we came to where the road leaves the Clydevalley and rises steep to the high land about the town of Hamilton.Here we alighted for dinner at an inn which bears for its sign the Shipof War, though what this means in a town many miles from the sea I donot know. Here we had a most excellent meal, over which we did nottarry long, for we sought to reach Glasgow ere nightfall, and at thatseason of the year the day closes early.
As we rode down the narrow, crooked street, I had leisure to look aboutme. The town was in a ferment, for, as near the field of Bothwell Brig,where the Whigs had suffered their chiefest slaughter, it had been wellgarrisoned with soldiers, and the news of the Prince of Orange's landingput the place into an uproar. Men with flushed, eager faces hurried pastwith wonder writ large on their cheeks; others stood about in knotstalking shrilly; and every now and then a horseman would push his waythrough the crowd bearing fresh tidings to the townsfolk or carrying itthence to the West country.
Suddenly, in the throng of men, I saw a face which brought me to astandstill. It was that of a man, dark, sullen, and foreign-looking,whose former dragoon's dress a countryman's coat poorly concealed. Hewas pushing his way eagerly through the crowd, when he looked into themid-street and caught my eye. In an instant he had dived into one ofthe narrow closes and was lost to sight.
At the first glance I knew my man for that soldier of Gilbert's, JanHamman, the Hollander, whom already thrice I had met, once in the AlphenRoad, once at the joining of the Cor Water with Tweed, and once at thecaves of the Cor, when so many of His Majesty's servants went to theiraccount. What he was about in this West country I could not think, forhad he been wise he would have made for the eastern seacoast or at leastnot ventured into this stronghold of those he had persecuted. And withthe thought another came. Had not he spoken bitterly of his commander?was he not the victim of one of my fair cousin's many infamies? had henot, in my own hearing, sworn vengeance? Gilbert had more foes than oneon his track, for here was this man, darkly malevolent, dogging him inhis flight. The thought flashed upon me that he of all men would knowmy cousin's plans and would aid me in my search. I did not for a momentdesire him for an ally in my work; nay, I should first frustrate hisdesigns, before I settled matters with Gilbert, for it was in thehighest degree unseemly that any such villain should meddle in matterswhich belonged solely to our house. Still I should use him for my ownends, come what might.
I leaped from my horse, crying on Nicol to take charge of it, and dashedup the narrow entry. I had just a glimpse of a figure vanishing roundthe far corner, and when I had picked my way, stumbling over countlessobstacles, I found at the end an open cou
rt, roughly paved withcobbie-stones, and beyond that a high wall. With all my might I made agreat leap and caught the top, and lo! I looked over into a narrow lanewherein children were playing. It was clear that my man had gone bythis road, and would now be mixed among the folk in the side street. Itwas useless to follow further, so in some chagrin I retraced my steps,banning Nicol and the Dutchman and my own ill-luck.
I remounted, making no answer to my servant's sarcasticcondolences--for, of course, he had no knowledge of this fellow'spurport in coming to the Westlands, and could only look on my conduct asa whimsical freak. As we passed down the street I kept a shrewd lookoutto right and left if haply I might see my man, but no such good luckvisited me. Once out of the town it behooved us to make better speed,for little of the afternoon remained, and dusk at this time of year fellsharp and sudden. So with a great jingling and bravado we clatteredthrough the little hamlets of Blantyre and Cambuslang, and came just atthe darkening to the populous burgh of Rutherglen, which, saving that ithas no college or abbey, is a more bustling and prosperous place thanGlasgow itself. But here we did not stay, being eager to win to ourjourney's end; so after a glass of wine at an inn we took the paththrough the now dusky meadows by Clyde side, and passing through thevillage of Gorbals, which lies on the south bank of the river, wecrossed the great bridge and entered the gates just as they were on thepoint of closing.
During the latter hours of the day I had gone over again in mind all thedetails of the doings of past weeks. All seemed now clear, and withgreat heartiness I cursed myself for errors, which I could scarce haverefrained from. The steps in Gilbert's plan lay before me one by one.The letter had given him only the slightest of clues, which he must havetaken weeks to discover. When at last it had been made clear to him,something else had engaged his mind. He must have had word from privatesources, shut to the country folk, of the way whither events weretrending in the state. His mind was made up; he would make onedesperate bid for success; and thus he shaped his course. He sent mento Smitwood with the plausible story which I had already heard from myservant, how all breach was healed between us, and how this was herescort to take her to me. Then I doubted not he had bidden the men showher as proof some letter forged in my name on the model of the one I hadlost on Caerdon, and also give her some slight hint of the great changein the country to convince her that now he could do no ill even had hedesired it, and that I was now on the summit of fortune. The poor lass,wearied with anxiety and long delay, and with no wise Nicol at hand togive better counsel, had suffered herself to be persuaded, and left thehouse with a glad heart. I pictured her disillusion, her bitterregrets, her unwilling flight. And then I swore with redoubledvehemence that it should not be for long.
We alighted for the night at the house of that Mistress Macmillan, whereI lodged when I first came to college. She welcomed us heartily, andprepared us a noble supper, for we were hungry as hawks, and I, for one,tired with many rough adventures. The house stood in the Gallow Gate,near the salt market and the college gardens; and as I lay down on thefresh sheets and heard the many noises of the street with the ripple ofthe river filling the pauses, I thanked God that at last I had come outof beggary and outlawry to decent habitation.
