by John Buchan
CHAPTER VI
I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET
I slept till dawn the dreamless sleep of those who have drowned care inbodily exertion. It was scarce light when I awoke, and, with theopening of the eyes, there came with a rush the consciousness of myerrand. I leaped out of bed, and sitting on the edge considered myfurther actions.
First I sought to remove from my person some of the more glaring stainsof travel. There was water in the room, bitter cold and all but frozen,and with it I laved my face and hands.
Then I opened the chamber door and stepped out into one of the longcorridors. The house was still, though somewhere in the far distance Icould hear the bustle of servants. I cast my mind back many years, andstrove to remember where was the room where the morning meal was served.I descended the staircase to the broad, high hall, but still there wereno signs of other occupants. One door I tried, but it was locked;another, with no better fate, till I began to doubt my judgment. Then Iperceived one standing ajar, and, pushing it wide, I looked in.Breakfast was laid on the table, and a fire smoked on the hearth. Ientered and closed the door behind me.
There was a looking-glass at the far end, and, as I entered, I caught aglimpse of my figure. Grim as was my errand, I could have laughed aloudat the sight. My hair unkempt, my face tanned to the deepest brown, mystrange scarlet clothes, marred as they were by wind and weather, gaveme a look so truculent and weird that I was half afraid of myself. Andthen this humour passed, and all the sufferings of the past, the hate,the despairing love, the anxious care came back upon me in a flood, andI felt that such garb was fitting for such a place and such a season.
I warmed my hands at the blaze and waited. The minutes dragged slowly,while no sound came save the bickering of the fire and the solemnticking of a clock. I had not a shade of fear or perturbation. Never inall my life had my mind been so wholly at ease. I waited for the comingof my enemy, as one would wait on a ferry or the opening of a gate,quiet, calm, and fixed of purpose.
At last, and it must have been a good hour, I heard steps on the stair.Clearly my cousin had slept long after his exertions. Nearer they came,and I heard his voice giving some orders to the servants. Then the doorwas opened, and he came in.
At first sight I scarcely knew him, so changed was he from the time ofour last meeting. He was grown much thinner and gaunter in countenance,nor was his dress so well-cared for and trim as I remembered him. Thehigh, masterful look which his face always wore had deepened intosomething bitter and savage, as if he had grown half-sick of the worldand cared naught for the things which had aforetime delighted him. Hishabit of scorn for all which opposed him, and all which was beneath him,had grown on him with his years and power, and given him that look as ofone born to command, ay, and of one to whom suffering and pain were lessthan nothing. As I looked on him I hated him deeply and fiercely, andyet I admired him more than I could bear to think, and gloried that hewas of our family. For I have rarely seen a nobler figure of a man. Iam not little, but in his presence I felt dwarfed. Nor was it only instature that he had the preeminence, for his step was as light and hiseye as keen as a master of fence.
He had expected a very different figure to greet him at the other sideof the table. In place of a lissom maid he saw a grim, rough-clad manwaiting on him with death in his eyes. I saw surprise, anger, even amomentary spasm of fear flit across his face. He looked at me keenly,then with a great effort he controlled himself, and his sullen face grewhard as stone.
"Good morning to you, Master John Burnet," said he. "I am overjoyed tosee you again. I had hoped to have had a meeting with you in the pastmonths among your own hills of Tweedside, but the chance was denied me.But better late than never. I bid you welcome."
I bowed. "I thank you," I said.
"I have another guest," said he, "whom you know. It is a fortunatechance that you should both be present. This old house of Eaglesham hasnot held so many folk for many a long day. May I ask when you arrived?"The man spoke all the while with great effort, and his eyes searched myface as though he would wrest from me my inmost thoughts.
"An end to this fooling, Gilbert," I said, quietly. "Marjory Veitch isno more in this house; with the escort of my servant she is on her roadto Tweeddale. By this time she will be more than half-way there."
He sprang at me like a wild thing, his face suddenly inflaming withpassion.
"You, you--" he cried, but no words could come. He could only stutterand gape, with murder staring from his visage.
As for me the passion in him roused in me a far greater.
"Yes," I cried, my voice rising so that I scarce knew it for mine. "Youvillain, liar, deceiver, murderer, by the living God, the time has nowcome for your deserts. You tortured my love and harassed her withhateful captivity; you slew her brother, your friend, slew him in hiscups like the coward you are; you drove me from my house and lands; youmade me crouch and hide in the hills like a fox, and hunted me with yourhell-hounds; you lied and killed and tortured, but now I am free, andnow you will find that I am your master. I have longed for this day,oh, for so long, and now you shall not escape me. Gilbert Burnet, thisearth is wide, but it is not wide enough for you and me to livetogether. One or other of us shall never go from this place."
He made no answer but only looked me straight in the face, with a lookfrom which the rage died by degrees. Then he spoke slowly andmeasuredly. "I think you are right, Cousin John," said he, "the world istoo small for both of us. We must come to a settlement." And in histone there was a spice of pity and regret. Then I knew that I had lied,and that this man was stronger than I.
For a little we stood looking across the table at each other. There wasan extraordinary attraction in the man, and before the power of his keeneyes I felt my wits trembling. Then, with his hand, he motioned me tosit down. "The morning air is raw, Cousin John. It will be better tofinish our meal," and he called to his servant to bring in breakfast.
I have never eaten food in my life under stranger circumstances. Yet Idid not fear aught, but satisfied my hunger with much readiness. As forhim, he toyed and ate little. Once I caught him looking over at me witha shade of anxiety, of dread in his gaze. No word passed between us, forboth alike felt the time too momentous for any light talk. As theminutes fled I seemed to discern some change in his manner. His browsgrew heavier and he appeared to brood over the past, while his glancesought the pictures on the walls, and my face in turn, with something offierceness. When all was over he rose and courteously made way for meto pass, holding the door wide as I went out. Then he led me to alittle room at the other side of the hall, whence a window opened to thegarden.
"You wish to be satisfied," he said, "and I grant you that the wish isjust. There are some matters 'twixt me and thee that need clearing.But, first, by your leave, I have something to say. You believe meguilty of many crimes, and I fling the charge in your teeth. But onething I did unwittingly and have often repented of. Michael Veitch fellby his own folly and by no fault of mine."
"Let that be," said I; "I have heard another tale."
"I have said my say; your belief matters naught to me. One thing I askyou. Where has the girl Marjory gone? If fate decides against you, itis but right I should have her."
"Nay," I cried, passionately, "that you never shall. You have causedher enough grief already. She hates the sight of you even as I, and Iwill do nothing to make her fall into your hands."
"It matters little," he said, with a shrug of his great shoulders. "Itwas only a trifling civility which I sought from you. Let us get towork."
From a rack he picked a blade, one such as he always used in any seriousaffray, single-edged and basket-hiked. Then he signed to me to follow,and opened the window and stepped out.
The morning was murky and damp. Fog clothed the trees and fields, and asmell of rottenness hung in the air. I shivered, for my clothes werethin and old.
Gilbert walked quickly, never casting a look behind him. First wecrossed the sodden lawn, and then entered the pine wood, which I hadskirted on the night before.
In a little we heard the roaring of water and came to the banks of thestream, which, swollen by the melting snows, was raving wildly betweenthe barriers of the banks. At the edge was a piece of short turf, somehundred yards square, and drier than the rest of the ground which we hadtraversed. Here Gilbert stopped and bade me get ready. I had little todo save cast my coat, and stand stripped and shivering, waiting while myenemy took his ground.
The next I know is that I was in the thick of a deadly encounter, withblows rattling on my blade as thick as hail. My cousin's eyes glaredinto mine, mad with anger and regret, with all the unrequited love andaimless scheming of months concentrated in one fiery passion. I putforth my best skill, but it was all I could do to keep death from me.As it was I was scratched and grazed in a dozen places, and there was agreat hole in my shirt which the other's blade had ripped. The sweatbegan to trickle over my eyes with the exertion, and my sight was halfdazed by the rapid play.
Now it so happened that I had my back to the stream. This was the causeof my opponent's sudden violence, for he sought to drive me backwards,that, when I found myself near the water, I might grow bewildered. ButI had been brought up to this very trick, for in the old days inTweeddale, Tam Todd would have taken his stand near the Tweed andstriven to force me back into the great pool. In my present dangerthese old memories came back to me in a flood, and in a second I wascalm again. This, after all, was only what I had done a thousand timesfor sport. Could I not do it once for grim earnest?
In a very little I saw that my cousin's policy of putting all hisstrength out at the commencement was like to be his ruin. He was not aman built for long endurance, being too full in blood and heavy of body.Soon his breath came thick and painfully; he yielded a step, thenanother, and still a third; his thrusts lacked force, and his guardswere feeble. He had changed even from that tough antagonist whom I hadaforetime encountered, and who taxed my mettle to the utmost. Had itnot been that my anger still held my heart, and admitted no room forother thoughts, I would even have felt some compunction in thrusting athim. But now I had no pity in me. A terrible desire to do to him as hehad done to my friends gripped me like a man's hand. The excitement ofthe struggle, and, perhaps, the peril to my own life, roused my dormanthate into a storm of fury. I know not what I did, but shrieking cursesand anathemas, I slashed blindly before me like a man killing bees.Before my sword point I saw his face growing greyer and greyer with eachpassing minute. He was a brave man, this I have always said for him; andif any other in a like position, with an enemy at his throat and theawful cognisance of guilt, still keeps his stand and does not flee, himalso I call brave.
Suddenly his defence ceased. His arm seemed to numb and his blade waslowered. I checked my cut, and waited with raised point. An awfuldelight was in my heart, which now I hate and shudder to think on. Iwaited, torturing him. He tried to speak, but his mouth was parched andI heard the rattle of his tongue. Still I delayed, for all my heatseemed turned into deadly malice.
Then his eyes left my face and looked over my shoulders. I saw a newshade of terror enter them. I chuckled, for now, thought I, my revengehas come. Of a sudden he crouched with a quick movement, bringing hishands to his face. I was in the act of striking, when from behind camea crack, and something whistled past my ear. Then I saw my cousin fall,groaning, with a bullet through his neck.
In a trice my rage was turned from him to the unknown enemy behind.With that one shot all rancour had gone from my heart. I turned, andthere, running through the trees up the river bank, I saw a man. At thefirst look I recognised him, though he was bent well-nigh double, andthe air was thick with fog. It was the fellow Jan Hamman.
I ran after him at top speed, though he was many yards ahead of me. Ihave never felt such lightness in my limbs. I tore through thicket andbramble, and leaped the brooks as easily as if I were not spent withfighting and weak from the toils of months. My whole being wasconcentrated into one fierce attempt, for a thousand complex passionswere tearing at my heart. This man had dared to come between us; thisman had dared to slay one of my house. No sound escaped my lips, butsilently, swiftly, I sped after the fleeing figure.
He ran straight up stream, and at every step I gained. Somewhere at thebeginning he dropped his pistol; soon he cast away his cap and cloak;and when already he heard my hot breathing behind him he cried out indespair and flung his belt aside. We were climbing a higher ridgebeneath which ran the stream. I was so near that I clutched at him onceand twice, but each time he eluded me. Soon we gained the top, and Ihalf-stumbled while he gained a yard. Then I gathered myself togetherfor a great effort. In three paces I was on him, and had him by thehair; but my clutch was uncertain with my faintness, and, with a wrench,he was free. Before I knew his purpose he swerved quickly to the side,and leaped clean over the cliff into the churning torrent below.
I stood giddy on the edge, looking down. There was nothing but a foamof yellow and white and brown from bank to bank. No man could live insuch a stream. I turned and hastened back to my cousin.
I found him lying as I had left him, with his head bent over to the sideand the blood oozing from his neck-wound. When I came near he raisedhis eyes and saw me. A gleam of something came into them; it may havebeen mere recognition, but I thought it pleasure.
I kneeled beside him with no feelings other than kindness. The sight ofhim lying so helpless and still drove all anger from me. He was mycousin, one of my own family, and, with it all, a gentleman and asoldier.
He spoke very hoarsely and small.
"I am done for, John. My ill-doing has come back on my own head. Thatman----"
"Yes," I said, for I did not wish to trouble a man so near his end withidle confessions, "I know, I have heard, but that is all past and donewith."
"God forgive me," he said, "I did him a wrong, but I have repaid it.Did you kill him, John?"
"No," I said; "he leaped from a steep into the stream. He will be nomore heard of."
"Ah," and his breath came painfully, "it is well. Yet I could havewished that one of the family had done the work. But it is no time tothink of such things. I am going fast, John."
Then his speech failed for a little and he lay back with a whiteningface.
"I have done many ill deeds to you, for which I crave your forgiveness."
"You have mine with all my heart," I said, hastily. "But there is theforgiveness of a greater, which we all need alike. You would do well toseek it."
He spoke nothing for a little. "I have lived a headstrong, evil life,"said he, "which God forgive. Yet it is not meet to go canting to yourend, when in your health you have crossed His will."
Once again there was silence for a little space. Then he reached out hishand for mine.
"I have been a fool all my days. Let us think no more of the lass,John. We are men of the same house, who should have lived infriendship. It was a small thing to come between us."
A wind had risen and brought with it a small, chill rain. A gust sweptpast us and carried my cast-off cloak into the bushes. "Ease my head,"he gasped, and when I hasted to do it, I was even forestalled. Foranother at that moment laid His hand on him, and with a little shudderhis spirit passed to the great and only judge of man's heart.
I walked off for help with all speed, and my thoughts were sober andmelancholy. Shame had taken me for my passion and my hot-fit ofrevenge; ay, and pity and kindness for my dead opponent. The old dayswhen we played together by Tweed, a thousand faint, fragrant memoriescame back to me, and in this light the last shades of bitternessdisappeared. Also the great truth came home to me as I went, how littlethe happiness of man hangs on gifts and graces, and how there is naughtin the world so great as the plain virtues of honour and heart.
