John Burnet of Barns Part 18

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. "It pains me, for I used to sing it ere the trouble came upon us, and when we were all as happy as the day was long."

"Nay," I said, "it is a song for the time of trouble. It was your promise to me, and I have come to claim its fulfilment. I am for the hills, Marjory, and I cannot leave you behind. Will you come and bear me company? I will take you to Smitwood, where even the devil and my cousin Gilbert could not follow you. There you will be safe till I come again when this evil time is past, for pa.s.s it must. And I will go to the 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's end. 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 ready with all speed and seek the uplands. We trusted ourselves wholly to Nicol's guidance, for he knew the ways as he knew his own name, and had a wide acquaintance with the hillmen and their hiding-places. On him it lay to find shelter for us on the road and guide us by the most unfrequented paths. So we set about the preparing of provisions and setting the house in order. The old man, who was the sole servant remaining, was left in charge of the place against our uncertain return.

For myself I should have taken but one horse, Marjory's roan mare, and tramped 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 guid man at the sma'-swird, Laird, I doubt ye'd no be muckle at that." The words were wise, so I saddled Maisie and prepared to ride her to Smitwood, and there leave her.

It was, I think, about three hours after midday when we were ready to start on our journey. A strange cavalcade we formed-Marjory on the roan, dressed plainly as for the hills, and with a basket slung across the saddlebow, for all the world like a tinker's pannier; I myself on Maisie, well-mounted and armed, and Nicol on foot, lean and ill-clad as ever. It was not without a pang that we set out, for it is hard to leave the fair and settled dwellings of home for haphazard lodging among rough mora.s.ses. Marjory in especial could scarce refrain from tears, while I own that as I looked down the vale and saw the woods of Barns and the green hills of Manor, I could have found it in me to be despondent.

But once we left the valley and began to ascend the slopes, our spirits returned. It was an afternoon among a thousand, one such as only April weather and the air of the Tweed valley can bring. The sky was cloudless and the wind sharp, and every hill and ridge in the great landscape stood out clear as steel. The gra.s.s was just greening beneath our feet, the saugh bushes were even now a.s.suming the little white catkins, and the whole air was filled with a whistling and twittering of birds. We took our road straight through the pine wood which clothes the western slopes of Sc.r.a.pe. The ground was velvet-dry, and the deer fled swiftly as we neared their coverts. It was glorious to be abroad and feel the impulse of life stirring everywhere around. Yet I could not keep from the reflection that at this very time the day before I had been nearing the port of Leith in the Seamaw, expecting nothing save a pleasant homecoming, and thereafter a life of peace. Truly in one short day and night I had led a somewhat active life, and now was fleeing from the very place I had most longed to return to.

Soon we left the woods and came out on the heathery brow of Sc.r.a.pe, and crossing it, entered the deep glen where the burn of Sc.r.a.pe flows to join the Powsail. The heather had been burned, as is the custom here in the early spring, and great clouds of fine white dust rose beneath the hooves of our horses. A dry crackling of twigs and the strident creak of the larger roots as they grated on one another, filled our ears. Then once more we ascended, high and ever higher, over rocks and treacherous green well-eyes and great s.p.a.ces of red fern, till we gained the brow of the hill which they call Glenstivon Dod, and looked down into the little glen of Powsail.

We crossed the lovely burn of Powsail, which is the most beautiful of all Tweedside burns, since the water is like sapphire and emerald and topaz, flas.h.i.+ng in every ray like myriad jewels. Here we watered our horses, and once more took the hills. And now we were on the wild ridge of upland which heads the glens of Stanhope and Hopecarton and Polmood, the watershed 'twixt the vales of Tweed and Yarrow. Thence the sight is scarce to be matched to my knowledge in the south country of Scotland.

An endless stretching of hills, shoulder rising o'er shoulder, while ever and again some giant lifts himself clean above his fellows, and all the 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 no means the shortest way to Douglasdale and Smitwood. He answered that to go straight to our destination would be to run our heads into the lion's mouth. He purposed that we should go up Tweed to a hiding-place which he knew of on the Cor Water, and then make over by the upper waters of the Clyde and the Abington moors to the house of Smitwood. These were the more deserted and least accessible places, whereas the villages and lowlands around the skirts of the hills were watched like the High Street of Edinburgh.

In a little we pa.s.sed the wild trough where the Stanhope Burn flows toward 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 to whom the place was familiar as his own doorstep, we should soon have been floundering over some craig. As it was, our case was not without its danger. It is not a heartening thing to go stumbling on hilltops in the dusk of an April evening, with black, horrific hill-slopes sinking on all sides. Marjory grew frightened, as I knew by the tightened clutch at her horse's rein, and her ever seeking to draw nearer me, but like the brave la.s.s that she was, she breathed never a word of it. Every now and then an owl would swoop close to our faces, or a great curlew dart out 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 by those who love comfort and peace. But the very difficulty of the way gladdened us, for it gave us a.s.surance that we would be unmolested by wayfaring 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_, and coming to the Water of Talla, which we forded at a shallow a little below the wild waterfall called Talla Linns. Even there we could hear the roar of the cataract, and an awesome thing it was in that lonely place. But we tarried not a minute, but urged our horses up a desperate ravine till once more we were on the crest of the hills. And now a different land was around us. Far to the right, where the Talla joins the Tweed, we could mark the few lights of the little village of Tweedsmuir. The higher hills had been left behind, and we were on a wide expanse of little ridges and moor which the people of Tweedside call "The Muirs," and which extends from the upper Clyde waters to the source of the Annan and the monstrous hills which line its course. I had been but once before in the place, in the winter time, when I was shooting the duck which come here in great plenty. To me, then, it had seemed the bleakest place in G.o.d's creation, but now, under the silver moonlight, it seemed like a fantastic fairyland, and the long, gleaming line of Tweed like the fabled river which is the entrance to that happy domain.

We were now near our journey's end, and in the very heart of the moors of Tweed. The night was bright with moonlight, and we went along speedily. Soon we came to a narrow upland valley, walled with precipitous green hills. Here Nicol halted.

"There'll be watchers aboot," he said, "and our coming 'ill hae been tellt to the folk in the cave. We'd better gang warily." So we turned our horses up the glen, riding along the narrow strip of meadowland beside the burn. I had heard of the place before, and knew it for the Cor Water, a stream famous for trout, and at this time, no less renowned among the hillmen as a hiding-place. For in the steep craigs and screes there 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. Nicol whistled on his fingers, with a peculiar, piercing note like a whaup's cry. It was answered by another from the near neighbourhood. Again Nicol whistled with a different pitch, and this time a figure came out as from the hillside, and spoke.

"Whae are ye," he said, "that come here, and what do ye seek? If ye come 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, John Laidlaw. And these are twae gentlefolk, whose names are no convenient to be mentioned here, for hillsides hae ears. If ye come near, I'll whisper it in your lug."

The man approached and appeared well-satisfied. He bade us dismount and led the horses off, while we waited. Then he returned, and bidding us follow, led the way up a steep gully which scarred the hillside. In a little he stopped at an out-jutting rock, and crept round the corner of it. At the side next the hill was an opening large enough to allow a man of ordinary stature to pa.s.s, and here he entered and motioned us to follow.

CHAPTER VI

THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER

The place we found ourselves in was a narrow pa.s.sage, very lofty and very dark, and with countless jags of rough stone on all sides to affront the stranger. Some few paces led us into a wider place, lit by some opening on the hillside, for a gleam as of pale moonlight was all about it. There stood a sentinel, a tall, grave man, dressed in coa.r.s.e homespun, and brown of the face. Through this again we pa.s.sed into another straitened place, which in a little opened into a chamber of some magnitude.

When I grew accustomed to the candle-light, I made out that it was a natural cave in the whinstone rocks, maybe thirty feet in height, square in shape, and not less than thirty feet long. The black sides were rough and crusted, and hung in many parts with articles of household gear and warlike arms. But the place was less notable than the people who were sitting there, and greeted us as we entered. In the midst was a table of rough-hewn wood, whereon lay the remnants of a meal. Lit pine-staves cast an eerie glow over all things, and in the light I saw the faces of the company clear.

On a settle of stone covered with a sheep's fleece sat an old man, large of limb and tall, but bent and enfeebled with age. His long hair fell down almost to his shoulders; his features as the light fell upon them were strong, but his eyes were sightless and dull as stone. He had a great stick in his hand which he leaned on, and at our entrance he had risen and stared before him into vacancy, conscious of some new presence, but powerless to tell of it. Near him, along by the table-side, were two men of almost like age, square, well-knit fellows, with the tanned faces of hillmen. I guessed them to be shepherds or folk of that sort who had fled to this common refuge. Beyond these again stood a tall, slim man of a more polished exterior than the rest; his att.i.tude had something of grace in it, and his face and bearing proclaimed him of better birth. Forbye, there were one or two more, gaunt, sallow folk, such as I had learned to know as the extreme religionists. These were busy conversing together with bowed heads and earnest voices, and took no heed of our arrival. To add to all, there were two women, one with a little child, clearly the wives of the shepherds.

Our guide went forward to the man who stood by the wall and whispered something to him. In an instant he came to us, and, bowing to Marjory, bade us welcome. "We are glad to see you here, Master Burnet," said he.

"I am rejoiced to see the gentlemen of the land coming forth on the side of the Covenant. It is you and such as you that we need, and we are blithe to give you shelter here as long as you care to bide with us. It is a queer thing that two men of the same house should be engaged in this business on different sides."

Here one of the others spoke up.

"I trust, Master Burnet, ye have brought us good news from the Lawlands.

We heard that ye had great converse with the G.o.dly there, and we will be glad to hear your account of how the guid cause prospers over the water."

Now I felt myself in a position of much discomfort. The cause of my outlawry had clearly got abroad, and here was I, credited with being a zealous religionist and a great man among the Scots exiles in Holland.

Whereas, as I have already said, I cared little for these things, being not of a temper which finds delight in little differences of creed or details of ecclesiastical government, but caring little in what way a man may wors.h.i.+p his Maker. Indeed, to this day, while I can see the advantage of having fixed rites and a church established, I see little use in making a pother about any deviation. So I now found myself in an unpleasing predicament. I must avow my utter ignorance of such matters and my worldly motives for thus seeking shelter, and in all likelihood, win the disfavour of these folk, nay, even be not suffered to remain.

"I thank you for your welcome," said I, "but I must hasten to set matters right between us. I am not of your party, though it is my misfortune to have to seek safety among the hills. It is true I have been in the Low Countries, but it was for the purposes of study and seeing the world, and not for the sake of religion. If I must speak the truth, when I abode there I had little care of such things, for they were never in my way. Now that I am returned and find myself a fugitive, I am not a whit more concerned with them. My misfortunes arise from the guile of a kinsman, and not from my faith. So there you have my predicament."

I made the declaration crudely and roughly, for the necessity was urgent upon me of making it very plain at the outset. Another man would have been repelled or angered, but this man had the penetration to see through my mask of callousness that I was not ill-disposed to his cause.

"It is no matter," he said. "Though you were the most rabid malignant, we would yet give you shelter. And, indeed, though you may not be of our way of thinking in all matters, yet I doubt not you are with us on the essentials. Forbye, you are a gentleman of Tweeddale, and it would be queer if you werena right-hearted, Master John Burnet."

Some one of the disputants grumbled, but the others seemed heartily to share in this opinion, and bidding us sit down, they removed our travelling gear, and set food before us. Our appet.i.tes were sharp with the long hill journey, and we were not slow in getting to supper.

Meanwhile the long man to whom we had first spoken busied himself with serving us, for in that desert place every man was his own servant.

Afterwards Marjory went to the women, and soon won their liking, for the heart would be hard indeed which was not moved by her pretty ways and graces.

When I had done I sat down on the settle with the rest, and the fire which burned in a corner of the cave was made up, and soon the place was less dismal but a thousandfold more fantastic. I could scarce keep from thinking that it was all a dream; that my landing, and midnight ride, and Nicol's news, and my perilous predicament were all figments of the brain. I was too tired to have any anxiety, for I would have you remember that I had ridden all the night and most of the day without a wink of sleep, besides having just come off a sea voyage. My eyelids drooped, and I was constantly sinking off into a doze. The whole place tended to drowsiness; the shadows and the light, the low hum of talk, the heavy air, for the outlet for smoke was but narrow. But the man I have spoken of came and sat down beside me and would engage me in talk.

"I do not think you know me, Master Burnet," said he; "but I knew your father well, and our houses used to be well acquaint. I am one o' the Carnwath Lockharts, that ye may hae heard o'. My name is Francis Lockhart o' the Beltyne."

I knew him when he uttered the words, for I had often heard tell of him for a gallant gentleman who had seen service under Gustavus and in many Low Country wars. I complimented myself on his acquaintance, which kindness he proceeded to repay. So we fell to discussing many things-men I had known in Leyden, men I had known in Tweeddale, together with the more momentous question of the future of each of us. I gave him a full account of my recent fortunes, that he might have wherewith to contradict any rumours as to my reasons for taking to the hills. He in turn spoke to me of his life, and his sorrow at the fate of his land.

The man spoke in such unfeigned grief, and likewise with such a gentleman-like note of fairness, that I felt myself drawn to him. It was while thus engaged that he spoke a word which brought upon him the condemnation of one of the ethers.

"Oh," said he, "I would that some way might be found to redd up thae weary times and set the king richt on his throne, for I canna but believe that in this matter loyalty and religion go hand in hand; and that were James Stewart but free from his wanchancy advisers there would be less talk of persecuting."

At this one of the others, a dark man from the West, spoke up sharply.

"What do I hear, Maister Lockhart? It's no by ony goodwill to James Stewart that we can hope to set things richt in thae dark times. Rather let our mouths be filled with psalms and our hands with the sword-hilt, and let us teach the wanton and the scorner what manner o' men are bred by the Covenant and the Word."

The speech was hateful to me, and yet as I looked in the dark, rugged face of the man I could not keep from liking it. Here, at any rate, was a soul of iron. My heart stirred at his words, and I could have found it in me to cast in my lot even with such as these, and bide the bent with naught but a good sword and faith in G.o.d. Howbeit, it was well I made no such decision, for I was never meant for one of them. I ever saw things too clearly, both the evil and the good; and whereas this quality hinders from swift and resolute action, it yet leads more plainly to a happy life.

Then the old man, him whom I have spoken of, beckoned to me with his staff and bade me come and sit by him. He looked so kinglike even in his affliction that I thought on the old blind king Oedipus in the Greek play.