John Burnet of Barns Part 34

"Oh, you have come back," she cried. "At last, and I have looked so long for you."

"Indeed, dear la.s.s, I have come back, and by G.o.d's grace to go no more away."

Then leading my horse, I walked by her side down the broad path to the house. We spoke nothing, our hearts being too busy with the delights of each other's presence. The crowning stone was added to my palace of joy, and in that moment it seemed as if earth could contain no more of happiness, and that all the sorrows of the past were well worth encountering for the ecstasy of the present. To be once more in my own land, with my own solemn hills looking down upon me, and that fair river wandering by wood and heather, and my lady at my side, was not that sufficient for any man? The purple, airy dark, odorous with spring scents, clung around us, and in the pauses of silence the place was so still that our ears heard naught save the drawing of our breath.

At the lawn of Dawyck I stopped and took her hands in mine.

"Marjory," I said, "once, many years ago, you sang me a verse and made me a promise. I cannot tell how bravely you have fulfilled it. You have endured all my hards.h.i.+ps, and borne me company where I bade you, and now all is done with and we are returned to peace and our own place.

Now it is my turn for troth-plighting, and I give you it with all my heart. G.o.d bless you, my own dear maid." And I repeated softly:

"First shall the heavens want starry light, The seas be robbed of their waves; The day want sun, the sun want bright, The night want shade, and dead men graves; The April, flowers and leaf and tree, Before I false my faith to thee."

And I kissed her and bade farewell, with the echo still ringing in my ears, "to thee, to thee."

I rode through the great shadows of the wood, scarce needing to pick my path in a place my horse knew so well, for once again I was on Maisie.

The stillness clung to me like a garment, and out of it, from high up on the hillside, came a bird's note, clear, tremulous, like a bell. Then the trees ceased, and I was out on the shorn, green banks, 'neath which the river gleamed and rustled. Then, all of a sudden, I had rounded the turn of the hill, and there, before me in the dimness, stood the old grey tower, which was mine and had been my fathers' since first man tilled a field in the dale. I crossed the little bridge with a throbbing heart, and lo! there was the smell of lilac and gean-tree blossom as of old coming in great gusts from the lawn. Then all was confusion and much hurrying about and a thousand kindly greetings. But in especial I remember Tam Todd, the placid, the imperturbable, who clung to my hand, and sobbed like the veriest child, "Oh, Laird, ye've been lang o' comin'."

CHAPTER VIII

HOW NICOL PLENDERLEITH SOUGHT HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE

Now, at last, I am come to the end of my tale, and have little more to set down. It was on a very fresh, sweet May morning, that Marjory and I were married in the old Kirk of Lyne, which stands high on a knoll above the Lyne Water, with green hills huddled around the door. There was a great concourse of people, for half the countryside dwelled on our land.

Likewise, when all was done, there was the greatest feast spread in Barns that living man had ever seen. The common folk dined without on tables laid on the green, while within the walls the gentry from far and near drank long life and health to us till sober reason fled hot-foot and the hilarity grew high. But in a little all was over, the last guest had clambered heavily on his horse and ridden away, and we were left alone.

The evening, I remember, was one riot of golden light and rich shadow.

The sweet-scented air stole into the room with promise of the fragrant out-of-doors, and together we went out to the lawn and thence down by the trees to the brink of Tweed, and along by the great pool and the water-meadows. The glitter of that brave, romantic stream came on my sight, as a sound of old music comes on the ears, bringing a thousand half-sad, half-joyful memories. All that life held of fair was in it-the rattle and clash of arms, the valour of men, the loveliness of women, the glories of art and song, the wonders of the great mother earth, and the re-creations of the years. And as we walked together, I and my dear lady, in that soft twilight in the green world, a peace, a delight, a settled hope grew upon us, and we went in silence, speaking no word the one to the other. By and by we pa.s.sed through the garden where the early lilies stood in white battalions, and entered the dining-hall.

A band of light lay on the east wall where hung the portraits of my folk. One was a woman, tall and comely, habited in a grey satin gown of antique fas.h.i.+on.

"Who was she?" Marjory asked, softly.

"She was my mother, a Stewart of Traquair, a n.o.ble lady and a good. G.o.d rest her soul."

"And who is he who stands so firmly and keeps hand on sword?"

"That was my father's brother who stood last at Philiphaugh, when the Great Marquis was overthrown. And he with the curled moustachios was his father, my grandfather, of whom you will yet hear in the countryside.

And beyond still is his father, the one with the pale, grave face, and solemn eyes. He died next his king at the rout of Flodden. G.o.d rest them all; they were honest gentlemen."

Then there was silence for a s.p.a.ce, while the light faded, and the old, stately dames looked down at us from their frames with an air, as it seemed to me, all but kindly, as if they laughed to see us playing in the old comedy which they had played themselves.

I turned to her, with whom I had borne so many perils.

"Dear heart," I said, "you are the best and fairest of them all. These old men and women lived in other times, when life was easy and little like our perplexed and difficult years. Nevertheless, the virtue of old times is the same as for us, and if a man take but the world as he find it, and set himself manfully to it with good heart and brave spirit, he will find the way grow straight under his feet. Heaven bless you, dear, for now we are comrades together on the road, to cheer each other when the feet grow weary."

On the morning of the third day from the time I have written of, I was surprised by seeing my servant, Nicol, coming into my study with a grave face, as if he had some weighty matter to tell. Since I had come home, I purposed to keep him always with me, to accompany me in sport and see to many things on the land, which none could do better than he. Now he sought an audience with a half-timid, bashful look, and, when I bade him be seated, he flicked his boots uneasily with his hat and looked askance.

"I hae come to bid ye fareweel, sir," at length he said, slowly.

I sprang up in genuine alarm.

"What nonsense is this?" I cried. "You know fine, Nicol, that you cannot leave me. We have been too long together."

"I maun gang," he repeated, sadly; "I'm loth to dae 't, but there's nae help for 't."

"But what?" I cried. "Have I not been a good friend to you, and your comrade in a thousand perils? Is there anything I can do more for you?

Tell me, and I will do it."

"Na, na, Maister John, ye've aye been the best o' maisters. I've a'

thing I could wish; dinna think I'm no gratefu'."

"Then for Heaven's sake tell me the reason, man. I never thought you would treat me like this, Nicol."

"Oh, sir, can ye no see?" the honest fellow cried with tears in his eyes. "Ye've been sae lang wi' me, that I thocht ye kenned my natur'.

Fechtin' and warstlin' and roamin' aboot the warld are the very breath o' life to me. I see ye here settled sae braw and canty, and the auld hoose o' Barns lookin' like itsel' again. And I thinks to mysel', 'Nicol Plenderleith, lad, this is no for you. This is no the kind of life that ye can lead. Ye've nae mair business here than a craw among throstles.' And the thocht maks me dowie, for I canna get by 't. I whiles think o' mysel' bidin' quiet here and gettin' aulder and aulder, till the time pa.s.ses when I'm still brisk and venturesome, and I'm left to naething but regrets. I maun be up and awa', Laird, I carena whither.

We a' made different, and I was aye queer and daft and no like ither folk. Ye winna blame me."

I tried to dissuade him, but it was to no purpose. He heard me patiently, but shook his head. I did not tax him with ingrat.i.tude, for I knew how little the charge was founded. For myself I was more sorry than words, for this man was joined to me by ties of long holding. I longed to see him beside me at Barns, an unceasing reminder of my stormy days. I longed to have his sage counsel in a thousand matters, to have him at my hand when I took gun to the hills or rod to the river. I had grown to love his wind-beaten face and his shrewd, homely talk, till I counted them as necessary parts of my life. And now all such hopes were dashed, and he was seeking to leave me.

"But where would you go?" I asked.

"I kenna yet," he said. "But there's aye things for man like me somewhere on the earth. I'm thinkin' o' gaun back to the abroad, whaur there's like to be a steer for some time to come. It's the life I want and no guid-fortine or bad-fortine, so I carena what happens. I trust I may see ye again, Maister John, afore I dee."

There was nothing for it but to agree, and agree I did, though with a heavy heart and many regrets. I gave him a horse to take him to Leith, and offered him a sum of money. This he would have none of, but took, instead, a pair of little old pistols which had been my father's.

I never saw him again, though often I have desired it, but years after I heard of him, and that in the oddest way. I corresponded to some little extent with folk in the Low Countries, and in especial with one Master Ebenezer van Gliecken, a learned man and one of great humour in converse. It was at the time when there was much fighting between the French and the Dutch, and one morn I received a letter from this Master van Gliecken, written from some place whose name I have forgot, a rascally little Holland town in the south. He wrote of many things-of some points in Latin scholars.h.i.+p, of the vexatious and most unpolitic state of affairs in the land, and finally concluded with this which I transcribe.... "Lastly, my dear Master John, I will tell you a tale which, as it concerns the glory of your countrymen, you may think worth hearing. As you know well, this poor town of ours has lately been the centre of a most b.l.o.o.d.y strife, for the French forces have a.s.saulted it on all sides, and though by G.o.d's grace they have failed to take it, yet it has suffered many sore afflictions. In particular there was a fierce attack made upon the side which fronts the river, both by boat and on foot. On the last day of the siege, a sally was made from the gate of the corner tower, which, nevertheless, was unsuccessful, our men being all but enclosed and some of the enemy succeeding in entering the gate.

One man in particular, a Scot, as I have heard, Nicolo Plenderleet by name, with two others who were both slain, made his way to the battlements. The gate was shut, and, to all appearance, his death was certain. But they knew not the temper of their enemy, for springing on the summit of the wall, he dared all to attack him. When the defenders pressed on he laid about him so st.u.r.dily that three fell under his sword.

"Then when he could no longer make resistance, and bullets were pattering around him like hail, and his cheek was bleeding with a deep wound, his spirit seemed to rise the higher. For, shouting out taunts to his opponents, he broke into a song, keeping time all the while with the thrusts of his sword. Then bowing gallantly, and saluting with his blade his ring of foes, he sheathed his weapon, and joining his hands above his head, dived sheer and straight into the river, and, swimming easily, reached the French lines. At the sight those of his own side cheered, and even our men, whom he had so tricked, could scarce keep from joining.

"Touching the editions which you desired, I have given orders to the bookseller on the quay at Rotterdam to send them to you. I shall be glad, indeed, to give you my poor advice on the difficult matters you speak of, if you will do me the return favour of reading through my excursus to Longinus, and giving me your veracious opinion. Of this I send you a copy.

"As regards the Scot I have already spoken of, I may mention for your satisfaction that in person he was tall and thin, with black hair, and the most bronzed skin I have ever seen on a man...."

When I read this letter to Marjory, her eyes were filled with tears, and for myself I would speak to no one on that day.

CHAPTER IX

THE END OF ALL THINGS