Part 16 (1/2)

I knew well that I had little time to lose, and that what must be done must be done quickly. So as soon as the tails of them were round the hillside, I came out from my hiding-place and mounted Maisie once more.

I thanked the landlord, and with a cry that I would remember him if I ever got my affairs righted again, I turned sharply through the burn and down the path to Peebles. It was touch or miss with me, for it was unlikely that the highway between the west country and the vale of Peebles would be freed from the military.

Yet freed it was. It may have been that the folk of Tweedside were little caring about any religion, and most unlike the dour carles of the Westlands, or it may have been that they were not yet stirring. At any rate I pa.s.sed unmolested. I struck straight for the ridge of Dreva, and rounding it, faced the long valley of Tweed, with Rachan woods and Drummelzier haughs and the level lands of Stobo. Far down lay the forest of Dawyck, black as ink on the steep hillside. Down by the Tweed I rode, picking my way very carefully among the marshes, and guarding the deep black moss-holes which yawned in the meadows. Here daybreak came upon us, the first early gleam of light, tingling in the east, and changing the lucent darkness of the moonlit night to a shadowy grey sunrise. Sc.r.a.pe raised his bald forehead above me, and down the glen I had a glimpse of the jagged peaks of the s.h.i.+eldgreen Kips, showing sharp against the red dawn. In a little I was at the avenue of Dawyck, and rode up the green sward, with the birds twittering in the coppice, eager to see my love.

The house was dead as a stone wall, and no signs of life came from within. But above me a lattice was opened to catch the morning air. I leapt to the ground and led Maisie round to the stables which I knew so well. The place was deserted; no serving-man was about; the stalls looked as if they had been empty for ages. A great fear took my heart.

Marjory might be gone, taken I knew not whither. I fled to the door as though the fiend were behind me, and knocked clamorously for admittance.

Far off in the house, as it were miles away, I heard footsteps and the opening of doors. They came nearer, and the great house-door was opened cautiously as far as possible without undoing the chain; and from within a thin piping inquired my name and purpose.

I knew the voice for the oldest serving-man who dwelt in the house.

”Open, you fool, open,” I cried. ”Do you not know me? The Laird of Barns?”

The chain was unlocked by a tremulous hand.

”Maister John, Maister John,” cried the old man, all but weeping. ”Is't yoursel' at last? We've had sair, sair need o' ye. Eh, but she'll be blithe to see ye.”

”Is your mistress well?” I cried with a great anxiety.

”Weel eneuch, the puir la.s.s, but sair troubled in mind. But that'll a'

be bye and dune wi', noo that ye're come back.”

”Where is she? Quick, tell me,” I asked in my impatience.

”In the oak room i' the lang pa.s.sage,” he said, as quick as he could muster breath.

I knew the place, and without more words I set off across the hall, running and labouring hard to keep my heart from bursting. Now at last I should see the dear la.s.s whom I had left. There was the door, a little ajar, and the light of a sunbeam slanting athwart it.

I knocked feebly, for my excitement was great.

”Come,” said that voice which I loved best in all the world.

I entered, and there, at the far end of the room, in the old chair in which her father had always sat, wearing the dark dress of velvet which became her best, and with a great book in her lap, was Marjory.

She sprang up at my entrance, and with a low cry of joy ran to meet me.

I took a step and had her in my arms. My heart was beating in a mighty tumult of joy, and when once my love's head lay on my shoulder, I cared not a fig for all the ills in the world. I cannot tell of that meeting; even now my heart grows warm at the thought; but if such moments be given to many men, there is little to complain of in life.

”O John,” she cried, ”I knew you would come. I guessed that every footstep was yours, coming to help us. For oh! there have been such terrible times since you went away. How terrible I cannot tell you,”

and her eyes filled with tears as she looked in mine.

So we sat down by the low window, holding each other's hands, thinking scarce anything save the joy of the other's presence. The primroses were starring the gra.s.s without, and the blossom coming thick and fast on the cherry trees. So glad a world it was that it seemed as if all were vanity save a dwelling like the Lotophagi in a paradise of idleness.

But I quickly roused myself. It was no time for making love when the enemy were even now at the gates.

”Marjory, la.s.s,” I said, ”tell me all that has been done since I went away.”

And she told me, and a pitiful tale it was-that which I had heard from Nicol, but more tragic and sad. I heard of her brother's ruin, how the brave, generous gentleman, with a head no better than a weatherc.o.c.k, had gone down the stages to besotted infamy. I heard of Gilbert's masterful knavery, of his wooing at Dawyck, and how he had despoiled the house of Barns. It seemed that he had spent days at Dawyck in the company of Michael Veitch, putting my poor Marjory to such a persecution that I could scarce bide still at the hearing of it. He would importune her night and day, now by gallantry and now by threats. Then he would seek to win her favour by acts of daring, such as he well knew how to do.

But mostly he trusted to the influence of her brother, who was his aider and abetter in all things. I marvelled how a gentleman of family could ever sink so low as to be the servant of such cowardice. But so it was, and my heart was sore for all the toils which the poor girl had endured in that great, desolate house, with no certain hope for the future. She durst not write a letter, for she was spied on closely by her tormentors, and if she had bade me return, they well knew I would come with the greatest speed, and so in knowing the time of my arrival, would lay hands on me without trouble. The letter which reached me was sealed under her brother's eyes and the postscript was added with the greatest pains and sent by Tam Todd, who sat at Barns in wrath and impotence.

Truly things had gone wrong with a hearty good-will since I had ridden away.