Part 19 (1/2)
”Ye kenna me, John Burnet, but weel ken I you. Often in the auld days your father and me had gey ploys hunting and fechting roond a' the muirs o' Tweed. He was a guid man, was Gilbert, and I hear he had glimpses o'
grace in the hinner end.”
”Maybe,” said I, being in perplexity, for from the grace that he spoke of, my father had ever been far.
”Ay, and I was sair vexed I saw him so little. For he had to bide at hame for the last years, and I was aye busied wi' other work. Yeddie o'
the Linns was never an idle man, and less than ever in thae days.”
At the mention of his name a flood of recollection came in upon me. I minded how I had heard of the son of Lord Fairley, a great soldier who had won high renown in the wars abroad: and how he had returned a melancholy man, weighed down with the grave cares of religion, and gone to the wilds of Tweed to a hut just above the Linns of Talla, where he spent his days in prayer and meditation. The name of Yeddie o' the Linns, as he was called among the shepherds and folk of these parts, became an equivalent for high-hearted devotion. Then when the wars began tales of him grew over the countryside. In stature he was all but gigantic, famed over half the towns of France for feats of strength, and no evil living had impaired his might. So at the outbreak of the persecution he had been a terror to the soldiers who harried these parts. The tale ran of the four men whom he slew single-handed at the Linns, hemming them in a nook of rocks, and how often he had succoured fugitives and prisoners, coming like an old lion from the hills and returning no one knew whither. There was also the tale of his blinding by a chance splinter from a bullet-shot, and how he had lived among the caves and hills, dangerous even in his affliction. Had I but known it, this cave was his finding, and half the retreats in Tweeddale and Clydesdale were known to him. But now he was an old man, who had long left his youth, and his strength had all but gone from him. He sat alone in his great darkness, speaking little to the inmates or the chance comers, save when he knew them for gentlemen of birth; for though he might risk his life for the common people, he had no care to a.s.sociate with them, being of the old Kirkpatricks of that ilk, as proud a house as is to be found in the land.
”You are not of us,” he said suddenly. ”I heard you say a moment agone that you had no share in the inheritance of Jacob, but still chose to dwell among the tents of sin.”
”Nay,” I said very gently, for he was very old and of n.o.ble presence, ”do not speak thus. Surely it is no sin to live at peace in the good earth in honour and uprightness, and let all nice matters of doctrine go by, esteeming it of more importance to be a good man and true than a subtle disquisitioner-thinking, too, that all such things are of little moment and change from age to age, and that to concern one's self much with them is to follow vain trifles. For the root of the whole matter is a simple thing on which all men are agreed, but the appurtenances are many, and to me at least of such small significance that I care for them not at all. I do not mind how a man wors.h.i.+p his Maker, if he have but real devoutness. I do not care how a church is governed if the folk in it are in very truth G.o.d's people.”
”You speak well, my son,” said he, ”and at one time I should have gone with you. Nor do I set any great value by doctrine. But you are young and the blood is still rich in your veins and the world seems a fair place, with many brave things to be achieved. But I am old and have seen the folly of all things, how love is only a delusion and honour a catchword and loyalty a mockery. And as the things of earth slip away from me, and the glory of my strength departs, I see more clearly the exceeding greatness of the things of G.o.d. And as my eyes cease to be set on earth, I see more nearly the light of that better country which is an heavenly. So I love to bide in these dark moors where the pomp of the world comes not, among men of grave conversation, for I have leisure and a fitting place to meditate upon the things to come.”
”It may be,” said I, ”that some day I also be of your way of thinking.
At present the world, though the Devil is more loose in it than I love, seems to me so excellent that I would pluck the heart of it before I condemn it. But G.o.d grant that I may never lose sight of the beauty of His kingdom.”
”Amen to that,” said the old man very reverently.
Truly, my thoughts on things were changing. Here was I in the very stronghold of the fanatics, and in the two chief, the old man and Master Lockhart, I found a reasonable mind and lofty purpose. And thus I have ever found it, that the better sort of the Covenanters were the very cream of Scots gentlefolk, and that 'twas only in the _canaille_ that the gloomy pa.s.sion of fanatics was to be found.
Meantime Nicol, who cared for none of these things, was teaching the child how to play at the cat's garterns.
CHAPTER VII
HOW TWO OF HIS MAJESTY'S SERVANTS MET WITH THEIR DESERTS
The next morn broke fair and cloudless, and ere the sun was up I was awake, for little time must be lost if we sought to win to Smitwood ere the pursuit began. The folk of the cave were early risers, for the need for retiring early to rest made them so; and we broke our fast with a meal of cakes and broiled fish almost before daylight. Then I went out to enjoy the fresh air, for it was safe enough to be abroad at that hour. Nothing vexed the still air on the green hillside save the flapping peewits and the faint morning winds.
Marjory meantime ran out into the suns.h.i.+ne with all the gaiety in the world. She was just like a child let loose from school, for she was ever of a light heart and care sat easily upon her. Now, although we were in the direst peril, she was taking delight in spring, as if we were once again children in Dawyck, catching trout in the deep pools of the wood. She left me to go out from the little glen, which was the entrance to the cave, into the wider dale of the Cor Water, which ran shallow between lone green braes. I heard her singing as she went down among the juniper bushes and flinty rocks, and then it died away behind a little shoulder of hill.
So I was left to my own reflections on the plight in which I found myself. For the first time a sort of wounded pride began to vex me.
Formerly I had thought of nothing save how to save my own head and keep my love from my enemy, and cared not, if in the effecting of it, I had to crouch with the fox and be chased by the basest sc.u.m of the land. I cared not if I were put out of house and home and outlawed for years, for the adventurous spirit was strong within me. But now all my old pride of race rose in rebellion at the thought that I was become a person without importance, a houseless wanderer, the spoil of my enemies. It made me bitter as gall to think of it, and by whose aid my misfortune had been effected. A sort of hopeless remorse came over me.
Should I ever win back the place I had lost? Would the Burnets ever again be great gentlemen of Tweeddale, a power in the countryside, having men at their beck and call? Or would the family be gone forever, would I fall in the wilds, or live only to find my lands gone with my power, and would Marjory never enter Barns as its mistress? I could get no joy out of the morning for the thought, and as I wandered on the hillside I had little care of what became of me.
Now at this time there happened what roused me and set me once more at peace with myself. And though it came near to being a dismal tragedy, it was the draught which nerved me for all my later perils. And this was the manner of it.
Marjory, as she told me herself afterwards, had gone down to the little meadows by the burnside, where she watched the clear brown water and the fish darting in the eddies. She was thus engaged, when she was aware of two hors.e.m.e.n who rode over the top of the glen and down the long hill on the other side. They, were almost opposite before she perceived them, and there was no time tor flight. Like a brave la.s.s she uttered no scream, but stood still that they might not see her. But it was of no avail. Their roving eyes could not miss in that narrow glen so fair a sight, and straightway one called out to the other that there was a girl at the burnside.
Now had the twain been out on an ordinary foray it would have gone hard indeed with us. For they would have turned aside to search out the matter, and in all likelihood the hiding-place would have been discovered. But they had been out on some night errand and were returning in hot haste to their quarters at Abington, where their captain had none too gentle a temper. So they contented themselves with shouting sundry coa.r.s.e railleries, and one in the plenitude of his greathearted ness fired his carbine at her. Without stopping further they rode on.
The bullet just grazed her arm above the wrist, cutting away a strip of dress. She cried out at the pain, but though frightened almost to death, she was brave enough to bide where she was, for if she had run straight to the cave it would have shown them the hiding-place. As soon as they pa.s.sed out of view she came painfully up the slope, and I who had heard the shot and rushed straightway to the place whence it came, met her clasping her wounded wrist and with a pitiful white face.
”O Marjory, what ails you?” I cried.
”Nothing, John,” she answered; ”some soldiers pa.s.sed me and one fired.
It has done me no harm. But let us get to shelter lest they turn back.”