Part 20 (2/2)
Soon we had climbed the low range which separates the Clyde glen from the Tweed and turned down the narrow ravine of the burn which I think they call Fopperbeck, and which flows into the Evan Water. Now it would have been both easier and quieter to have ridden down the broad, low glen of the Medlock Water, which flows into Clyde by the village of Crawford. But this would have brought us perilously near the soldiers at Abington, and if once the pursuit had begun every mile of distance would be worth to us much gold. Yet though the danger was so real I could not think of it as any matter for sorrow, but awaited what fate G.o.d might send with a serene composure, begotten partly of my habitual rashness and partly of the intoxication of the morn.
We kept over the rocky ravine through which the little river Evan flows to Annan, and came to the wide moorlands which stretch about the upper streams of Clyde. Here we had a great prospect of landscape, and far as eye could see no living being but ourselves moved in these desolate wastes. Far down, just at the mouth of the glen where the vale widens somewhat, rose curling smoke from the hamlet of Elvanfoot, a place soon to be much resorted to and briskly busy, since, forbye lying on the highway 'twixt Edinburgh and Dumfries, it is there that the by-path goes off leading to the famous lead mines, at the two places of Leadhills and Wanlockhead. But now it was but a miserable roadside clachan of some few low huts, with fodder for neither man nor beast.
As we rode we looked well around us, for we were in an exceeding dangerous part of our journey. To the right lay Abington and the lower Clyde valley, where my sweet cousin and his men held goodly fellows.h.i.+p.
Even now they would be buckling saddle-straps, and in two hours would be in the places through which we were now pa.s.sing. To the left was the long pa.s.s into Nithsdale, where half a score of gentlemen did their best to instil loyalty into the Whigs of the hills. I hated the land to that airt, for I had ever loathed the south and west countries, where there is naught but sour milk and long prayers without a tincture of gentrice or letters. I was a man of Tweeddale who had travelled and studied and mingled among men. I had no grudge against sheltering with the Tweedside rebels, who were indeed of my own folk; but I had no stomach for Nithsdale and Clydesdale rant and ill fare. Had not necessity driven me there I vow I should never have ventured of myself; and as I rode I swore oftentimes that once I were free of my errand I would seek my refuge in my own countryside.
And now we were climbing the long range which flanks the Potrail Water, which is the larger of the twin feeders of Clyde. Now we turned more to the north, and skirting the wild hills which frown around the pa.s.s of Enterkin, sought the upper streams of the Duneaton Water. I cannot call to mind all the burns we crossed or the hills we climbed, though they have all been told to me many a time and again. One little burn I remember called the Snar, which flowed very quietly and pleasantly in a deep, heathery glen. Here we halted and suffered our horses to graze, while we partook of some of the food which the folk of the Cor Water had sent with us. Now the way which we had come had brought us within seven miles of the dragoons' quarters at Abington, for it was necessary to pa.s.s near them to get to Douglasdale and Smitwood. But they had no clue to our whereabouts, and when they set forth against us must needs ride first to the Tweed valley.
Here in this narrow glen we were in no danger save from some chance wandering soldier. But this danger was the less to be feared, since if Gilbert had any large portion of his men out on one errand he would be sure to set the rest to their duties as garrison. For my cousin had no love for lax discipline, but had all the family pride of ordering and being obeyed to the letter. So we kindled a little fire by the stream-side, and in the ashes roasted some eggs of a muirfowl which Nicol had picked up on the journey; and which with the cheese and the cakes we had brought made a better meal than I might hope for for many days to come. We sat around the fire in the dry heather 'neath the genial sun, thanking G.o.d that we were still alive in the green world and with few cares save the frustrating of our foes. Marjory was somewhat less cheerful than in the morning, partly from the fatigue of riding, which in these waste places is no light thing, and partly because anxiety for my safety and sorrow at our near parting were beginning to oppress her. For herself, I verily believe, she had no care, for she was brave as a lion in the presence of what most women tremble at. But the loneliness of a great house and the never-appeased desire for knowledge of my safety were things which came nearer so rapidly that I did not wonder she lost her gaiety.
”Oh, what will you do alone in these places?” she said. ”If you had but one with you, I should be comforted. Will you not let Nicol accompany you?”
Now when my lady looked at me with melting eyes and twined her hands in her eagerness, it was hard to have to deny her. But I was resolved that my servant should abide at Smitwood to guard her and bring me tidings if aught evil threatened.
”Nay, dear,” I said, ”that may not be. I cannot have you left with an old man who is helpless with age and a crew of hireling servants. I should have no heart to live in the moors if I had not some hope of your safety. Believe me, dear, I can very well defend myself. My skill of hillcraft is as good as any dragoon's, and I have heard folk say that I am no ill hand with a sword. And I know the countryside like the palm of my own hand, and friends are not few among these green glens. Trust me, no ill will come near me, and our meeting will be all the merrier for our parting.”
I spoke heartily, but in truth I was far from feeling such ease of mind.
For my old cursed pride was coming back, and I was beginning to chafe against the beggarly trade of skulking among the moors when I had a fine heritage for my own, and above all when I was a scholar and had thoughts of a peaceful life. I found it hard to reconcile my dream of a philosophic life wherein all things should be ordered according to the dictates of reason, with the rough and ready times which awaited me, when my sword must keep my head, and my first thought must be of meat and lodging, and cunning and boldness would be qualities more valuable than subtle speculation and lofty imagining.
In a little we were rested and rode on our way. Across the great moors of Crawfordjohn we pa.s.sed, which is a place so lonely that the men in these parts have a proverb, ”Out of the world and into Crawfordjohn.”
We still kept the uplands till we came to the springs of a burn called the Glespin, which flows into the Douglas Water. Our easier path had lain down by the side of this stream past the little town of Douglas.
But in the town was a garrison of soldiers-small, to be sure, and feeble, but still there-who were used to harry the moors around Cairntable and Muirkirk. So we kept the ridges till below us we saw the river winding close to the hill and the tower of Smitwood looking out of its grove of trees. By this time darkness was at hand, and the last miles of our journey were among darkening shadows. We had little fear of capture now, for we were on the lands of the castle, and Veitch of Smitwood was famed over all the land for a cavalier and a most loyal gentleman. So in quiet and meditation we crossed the stream at the ford, and silently rode up the long avenue to the dwelling.
CHAPTER IX
I PART FROM MARJORY
”I've travelled far and seen many things, but, Gad, I never saw a stranger than this. My niece is driven out of house and home by an overbold lover, and you, Master Burnet, come here and bid me take over the keeping of this firebrand, which, it seems, is so obnoxious to His Majesty's lieges.”
So spake the old laird of Smitwood, smiling. He was a man of full eighty years of age, but still erect with a kind of soldierly bearing.
He was thin and tall, and primly dressed in the fas.h.i.+on of an elder day.
The frosty winter of age had come upon him, but in his ruddy cheek and clean-cut face one could see the signs of a hale and vigorous decline.
He had greeted us most hospitably, and seemed hugely glad to see Marjory again, whom he had not set eyes on for many a day. We had fallen to supper with keen appet.i.te, for the air of the moors stirs up the sharpest hunger; and now that we had finished we sat around the hall-fire enjoying our few remaining hours of company together. For myself I relished the good fare and the warmth, for Heaven knew when either would be mine again. The high oak-roofed chamber, hung with portraits of Veitches many, was ruddy with fire-light. Especially the picture in front of the chimney by Vand.y.k.e, of that Michael Veitch who died at Philiphaugh, was extraordinarily clear and lifelike. Master Veitch looked often toward it; then he took snuff with a great air of deliberation, and spoke in his high, kindly old voice.
”My brother seems well to-night, Marjory. I have not seen him look so cheerful for years.” (He had acquired during his solitary life the habit of talking to the picture as if it were some living thing.) ”I can never forgive the Fleming for making Michael hold his blade in so awkward a fas.h.i.+on. Faith, he would have been little the swordsman he was, if he had ever handled sword like that. I can well remember when I was with him at Etzburg, how he engaged in a corner two Hollanders and a Swiss guard, and beat them back till I came up with him and took one off his hands.”
”I have heard of that exploit,” said I. ”You must know that I have just come from the Low Countries, where the names of both of you are still often on men's lips.”
The old man seemed well pleased.
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