Part 29 (2/2)
The next morn the weather had changed. When I looked forth through the latticed panes to the street, it was a bleak scene that met my eyes-near a foot of snow, flakes tossing and whirling everywhere, and the roofs and gables showing leaden dull in the gloom. Had I been in another frame of mind I should have lost my spirits, for nothing so disheartened me as heavy, dismal weather. But now I was in such a temper that I welcomed the outlook; the grey, lifeless street was akin to my heart, and I went down from my chamber with the iron of resolution in my soul.
My first care was to enquire at Mistress Macmillan if she knew aught of my cousin's doings, for the town-house of the Eaglesham Burnets was not two streets distant. But she could give me no news, for, said she, since the old laird died and these troublous times succeeded, it was little that the young master came near the place. So without any delay I and my servant went out into the wintry day, and found our way to the old, dark dwelling in the High Street.
The house had been built near a hundred years before, in the time of Ephraim Burnet, my cousin's grandfather. I mind it well to this day, and oft as I think of the city, that dreary, ancient pile rises to fill my vision. The three Burnet leaves, the escutcheon of our family, hung over the doorway. Every window was little and well-barred with iron, nor was any sign of life to be seen behind the dreary panes. But the most notable things to the eye were the odd crow-step gables, which, I know not from what cause, were all chipped and defaced, and had a strange, pied appearance against the darker roof. It faced the street and down one side ran a little lane. Behind were many lesser buildings around the courtyard, and the back opened into a wynd which ran westward to the city walls.
I went up the steps and with my sword-hilt thundered on the door. The blows roused the echoes of the old place. Within I heard the resonance of corridor and room, all hollow and empty. Below me was the snowy street, with now and then a single pa.s.ser, and I felt an eerie awe of this strange house, as of one who should seek to force a vault of the dead.
Again I knocked, and this time it brought me an answer. I heard feet-slow, shuffling feet, coming from some room, and ascending the staircase to the hall. The place was so void that the slightest sound rang loud and clear, and I could mark the progress of the steps from their beginning. Somewhere they came to a halt, as if the person were considering whether or not to come to the door, but by and by they advanced, and with vast creaking a key was fitted into the lock and the great oak door was opened a little.
It was a little old woman who stood in the opening, with a face seamed and wrinkled, and not a tooth in her head. She wore a mutch, which gave her a most witch-like appearance, and her narrow, grey eyes, as they fastened on me and sought out my errand, did not rea.s.sure me.
”What d'ye want here the day, sir?” she said in a high, squeaking voice.
”It's cauld, cauld weather, and my banes are auld and I canna stand here bidin' your pleesur.”
”Is your master within?” I said, shortly. ”Take me to him, for I have business with him.”
”Maister, quotha!” she screamed. ”Wha d'ye speak o', young sir? If it's the auld laird ye mean, he's lang syne wi' his Makker, and the young yin has no been here thae fower years. He was a tenty bit lad, was Maister Gilbert, but he gaed aff to the wars i' the abroad and ne'er thinks o' returnin'. Wae's me for the puir, hapless cheil.” And she crooned on to herself in the garrulity of old age.
”Tell me the truth,” said I, ”and have done with your lies. It is well known that your master came here in the last two days with two men and a lady, and abode here for the night. Tell me instantly if he is still here or whither has he gone.”
She looked at me with a twinkle of shrewdness and then shook her head once more. ”Na, na, I'm no leein'. I'm ower neer my acc.o.o.nt wi' the Lord to burden my soul wi' lees. When you tae are faun i' the hinner end o' life, ye'll no think it worth your while to mak up leesome stories. I tell ye the young maister hasna been here for years, though it's blithe I wad be to see him. If ye winna believe my word, ye can e'en gang your ways.”
Now I was in something of a quandary. The woman looked to be speaking the truth, and it was possible that my cousin could have left the city on one side and pushed straight on to his house of Eaglesham or even to the remoter western coast. Yet the way was a long one, and I saw not how he could have refrained from halting at Glasgow in the even. He had no cause to fear my following him there more than another place. For that I would come post-haste to the Westlands at the first word he must have well known, and so he could have no reason in covering his tracks from me. He was over-well known a figure in his own countryside to make secrecy possible; his aim must be to outrace me in speed, not to outwit me with cunning.
”Let me gang, young sir,” the old hag was groaning. ”I've the rheumaticks i' my banes and I'm sair hadden doon wi' the chills, and I'll get my death if I stand here longer.”
”I will trust you then,” said I, ”but since I am a kinsman of your master's and have ridden far on a bootless errand, I will even come in and refresh myself ere I return.”
”Na, na,” she said, a new look, one of anxiety and cunning coming into her face, ”ye maun na dae that. It was the last word my maister bade me ere he gaed awa'. 'Elspeth,' says he, 'see ye let nane intil the hoose till I come back.'”
”Tut, tut, I am his own cousin. I will enter if I please,” and calling my servant, I made to force an admittance.
Then suddenly, ere I knew, the great door was slammed in my face, and I could hear the sound of a key turning and a bar being dropped.
Here was a pretty to-do. Without doubt there was that in the house which the crone desired to keep from my notice. I sprang to the door and thundered on it like a madman, wrestling with the lock, and calling for the woman to open it. But all in vain, and after a few seconds'
bootless endeavour, I turned ruefully to my servant.
”Can aught be done?” I asked.
”I saw a d.y.k.e as we cam here,” said Nicol, ”and ower the back o't was a yaird. There was likewise a gate i' the d.y.k.e. I'm thinkin' that'll be the back door o' the hoose. If ye were awfu' determined, Laird, ye micht win in there.”
I thought for a moment. ”You are right,” I cried. ”I know the place.
But we will first go back and fetch the horses, for it is like there will be wild work before us ere night.”
But lo and behold! when we went to the inn stable my horse was off. ”I thocht he needit a shoe,” said the ostler, ”so I just sent him doun to Jock Walkinshaw's i' the East Port. If ye'll bide a wee, I'll send a laddie doun to bring him up.”
Five, twenty, sixty minutes and more we waited while that accursed child brought my horse. Then he came back a little after midday; three shoes had been needed, he said, and he had rin a' the way, and he wasna to blame. So I gave him a crown and a sound box on the ears, and then the two of us set off.
The place was high and difficult of access, being in a narrow lane where few pa.s.sers ever went, and nigh to the city wall. I bade Nicol hold the horses, and standing on the back of one I could just come to within a few feet of the top. I did my utmost by springing upward to grasp the parapet, but all in vain, so in a miserable state of disappointed hopes I desisted and consulted with my servant. Together we tried the door, but it was of ma.s.sive wood, clamped with iron, and triply bolted. There was nothing for it but to send off to Mistress Macmillan and seek some contrivance. Had the day not been so wild and the lane so quiet we could scarce have gone unnoticed. As it was, one man pa.s.sed, a hawker in a little cart, seeking a near way, and with little time to stare at the two solitary hors.e.m.e.n waiting by the wall.
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