Part 34 (1/2)
”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.