JOHN BURNET OF BARNS (continued 8)

When I rode through the village of Broughton and came to the turn of the hill at Dreva, the sun was already westering. The goodly valley, all golden with evening light, lay beneath me. Tweed was one belt of pure brightness, flashing and shimmering by its silver shores and green, mossy banks. Every wood waved and sparkled in a fairy glow, and the hills above caught the radiance on their broad bosoms. I have never seen such a sight, and for me at that hour it seemed the presage of my home-coming. I have rarely felt a more serene enjoyment, for it put me at peace with all the earth, and gilded even the nightmare of the past with a remembered romance. To crown it there was that melodious concert of birds, which one may hear only on such a night in this sweet time o' year. Throstles and linnets and the shriller mountain larks sang in the setting daylight, till I felt like some prince in an eastern tale who has found the talisman and opened the portals of the Golden Land.

Down the long, winding hill-path I rode, watching the shadows flit before me, and thinking strange thoughts. Fronting me over the broad belt of woodland, I saw the grey towers of Dawyck, and the green avenues of grass running straight to the hill.

By and by the road took me under the trees, among the cool shades and the smell of pine and budding leaves. There was a great crooning of wood-doves, and the sighing of the tenderest breezes. Shafts of light still crept among the trunks, but the soft darkness of spring was almost at hand. My heart was filled with a great exaltation. The shadow of the past seemed to slip from me like an old garment.

Suddenly I stopped, for somewhere I heard a faint melody, the voice of a girl singing. 'Twas that voice I would know among ten thousand, the only one in all the world for me. I pulled up my horse and listened as the notes grew clearer, and this was what she sang:

"First shall the heavens want starry light,

The seas be robbèd 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.

To thee, to thee."

There came a pause, and then again, in the fragrant gloaming, the air went on:

"First shall the tops of highest hills

By humble plains be overpry'd;

And poets scorn the Muses' quills,

And fish forsake the water-glide;

And Iris lose her coloured weed

Before I fail thee at thy need."

I stood in shadow and watched her as she came in sight, sauntering up the little, green glade, with a basket of spring flowers swinging on her arm. Her hat of white satin hung loose over her hair, and as she walked lightly, now in the twilight, now in a sudden shaft of the western sun, she looked fairer than aught I had ever seen. Once more she sang with her clear voice:

"First direful Hate shall turn to Peace,

And Love relent in deep disdain;

And Death his fatal stroke shall cease,

And Envy pity every pain;

And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile,

Before I talk of any guile."

But now the darkness had come in good earnest, and I could scarce see the singer. "First Time shall stay," the voice went on:

"First Time shall stay his stayless race,

And Winter bless his brows with corn;

And snow bemoisten July's face,

And Winter, Spring and Summer mourn."

Here the verse stopped short, for I stepped out and stood before her.

"Oh, you have come back," she cried. "At last, and I have looked so long for you."

"Indeed, dear lass, I have come back, and by God'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 hardships, 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. God bless you, my own dear maid." And I repeated softly:

"First shall the heavens want starry light,

The seas be robbèd 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 passed 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 fashion.

"Who was she?" Marjory asked, softly.

"She was my mother, a Stewart of Traquair, a noble lady and a good. God 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. God rest them all; they were honest gentlemen."

Then there was silence for a space, 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.

"I hae come to bid ye fareweel, sir," at length he said, slowly.

I sprang up in genuine alarm.

"What nonsense is this?" I cried. "You know fine, Nicol, that you cannot leave me. We have been too long together."

"I maun gang," he repeated, sadly; "I'm loth to dae 't, but there's nae help for 't."

"But what?" I cried. "Have I not been a good friend to you, and your comrade in a thousand perils? Is there anything I can do more for you? Tell me, and I will do it."

"Na, na, Maister John, ye've aye been the best o' maisters. I've a' thing I could wish; dinna think I'm no gratefu'."

"Then for Heaven's sake tell me the reason, man. I never thought you would treat me like this, Nicol."

"Oh, sir, can ye no see?" the honest fellow cried with tears in his eyes. "Ye've been sae lang wi' me, that I thocht ye kenned my natur'. Fechtin' and warstlin' and roamin' aboot the warld are the very breath o' life to me. I see ye here settled sae braw and canty, and the auld hoose o' Barns lookin' like itsel' again. And I thinks to mysel', 'Nicol Plenderleith, lad, this is no for you. This is no the kind of life that ye can lead. Ye've nae mair business here than a craw among throstles.' And the thocht maks me dowie, for I canna get by 't. I whiles think o' mysel' bidin' quiet here and gettin' aulder and aulder, till the time passes when I'm still brisk and venturesome, and I'm left to naething but regrets. I maun be up and awa', Laird, I carena whither. We a' made different, and I was aye queer and daft and no like ither folk. Ye winna blame me."

I tried to dissuade him, but it was to no purpose. He heard me patiently, but shook his head. I did not tax him with ingratitude, for I knew how little the charge was founded. For myself I was more sorry than words, for this man was joined to me by ties of long holding. I longed to see him beside me at Barns, an unceasing reminder of my stormy days. I longed to have his sage counsel in a thousand matters, to have him at my hand when I took gun to the hills or rod to the river. I had grown to love his wind-beaten face and his shrewd, homely talk, till I counted them as necessary parts of my life. And now all such hopes were dashed, and he was seeking to leave me.

"But where would you go?" I asked.

"I kenna yet," he said. "But there's aye things for man like me somewhere on the earth. I'm thinkin' o' gaun back to the abroad, whaur there's like to be a steer for some time to come. It's the life I want and no guid-fortine or bad-fortine, so I carena what happens. I trust I may see ye again, Maister John, afore I dee."

There was nothing for it but to agree, and agree I did, though with a heavy heart and many regrets. I gave him a horse to take him to Leith, and offered him a sum of money. This he would have none of, but took, instead, a pair of little old pistols which had been my father's.

I never saw him again, though often I have desired it, but years after I heard of him, and that in the oddest way. I corresponded to some little extent with folk in the Low Countries, and in especial with one Master Ebenezer van Gliecken, a learned man and one of great humour in converse. It was at the time when there was much fighting between the French and the Dutch, and one morn I received a letter from this Master van Gliecken, written from some place whose name I have forgot, a rascally little Holland town in the south. He wrote of many things—of some points in Latin scholarship, of the vexatious and most unpolitic state of affairs in the land, and finally concluded with this which I transcribe.... "Lastly, my dear Master John, I will tell you a tale which, as it concerns the glory of your countrymen, you may think worth hearing. As you know well, this poor town of ours has lately been the centre of a most bloody strife, for the French forces have assaulted it on all sides, and though by God's grace they have failed to take it, yet it has suffered many sore afflictions. In particular there was a fierce attack made upon the side which fronts the river, both by boat and on foot. On the last day of the siege, a sally was made from the gate of the corner tower, which, nevertheless, was unsuccessful, our men being all but enclosed and some of the enemy succeeding in entering the gate. One man in particular, a Scot, as I have heard, Nicolo Plenderleet by name, with two others who were both slain, made his way to the battlements. The gate was shut, and, to all appearance, his death was certain. But they knew not the temper of their enemy, for springing on the summit of the wall, he dared all to attack him. When the defenders pressed on he laid about him so sturdily that three fell under his sword.

"Then when he could no longer make resistance, and bullets were pattering around him like hail, and his cheek was bleeding with a deep wound, his spirit seemed to rise the higher. For, shouting out taunts to his opponents, he broke into a song, keeping time all the while with the thrusts of his sword. Then bowing gallantly, and saluting with his blade his ring of foes, he sheathed his weapon, and joining his hands above his head, dived sheer and straight into the river, and, swimming easily, reached the French lines. At the sight those of his own side cheered, and even our men, whom he had so tricked, could scarce keep from joining.

"Touching the editions which you desired, I have given orders to the bookseller on the quay at Rotterdam to send them to you. I shall be glad, indeed, to give you my poor advice on the difficult matters you speak of, if you will do me the return favour of reading through my excursus to Longinus, and giving me your veracious opinion. Of this I send you a copy.

"As regards the Scot I have already spoken of, I may mention for your satisfaction that in person he was tall and thin, with black hair, and the most bronzed skin I have ever seen on a man...."

When I read this letter to Marjory, her eyes were filled with tears, and for myself I would speak to no one on that day.

CHAPTER IX

THE END OF ALL THINGS

I am writing the last words of this tale in my house of Barns after many years have come and gone since the things I wrote of. I am now no more young, and my wife is no more a slim maid, but a comely woman. The years have been years of peace and some measure of prosperity. Here in Tweeddale life runs easily and calm. Our little country matters are all the care we know, and from the greater world beyond there comes only chance rumours of change and vexation. Yet the time has not been idle, for I have busied myself much with study and the care of the land. Many have sought to draw me out to politics and statecraft, but I have ever resisted them, for after all what are these things of such importance that for them a man should barter his leisure and piece of mind? So I have even stayed fast in this pleasant dale, and let the bustle and clamour go on without my aid.

It is true that more than once I have made journeys even across the water, and many times to London, on matters of private concern. It was during one of these visits to Flanders that I first learned the importance of planting wood on land, and resolved to make trial on my own estate. Accordingly I set about planting on Barns, and now have clothed some of the barer spaces of the hills with most flourishing plantations of young trees, drawn in great part from the woods of Dawyck. I can never hope to reap the benefit of them myself, but haply my grandchildren will yet bless me, when they find covert and shade where before was only a barren hillside.

Also in Tweed I have made two caulds, both for the sake of the fish and to draw off streams to water the meadows. In the wide reaches of water in Stobo Haughs I have cut down much of the encumbering brushwood and thus laid the places open for fishing with the rod. Also with much labour I have made some little progress in clearing the channel of the river in places where it is foully overlaid with green weed. The result, I am pleased to think, has been good, and the fish thrive and multiply. At any rate, I can now make baskets that beforetime were counted impossible. My crowning triumph befell me two years ago in a wet, boisterous April, when, fishing with a minnow in the pool above Barns, I landed a trout of full six pound weight.

The land, which had fallen into neglect in my father's time and my own youth, I did my utmost to restore, and now I have the delight of seeing around me many smiling fields and pleasant dwellings. In the house of Barns itself I have effected many changes, for it had aforetime been liker a border keep than an orderly dwelling. But now, what with many works of art and things of interest gathered from my travels abroad, and, above all, through the dainty fingers of my wife, the place has grown gay and well-adorned, so that were any of its masters of old time to revisit it they would scarce know it for theirs.

But the work which throughout these years has lain most near to my heart has been the studies which I have already spoken of. The fruit of them, to be sure, is less than the labour, but still I have not been idle. I have already in this tale told of my exposition of the philosophy of the Frenchman Descartes, with my own additions, and my writings on the philosophy of the Greeks, and especially of the Neo-Platonists—both of which I trust to give to the world at an early time. As this story of my life will never be published, it is no breach of modesty here to counsel all, and especially those of my own family, who may see it, to give their attention to my philosophical treatises. For though I do not pretend to have any deep learning or extraordinary subtlety in the matter, it has yet been my good fate, as I apprehend it, to notice many things which have escaped the eyes of others. Also I think that my mind, since it has ever been clear from sedentary humours and the blunders which come from mere knowledge of books, may have had in many matters a juster view and a clearer insight.

Of my own folk I have little to tell. Tam Todd has long since gone the way of all the earth, and lies in Lyne Kirkyard with a flat stone above him. New faces are in Barns and Dawyck, and there scarce remains one of the old serving-men who aided me in my time of misfortune. Also many things have changed in all the countryside, and they from whom I used to hear tales as a boy are now no more on the earth. In Peebles there are many new things, and mosses are drained and moors measured out, till the whole land wears a trimmer look. But with us all is still the same, for I have no fancy for change in that which I loved long ago, and would fain still keep the remembrance. Saving that I have planted the hillsides, I have let the moors and marshes be, and to-day the wild-duck and snipe are as thick on my land as of old.

As for myself, I trust I have outgrown the braggadocio and folly of youth. God send I may not have also outgrown its cheerfulness and spirit! For certain I am a graver man and less wont to set my delight in trifles. Of old I was the slave of little things—weather, scene, company; but advancing age has brought with it more of sufficiency unto myself. The ringing of sword and bridle has less charm, since it is the reward of years that a man gets more to the core of a matter and has less care for externals. Yet I can still feel the impulses of high passion, the glory of the chase, the stirring of the heart at a martial tale. Now, as I write, things are sorely changed in the land. For though peace hangs over us at home, I fear it is a traitor's peace at the best, and more horrific than war. Time-servers and greedy sycophants sit in high places, and it is hard to tell if generous feeling be not ousted by a foul desire of gain. It is not for me to say. I have no love for king or parliament, though much for my country. I am no hot-headed king's man; nay, I never was; but when they who rely upon us are sold for a price, when oaths are broken and honour driven away, I am something less of one than before. It may be that the old kings were better, who ruled with a strong hand, though they oft ruled ill. But, indeed, I can say little; here in this valley of Tweed a man hears of such things only as one hears the roar of a stormy sea from a green inland vale.

As I write these last words, I am sitting in my old library at Barns, looking forth of the narrow window over the sea of landscape. The afternoon is just drawing to evening, the evening of a hot August day, which is scarce less glorious than noon. From the meadow come the tinkling of cattle bells and the gentle rise and fall of the stream. Elsewhere there is no sound, for the summer weather hangs low and heavy on the land. Just beyond rise the barrier ridges, green and shimmering, and behind all the sombre outlines of the great hills. Below in the garden my wife is plucking flowers to deck the table, and playing with the little maid, who is but three years old to-day. Within the room lie heavy shadows and the mellow scent of old books and the faint fragrance of blossoms.

And as I look forth on this glorious world, I know not whether to be glad or sad. All the years of my life stretch back till I see as in a glass the pageant of the past. Faint regrets come to vex me, but they hardly stay, and, as I look and think, I seem to learn the lesson of the years, the great precept of time. And deep in all, more clear as the hours pass and the wrappings fall off, shines forth the golden star of honour, which, if a man follow, though it be through quagmire and desert, fierce faces and poignant sorrow, 'twill bring him at length to a place of peace.

But these are words of little weight and I am too long about my business. Behold how great a tale I have written unto you. Take it, and, according to your pleasure, bless or ban the narrator. Haply it will help to while away a winter's night, when the doors are barred and the great logs crackle, and the snow comes over Caerdon.