John Burnet of Barns Part 29

As we went Nicol talked of many things with a cheery good humour. His was an adventure-loving mind, and there were few things which he would not brave save the routine of settled life. Now, as the November sun came out, for the morn was frosty and clear, his face shone with the sharp air and the excitement of the ride, and he entertained me to his views on the world and the things in it. The ground was hard as steel underfoot, the horse's hooves crackled through the little ice-coated pools in the road, and a solitary thrush sang its song from a wayside wood and seemed like a silver trump calling to action and daring.

"What think ye o' the hills, Laird?" said my servant. "Ye've been lang among them, and ye'll ken them noo in anither way than if ye had just trampit ower them after wild-jucks or ridden through them to Yarrow or Moffatdale. I've wandered among them since I was a laddie five 'ear auld, and used to gang oot wi' my faither to the herdin'. And since then I've traivelled up Tweed and doun Tweed, and a' ower the Clydeside and the Annanside, no to speak o' furrin pairts, and I can weel say that I ken naucht sae awfu' and sae kindly, sae couthy and bonny and hamely, and, at the same time, sae cauld and cruel, as juist thae green hills and muirs."

"You speak truly," said I. "I've seen them in all weathers and I know well what you mean."

"Ay," he went on, "thae lawlands are very bonny, wi' the laigh meadows, and bosky trees and waters as still as a mill-pound. And if ye come doun frae the high bare lands ye think them fair like Heev'n. But I canna bide lang there. I aye turn fair sick for the smell o' moss and heather, and the roarin' and routin' o' the burn, and the air sae clear and snell that it gars your face p.r.i.c.k and your legs and airms strauchten oot, till ye think ye could run frae here to the Heads o'

Ayr."

"I know all of that," said I, "and more."

"Ay, there's far mair," said he. "There's the sleepin' at nicht on the grund wi' naething abune you but the stars, and waukin' i' the mornin'

wi' the birds singin' i' your lug and the wind blawin' cool and free around you. I ken a' that and I ken the ither, when the mist crowds low on the tap o' the hills and the rain dreeps and seeps, or when the snaw comes and drifts sae thick that ye canna stand afore it, and there's life neither for man nor beast. Yet wi' it a' I like it, and if I micht choose the place I wad like best to dee in, it would be in the lee side o' a muckle hill, wi' nae death-bed or sic like havers, but juist to gang straucht to my Makker frae the yirth I had aye traivelled on. But wha kens?" and he spurred up his horse.

"Nicol," said I, after a long silence, "you know the errand we go on. I have told you it, I think. It is to find my cousin and Mistress Marjory.

If G.o.d grant that we do so, then these are my orders. You shall take the lady home to Tweeddale, to Dawyck, which is her own, and leave me behind you. I may come back or I may not. If I do, all will be well.

If I do not, you know your duty. You have already fulfilled it for some little time; if it happens as I say, you shall continue it to death.

The la.s.s will have no other protector than yourself."

"E'en as ye say," cried he, resuming his hilarity, though whether it was real or no I cannot tell. "But dinna crack aboot siccan things, Laird, or ye'll be makkin' our journey nae better than buryin'. It's a wanchancy thing to speak aboot death. No that a man should be feared at it, but that he should keep a calm sough till it come. Ye mind the story o' auld Tam Blacket, the writer at Peebles. Tam was deein', and as he was a guid auld man the minister, whae was great at death-beds and consolation, cam to speak to him aboot his latter end. 'Ye're near death, Tammas,' says he. Up gets auld Tam. 'I'll thank ye no to mention that subject,' he says, and never a word wad he allow the puir man to speak."

So in this way we talked till we came to where the road leaves the Clyde valley and rises steep to the high land about the town of Hamilton.

Here we alighted for dinner at an inn which bears for its sign the Ship of War, though what this means in a town many miles from the sea I do not know. Here we had a most excellent meal, over which we did not tarry long, for we sought to reach Glasgow ere nightfall, and at that season of the year the day closes early.

As we rode down the narrow, crooked street, I had leisure to look about me. The town was in a ferment, for, as near the field of Bothwell Brig, where the Whigs had suffered their chiefest slaughter, it had been well garrisoned with soldiers, and the news of the Prince of Orange's landing put the place into an uproar. Men with flushed, eager faces hurried past with wonder writ large on their cheeks; others stood about in knots talking shrilly; and every now and then a horseman would push his way through the crowd bearing fresh tidings to the townsfolk or carrying it thence to the West country.

Suddenly, in the throng of men, I saw a face which brought me to a standstill. It was that of a man, dark, sullen, and foreign-looking, whose former dragoon's dress a countryman's coat poorly concealed. He was pushing his way eagerly through the crowd, when he looked into the mid-street and caught my eye. In an instant he had dived into one of the narrow closes and was lost to sight.

At the first glance I knew my man for that soldier of Gilbert's, Jan Hamman, the Hollander, whom already thrice I had met, once in the Alphen Road, once at the joining of the Cor Water with Tweed, and once at the caves of the Cor, when so many of His Majesty's servants went to their account. What he was about in this West country I could not think, for had he been wise he would have made for the eastern seacoast or at least not ventured into this stronghold of those he had persecuted. And with the thought another came. Had not he spoken bitterly of his commander?

was he not the victim of one of my fair cousin's many infamies? had he not, in my own hearing, sworn vengeance? Gilbert had more foes than one on his track, for here was this man, darkly malevolent, d.o.g.g.i.ng him in his flight. The thought flashed upon me that he of all men would know my cousin's plans and would aid me in my search. I did not for a moment desire him for an ally in my work; nay, I should first frustrate his designs, before I settled matters with Gilbert, for it was in the highest degree unseemly that any such villain should meddle in matters which belonged solely to our house. Still I should use him for my own ends, come what might.

I leaped from my horse, crying on Nicol to take charge of it, and dashed up the narrow entry. I had just a glimpse of a figure vanishing round the far corner, and when I had picked my way, stumbling over countless obstacles, I found at the end an open court, roughly paved with cobbie-stones, and beyond that a high wall. With all my might I made a great leap and caught the top, and lo! I looked over into a narrow lane wherein children were playing. It was clear that my man had gone by this road, and would now be mixed among the folk in the side street. It was useless to follow further, so in some chagrin I retraced my steps, banning Nicol and the Dutchman and my own ill-luck.

I remounted, making no answer to my servant's sarcastic condolences-for, of course, he had no knowledge of this fellow's purport in coming to the Westlands, and could only look on my conduct as a whimsical freak. As we pa.s.sed down the street I kept a shrewd lookout to right and left if haply I might see my man, but no such good luck visited me. Once out of the town it behooved us to make better speed, for little of the afternoon remained, and dusk at this time of year fell sharp and sudden.

So with a great jingling and bravado we clattered through the little hamlets of Blantyre and Cambuslang, and came just at the darkening to the populous burgh of Rutherglen, which, saving that it has no college or abbey, is a more bustling and prosperous place than Glasgow itself.

But here we did not stay, being eager to win to our journey's end; so after a gla.s.s of wine at an inn we took the path through the now dusky meadows by Clyde side, and pa.s.sing through the village of Gorbals, which lies on the south bank of the river, we crossed the great bridge and entered the gates just as they were on the point of closing.

During the latter hours of the day I had gone over again in mind all the details of the doings of past weeks. All seemed now clear, and with great heartiness I cursed myself for errors, which I could scarce have refrained from. The steps in Gilbert's plan lay before me one by one.

The letter had given him only the slightest of clues, which he must have taken weeks to discover. When at last it had been made clear to him, something else had engaged his mind. He must have had word from private sources, shut to the country folk, of the way whither events were trending in the state. His mind was made up; he would make one desperate bid for success; and thus he shaped his course. He sent men to Smitwood with the plausible story which I had already heard from my servant, how all breach was healed between us, and how this was her escort to take her to me. Then I doubted not he had bidden the men show her as proof some letter forged in my name on the model of the one I had lost on Caerdon, and also give her some slight hint of the great change in the country to convince her that now he could do no ill even had he desired it, and that I was now on the summit of fortune. The poor la.s.s, wearied with anxiety and long delay, and with no wise Nicol at hand to give better counsel, had suffered herself to be persuaded, and left the house with a glad heart. I pictured her disillusion, her bitter regrets, her unwilling flight. And then I swore with redoubled vehemence that it should not be for long.

We alighted for the night at the house of that Mistress Macmillan, where I lodged when I first came to college. She welcomed us heartily, and prepared us a n.o.ble supper, for we were hungry as hawks, and I, for one, tired with many rough adventures. The house stood in the Gallow Gate, near the salt market and the college gardens; and as I lay down on the fresh sheets and heard the many noises of the street with the ripple of the river filling the pauses, I thanked G.o.d that at last I had come out of beggary and outlawry to decent habitation.

CHAPTER III

THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES

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.