Part 11

My little sweetheart had been right. Her mother understood.

Later I sought her, and found her alone in the gloaming--the lover's hour.

"And what does mither say?" she asked.

Briefly I told her. She laughed happily:--

"I kent it wad be a' richt."

As she stood before me--her face upturned, her eyes eager, I slipped an arm about her, and would have drawn her to me, but she drew back.

"Dinna spoil it," she said--"maybe the morn"--and she smiled. "I want to keep the wonder o' your first kiss till then: it's a kind o' sacrament."

She laid her hands upon my shoulders, and her words tumbled over each other.

"Love is magical. Since you kissed me I have wakened frae sleep: every meenute has had rose-tipped wings: the silence sings for me, and the moor wind plays a melody on the harp o' my hert. Can ye no' hear it?"

I would have answered as a lover should, but she continued: "No, no! Ye canna hear it. I'm sure there maun hae been a woman wi' the shepherds on the plains o' Palestine the nicht they heard the angels sing. Nae man ever heard the angels sing till a woman telled him they were singing. Men are deaf craturs."

"Mary," I cried, "I am not deaf. I hear the angels singing whenever you speak"--and I seized her hands.

"Dinna talk havers," she answered, and raced off; but at the corner of the house she turned and, poised on tip-toe, shadowy among the shadows, she blew me a kiss with either hand.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*THE HIRED MAN*

There was nothing for me to do but lay to heart the advice of my friend Jean. Mary's suggestion that I should offer my services to her father took root in my mind, and next day I broached the matter to him. I began by assuring him of my sense of indebtedness to him and his good wife for all that they had done for me. Money I told him could not repay him; whereat he shrugged his shoulders and made a noise in his throat as though the very mention of such a thing hurt him.

Then I told him that one of two alternatives lay before me--either to leave Daldowie and endeavour to make my way across the border, or to stay on at the farm and try to repay by service the heavy debt under which I lay. He heard all I had to say in silence, but when I had finished he spoke:

"There's a lot o' places no' as guid as Daldowie. I couldna hear o' ye leavin' us yet. Ye see, Jean--that's the wife--has ta'en an awfu' fancy tae ye; and as for masel', I like a man aboot the hoose. A man like me gets tired wi' naething but womenfolk cackling roon' him. I think wi' a bit o' experience ye'd mak' no' a bad fairmer. When winter comes wi' the snaw there's a lot o' heavy work to be done feedin' the nowt, forby lookin' after the sheep. Last winter I lost half a score in a snaw-drift, and that is mair than a man like me can afford in sic tryin' times. I was ettlin' to hire a man in the back end o' the year; but if you like to stop you can tak' his place. I think I could learn ye a lot: and in the lang winter nichts me and you'll be able to ha'e some guid sets to on the dambrod. But a word in your lug. If ye're stoppin' on here ye'd better drap that English tongue o' yours, and learn to talk like a civilised body. It'll be safer. I've noticed that when a Scotsman loses his ain tongue, an' talks like an Englishman, he loses a bit o' his Scots backbane. Maybe in your case the thing will work the ither wey"--and he struck me heartily on the shoulder.

So the bargain was made, and I entered into the service of Andrew Paterson of Daldowie and of Jean his wife. I was already the devoted bond-slave of Mary.

Andrew announced our pact that evening as we sat round the fire. "Jean," he said, "I've hired a man."

Her knitting needles clicked a little faster: "And where did ye get him?" she asked. "I ha'e seen naebody aboot the steadin' the day, and the hirin' fair is no' till October."

Out of the corner of my eyes I saw a smile on Mary's face.

"Wha dae ye think?" said Andra. "Bryden here has speired for the job, and as he seems to ha'e the makin' o' a fairmer in him, I agreed to gi'e him a try."

Jean laid her knitting in her lap. "Andra, are ye sure ye're daein' richt?"

Involuntarily I started. Was Jean about to turn against me? But there was wisdom in her question, for she knew her husband better than I did. There was irritation in his voice:

"Of course I'm daein' richt, woman. It's like ye to question the wisdom o' your man. He never does onything richt." He swung himself round on the settle and crossed his knees angrily.

"But," returned Jean, "do ye no' see the risk ye're runnin'? Lag's ridin' through the countryside, and what dae ye think he'll say if he finds that a deserter is serving-man at Daldowie?"

"I ha'e thocht o' a' that, Jean," he replied. "He'll juist hae to keep oot o' sicht when your godless frien' Lag is aboot."

His wife seemed about to raise further objections, but he silenced her: "Haud yer tongue, Jean, and gang on wi' yer knittin'. My min's made up, and I am no' gaun to be turned frae my ain course by a naggin' woman. Let's hear nae mair o't." And then raising his voice he ended: "I'll be maister in ma ain hoose, I tell ye."

This little passage of arms, planned by the shrewd wit of Jean, served but to establish her husband in his purpose. The good wife picked up her knitting again, and for a time there was no sound but the click of her needles. Then, of a sudden, Andrew turned to Mary who, in the semi-darkness, had stretched out her hand and touched mine gently and said: "Mary, licht the cruise and bring the Book."

In this fashion I became a willing servant at Daldowie. The days passed pleasantly. Andrew took a pride in his farm. "A Paterson," he would say, "has farmed here since Flodden. Man, that was an awfu' thrashin' you English gi'ed us yonder; but we've paid ye back tenfold. We sent the Stuarts tae ye,"--and he would laugh heartily. The original little parcel of land had, I learned, been a gift made to an Andrew Paterson after that fateful combat, and each succeeding generation of his descendants had with incessant toil sought to bring under cultivation a few more acres of the unfruitful moor, until now Daldowie was a heritage of which any man might be proud. The love of his land was a passion in Andrew's blood.

My desire to make myself of use impressed him, and he taught me much agricultural lore. I found, as I had long suspected, that under his dour exterior there was much native shrewdness, and not a little pawky humour. But of that gift he had not such a rich endowment as his wife. In his silent way, he cherished a great affection for her, and though he had never, in my hearing, expressed himself in any terms of endearment, I knew that in his heart of hearts he regarded her as a queen among women. Sometimes he would talk to me of the trials of the hill-men. Of the justice of their cause he was absolutely convinced, and now and then his devotion to it seemed to me to border on fanaticism. He could find no good word to say for the powers that were arraigned against the men of the Covenant, and once, in a burst of anger, he said:

"I ken I can trust the wife, but this colloguin' wi' Lag is a disgrace to my hoose, and nae guid can come o't. She thinks that wi' him for a frien' she's protectin' them she likes best, but I'm thinkin' the Almichty canna be pleased, for what says the Book: 'Him that honoureth Me will I honour,' and ye canna honour the Lord by feedin' ane o' His worst enemies on guid farles o' oatcake--wi' butter forby. Hooever, ye ken her weel enough to understaun' how thrawn she is, and ony word frae me would only mak' her thrawner. Ye're no' mairrit yoursel', and I doot ye ken nocht o' the ways o' women, but that's ane o' them."

I had enough mother-wit to hold my tongue.

Autumn ebbed--and the purple moor turned to bronze.

Winter descended upon the land and the moor was shrouded in snow; but ere the snow fell, the sheep had been gathered into the lower fold and none were lost. Each short, dark day was followed by the delight of a long and cosy evening by the fireside, what time the baffled wind howled over the well-thatched roof. Andrew and I would engage in doughty combats on the dambrod, while Mary and her mother plied their needles busily: and sometimes, to my great delight, when Andrew was not in the mood for such worldly amusement, Mary would take his place at the game. He is a poor lover who cannot, amid the moves of the black and white men, make silent but most eloquent love, and many a tender message leaped across the checkered board from my eyes to Mary's, and from Mary's to mine. Once on an evening when we had been playing together while her father slept in the ingle-nook, and Jean busied herself with her knitting, Mary brushed the men aside and resting her elbows on the table poised her chin on her finger-tips. My eyes followed the perfect line of her white arms from her dimpled elbows, half-hidden in a froth of lace, to her slender hands that supported the exquisite oval of her face.

"Let's talk," she said.

"Yes, talk," I answered. "I shall love to listen, and as you talk I'll drink your beauty in."

She wrinkled her nose into the semblance of a frown, and then laughed.

"For a book-learned man ye're awfu' blate."

"Ah, sweetheart," I answered, "no man can learn the language of love from books. That comes from life."

"No," she said, laughingly; "no' frae life, but frae love. I'm far far wiser than you"--and she held her hands apart as though to indicate the breadth of her wisdom--"and I learned it a' frae love. For when you knocked at the door o' my he'rt an' it flew open to let you in, a' the wisdom that love cairries in its bosom entered tae. So I'm wiser than you--far wiser." She leaned towards me. "But I'm yer ain wee Mary still--am I no? Let me hear ye say it. Love is like that. It makes us awfu' wise, but it leaves us awfu' foolish. Kiss me again."

Book-learning teaches no man how to answer such a challenge--but love does, and I need not set it down.

Sometimes Mary would read aloud old ballads of love and high adventure--while Andrew and I sat listening, and Jean, as she knitted, listened too. As she read, she had a winsome trick of smoothing back into its place a little lock of hair that would persist in straying over her left ear. That vagrant curl fascinated me. Evening by evening I watched to see it break loose for the joy of seeing her pretty hand restore it to order. I called it the Covenanting curl, and when she asked me why, I stole a kiss, and said, "Because it is a rebel," whereat she slapped me playfully on the cheek, and whispered, "If ye are a trooper ye should make it a prisoner," which I was fain to do, but she resisted me.

Jean took a kindly though silent interest in our love-making, but if Andrew knew, or guessed what was afoot, he made no sign. His fits of depression grew more frequent; but whether they were due to uncertainty as to his own spiritual state or to sorrow and anger at the continued harrying of the hill-folk I was not able to tell, and Jean did not enlighten me, though in all likelihood she knew.

So the happy winter passed, and spring came again rich in promise.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*"THE LEAST OF THESE, MY BRETHREN"*

April was upon us--half laughter, half tears--when rumour came to us that the persecutions of the hill-men were becoming daily more and more bitter; but of the troopers we ourselves saw nothing. From what we heard we gathered that their main activities were in a part of the country further west, and we learned that Lag and his dragoons were quartered once again in Wigtown. One morning, when Mary went to the byre to milk the cows, we heard her cry in alarm, and in a moment she came rushing into the house, saying, "Oh, mither, there's a man asleep in Meg's stall."

Her father and I hurried out, and entered the cow-shed abreast. Stretched on a heap of straw beside the astonished Meg lay a young man clad in black. There was such a look of weariness upon his face that it seemed a shame to waken him; but Andrew, whispering to me, "It is ane o' the hill-men," took him by the shoulder and shook him not unkindly. The youth sat bolt upright--fear in his startled eyes. He stared at Andrew and then at me, and in a high-pitched voice exclaimed:

"The Lord is on my side. I will not fear what men can do unto me."

"I thocht sae," said Andrew, "ye're ane o' oorsels: but what are ye daein' in my byre?"

To this the only reply was another quotation from the scriptures: "The Lord hath chastened me sore, but He hath not given me over unto death."

"Puir laddie," said Andrew, "come awa ben the hoose and ha'e your parritch."

Again the youth spoke: "This is the Lord's doing: it is marvellous in our eyes."

Andrew took him by the arm and led him into the kitchen. He was placed in a chair by the fire and sat looking wistfully and half-frightenedly around him. His face was thin and white save that on one cheek a scarlet spot flamed like a rose, while over his high, pale forehead swept a lock of dark hair. As he held his hands out to catch the warmth of the glowing peat, I saw that they were almost transparent; but what caught my gaze and held it rivetted was the state of his thumbs. Both of them were black and bruised as though they had been subjected to great pressure, and I knew that the boy had recently been put to the torture of the thumbscrews.

Mary and her mother vied with each other in attentions to him. A bowl of warm milk was offered to him, and with trembling hands he raised it to his lips. As he did so I saw the perspiration break upon his forehead. While she busied herself with the preparation of the morning meal, Andrew questioned him, but his answers were so cloaked in the language of the scriptures that it was hard to decipher his meaning.

When he had finished his porridge, which he ate eagerly as though well-nigh famished, Jean took him in hand.

"Now, young man," she said, "tell us yer story. Wha are ye, and whence cam' ye?"

A fit of violent coughing interfered with his speech, but the seizure passed, a bright light gleamed in his sunken eyes, and he said: "In the way wherein I walked they have privily laid a snare for me. I looked on my right hand and beheld, but there was no man that would know me. Refuge failed me. No man cared for my soul. They have spread a net by the wayside; they have set gins for me. Let the wicked fall into their own nets, whilst that I withal escape."

Jean sighed, and turned to Andrew with a look of bewilderment. "The bairn's daft," she said, "beside himsel' wi' hunger and pain. He's had the thumbkins on; look at his puir haun's."

The youth continued in a high-pitched monotone: "Surely Thou wilt slay the wicked, O God. Depart from me, therefore, ye bloody men. Deliver me, O Lord, from mine enemies. I flee unto Thee to hide me."

"Clean doited, puir laddie, clean doited," said Jean. "I'm thinkin', Andra, ye'd better convoy him up to the laft and let him sleep in Bryden's bed. Maybe when he has had a rest, he'll come to his senses."

Andrew put his arm gently through that of the youth and raised him to his feet. "Come your ways to bed, my lad; when ye've had a sleep ye'll be better," and he led him toward the ladder.

As he ascended he still rambled on: "They have gaped upon me with their mouth. They have smitten me upon the cheek reproachfully. Are not my days few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a little," and with Andrew urging him on, he disappeared into the upper room.

In a few moments Andrew descended the ladder and returned to the kitchen. "I've got him safely bedded," he said.

"Ay, puir laddie," answered Jean, as she busied herself clearing away the dishes. "I wonder wha he can be? Maist likely he has escaped frae the dragoons. If they set the hounds on his track, they'll be here afore the day is weel begun."

The thought hardly needed expression. It was present in the minds of each of us; and gathering round the fire we took counsel together. That the lad was in sore need we agreed; but how best to help him was the difficulty. Should the dragoons come to the house we knew that their search would be a thorough one, for though Lag's compact with Jean still held so far as the safety of herself, her daughter, and her husband was concerned, we knew that it would be of no avail in the case of this fugitive. And, further, there was the question of my own presence there, hitherto undiscovered.

The kindly wisdom of a woman's mind was expressed by Jean: "At ony rate there is naething to be done in the meantime but wait and let the lad rest. Maybe after he has had a sleep he will no' be quite so doited, and be mair able to tell us something aboot himsel'."

"Ye're richt, woman," said Andrew. "Meantime, I'll awa' doon the road, and see if there's ony troopers aboot. And you, Bryden, had better gang up to the high field and coont the sheep. Ye'd best be oot o' the road if the troopers should come aboot."

It was partly from solicitude for her welfare and partly for love's sweet sake that I said to Jean, "And what of Mary? May she come with me?"

"Ay!" said her mother, "she micht as weel; but if naething happens, ye'd best come doon within sicht o' Daldowie at dinner-time. If the road is clear, ye'll see a blanket hanging oot in the stack-yard."

Little loth, Mary and I took our departure. As we went we talked of the stranger, but very soon our thoughts glided into other channels; and ere we had reached the high field, the great drab world with all its miseries had been forgotten and we were living in our own kingdom of love.

We found a sheltered nook and sat us down.

"Why do you love me?" said Mary suddenly, crossing her pretty ankles and smoothing her gown meditatively over her knees.

"Because you are the fairest and the sweetest lassie in the whole wide world "--and I kissed her.

"That's awfu' nice--but I doot it's no true. There maun be far bonnier lassies than me. At the best I'm only a wild rose. An' I'd rather you loved me for my soul than for the beauty ye see in me. That will a' wither by and by, and maybe your love will wither then tae. But if ye love me for my soul it will blossom and grow worthier in the sunshine o' your love, and a love like that can never dee."

"And why, my little philosopher," I asked, challenging her, "do you love me? I am all unworthy."

"No, no!" she cried--her eyes gleaming. "I love you, because--because"--she halted, and ticked the words off upon her fingers: "Because you are brave, and big, and awfu' kind, and no ill-looking, and because your blue-grey trusty een kindle a fire in my hert. No, no! That's a' wrong. I love you because--juist because you are you. A puir reason maybe--but a woman's best."

So the morning hours slipped by, and when noon was near at hand we began to saunter down the hill-side.

When we came in sight of the farm we looked eagerly to the stack-yard, and there saw displayed the token of safety, so we hurried down.

When we reached the house we found the fugitive seated by the fire. His sleep had soothed his tired brain, and Jean had been able to discover something of his history.

Two days before, he had been seized by the dragoons and brought before Claver'se: and with a view to extracting information from him, Claver'se had put him to the test of the thumbscrews. He had refused to speak, and the torture had been continued till God, more compassionate than man, had delivered him from his sufferings by a merciful unconsciousness. As Jean told us his tale he listened, and every now and then interrupted her.

"For dogs have compassed me. The assembly of the wicked have enclosed me. But He hath not despised nor abhorred the supplication of the afflicted. And now," he said, "I must go. Even as I slept the Lord appeared to me in a vision and said 'Arise, get thee hence.' I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh mine aid."

Jean pressed him to remain.

"No," he said, "I must be gone."

"But you are no' fit to gang, lad," said Jean firmly but kindly. "Ye dinna ken the moors ava. Ye'll be wanderin' into a bog or deein' amang the heather like a braxy sheep."

"Listen," he said, raising his hand, the while his eyes shone, "Listen! Dinna ye hear the voice bidding me go forth?" and he hurried to the door; but he paused on the threshold, and raising his eyes to the roof-tree, said, "Be Thou not far from me, O Lord."

"He's clean daft, Andra," said Jean; "if he'll no' stay ye'd better tak' him awa' and hide him in a kent place. Tell him to stop there and we'll maybe be able to look after him. Meantime," she said, seizing some farles of oatcake and a large piece of cheese, "put this in yer pocket and awa' after him. Maybe the fresh air will bring some sense to his puir heid. An' here, tak' this plaid for him," and she lifted a plaid from a hook behind the door. "He's got plenty o' the fire o' releegion in his hert, but it winna keep his feet warm, and the nichts are cauld. And, Andra, tak' care o' yersel', and dinna be runnin' ony risks. It's a' very weel to dee for the Cause, but it would be a peety if a level-heided man like you were to lose your life in tryin' to save a puir daft wean. Haste ye, man, or he'll be in Ayrshire afore ye catch him."

Andrew sprang after him, turning when some steps from the door to say, "I'll be back before nicht. God keep ye a'."

We stood, a little group of three, just outside the threshold watching the pursuit, and before they twain had passed out of sight Andrew had caught the young man and taken him by the arm, as though to quiet him.

"Losh peety me," said Jean, as she turned to go indoors, "what a puir bairn. I wonder wha his mither is?"

The afternoon dragged wearily on. From time to time I made my way to the foot of the loaning and, hidden by a thorn bush, anxiously scanned the country-side. There were no troopers to be seen.

In the kitchen Mary and her mother were busily engaged with household tasks, and I sat on the settle watching them. We did not speak much, for heavy dread had laid its hand upon us all. The hours moved on leaden feet.

On gossamer wings an amber-banded bee buzzed in, teasing the passive air with its drone as it whirred out again. The "wag-at-the-wa'" ticked monotonously. On the hill-side the whaups were calling, and nearer at hand one heard the lowing of the cows. A speckled hen brooding in the sand before the door, spread her wings and, ruffling her breast-feathers, threw up a cloud of tawny dust. Somewhere in the stack-yard a cock crew, and with clamour of quacking a column of ducks waddled past the doorway to the burn-side. When her baking was over, Jean, wiping the meal from her hands, went out into the open. Mary came and sat on the settle beside me, and as I took her hand it felt strangely cold. I sought to cheer her.

After a few minutes Jean returned. "There's naething to be seen ava," she said. "There's nae sign o' the troopers, nor o' Andra. I wish he were safe at hame."

I hastened to assure her that there was nothing to be feared for Andrew. Witless though the demented lad might be, in build and strength he was no match for Andrew, should he be seized with frenzy and endeavour to attack his guide.

"I suppose ye're richt. As a rule I ha'e mair common-sense, but I'm anxious."

Mary joined her counsel to mine. "He'll be a' richt, mither," she said: "it's no' yet six o'clock," and rising, she went out to call the cows. Her sweet voice thrilled the silent air: "Hurley, hurley."

When she had gone I made my way to the foot of the loaning again and from the shelter of the thorn-bush studied the landscape.

It lay, an undulating picture of beauty, in the mellow light of the early evening--purple and golden and green. No dragoons were in sight.