Part 12

When I reached the house again I found that Jean was no longer there. Thinking that she had gone to search for Andrew, I hastened to look for her, and by and by discovered her standing upon the top of a hillock on the edge of the moor. As I drew near she exclaimed: "Whatever can be keepin' him?" Together we stood and scanned the distance. Far as the eye could reach we could discern no human being. I tried, with comforting words, to still the turmoil of Jean's heart.

"I'm an auld fule," she said, "but when ye've had a man o' yer ain for mair than thirty year, it mak's ye gey anxious if ye think he is in danger. Ye see, my mither had 'the sicht,' and sometimes I think I've got it tae. But come awa' back to the hoose: the milkin' will be ower and it maun be near supper-time."

We returned, and found Mary preparing the evening meal. We gathered round the table, and though each of us tried to talk the meal was almost a silent one. The "wag-at-the-wa'" ticked off the relentless minutes; the sun sank to his rest; the night came, and still there was no sign of Andrew.

The slow-footed moments dogged each other by and still he did not come. When the hands of the clock marked the hour of ten, I rose and went to the door. The night was still; the stars looked down on the thatched roof of Daldowie, heedless of the dread that brooded over it. I strained my ears to catch any sound of approaching footsteps, but all was silent as the grave. I rejoined Jean and Mary beside the fire. They were gazing anxiously into its embers. Mary lifted her eyes with a question flashing from them. I shook my head, and she turned her gaze once more on the glowing hearth.

"Whatever can be keepin' the man?" said Jean, looking up suddenly. "It's nearly ten oors sin' he left us. Mary," she said, turning to her daughter and speaking firmly, "ye'd better awa' to your bed. Your faither'll be vexed if he sees ye sittin' up for him; but afore ye gang, bring me the Book." Adjusting her horn-rimmed spectacles she said, "We'll juist ha'e the readin'," and opening the Book she read the 46th Psalm. When she had finished she took her spectacles off and wiped them with her apron. "I feel better noo," she said. "I ha'e been a silly, faithless woman. Whatever would Andra think o' me, his wife, if he kent the way I ha'e been cairryin' op this day. He'll be back a' richt afore lang. Gang your ways tae bed, Mary."

Mary took the Book from her mother and bore it to its accustomed place on the dresser. Then she came back and standing behind her mother placed a hand upon each cheek and tilting the careworn face upward, kissed her upon the forehead. With a demure "Good night" to me, she was about to go, but I sprang up and, clasping her to me, kissed her. Her cheeks were pale and cold, but the ardour of my lips brought a glow to them ere I let her escape.

Her mother and I sat by the fire so wrapt in thought that we did not observe how it was beginning to fail; but at last I noticed it and picking up fresh peats laid them upon the embers.

"Losh," said Jean, starting from her seat, "what a fricht ye gi'ed me. I thocht I was a' by my lane, and I was thinkin' o' the auld days when first I cam' to Daldowie as its mistress. Happy days they were, and when the bairns cam'--happier still! Ah me!" She lapsed into silence again, and when next she moved she turned to the clock. "Dear, dear," she said, reading its signal through the gathering darkness; "it's half-ane on the nock and he's no' back yet. I'm thinkin' he maun ha'e ta'en shelter in some hidie-hole himsel', fearfu' lest he should lose his way in the nicht. Gang awa' up to the laft and lay ye doon: your e'en are heavy wi' sleep. I'll be a' richt here by my lane. And mind ye this, if, when Andra comes back in the mornin', he has no' a guid excuse for ha'ein kept me up waitin' for him, I'll gi'e him the rough edge o' my tongue. Mark my words, I will that!"

At the risk of offending her, I refused to obey her. "No," I said, "that would not be seemly. I'll keep watch with you. While you sleep I shall keep awake, and when I sleep you shall keep vigil."

"Weel," she said, "you sleep first. I'll waken ye when I feel like gaun to sleep mysel'."

I closed my eyes, and though I fought against sleep, the drowsy warmth overcame me.

When I woke, I felt stiff and cold. The grey light was already beginning to filter in through the windows and beneath the door. The cock was welcoming the sunrise. I looked at the clock. It was half-past four, and Jean was sitting with her elbows upon her knees and her face buried in her hands. She raised her head and looked at me.

"Why did you not wake me?" I asked.

"I couldna ha'e slept in ony case," she answered shortly. "Listen! Is that him comin'?"

Together we listened, but no sound broke the stillness, till once again the cock crew shrilly. I went to the door and threw it open. The morning air smote on my face, and the long draughts which I breathed woke my half slumbering brain. Jean came and stood beside me, and together we looked towards the moor; but there was no sign of Andrew.

"The morning has come now," I said, "and if he had to take shelter for the night, he will soon be afoot again and ere long we shall be welcoming him home."

"I hope sae," she said. "Meantime, I had better get the parritch ready. When he does come hame he'll be gey near famished, and we'll be nane the waur o' something to eat oorsel's."

We turned to the door again, and as we did so I heard footsteps, and, looking in, saw Mary. Her face was grey with weariness, and dark rings encircled her beautiful eyes. Her quick wit read our faces and ere I could speak she exclaimed, her voice trembling:

"Is he no' back yet? Whatever can ha'e happened to him? I maun go and find him," and hastening to the door she gazed eagerly out.

"No," said her mother, "he's no' back yet; but I'm thinkin' he canna be lang noo."

"Are ye sure, mither, are ye sure, or are ye juist guessin'?" she cried. "Oh, where can he be?"

"Mary," said her mother sternly, "it's time to milk the kye. Gang awa tae your duty, and if he's no' hame by the time the parritch is ready, ye can gang an' look for him; but meantime, control yersel'."

"Oh, mither," she sobbed, "it's faither. He may ha'e slipped and broken his leg, or he may ha'e fallen into a bog. Mither, mither!" and she clasped her hands nervously, "we maun dae something. We canna' bide like this, an' no' ken."

I sought to comfort her with gentle words.

Of that loathly dread which lay most heavily upon our hearts, not one of us spoke. Mary, her heart on fire, had spoken for us all, but her-mother did not allow her anxiety to shake her firm common-sense.

"A' that ye say may be true, lassie," she said, "but ye'll no' be as weel able to look for your faither if ye gang withoot your parritch. Get the kye milket, and when ye've had your breakfast, if Andra is no' back, ye'd better gang and look for him."

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*THE SEARCH*

During the morning meal we discussed what was to be done. None of us knew to which hiding-place Andrew had taken the fugitive. There were, however, two possibilities; he might have taken him to a remote corner of the moor which Mary knew, whither, on occasion, she had aforetime borne food to some hidden fugitive. I had never been to this hiding-place, but I knew the way to the hill-top where my own retreat had been. In the end, we decided that Jean should remain at Daldowie, while Mary made her way across the moor to the one hiding-place and I went to the other. Jean would fain have joined in the search, but we made her see the wisdom of remaining at the farm.

"I suppose you're richt," she said, "but it's dreary wark sittin' idle."

I seized my stick, Mary threw her plaid over her shoulders, and together we were about to set out, when Jean spoke suddenly.

"Can ye cry like a whaup?" she asked, addressing herself to me.

"Yes," said Mary, "I had forgotten; that is the sign--three whaup calls and a pause while you can count ten, then twa whaup calls and a pause again, then three whaup calls aince mair. That," she said, "is a signal that we settled on long ago," and pursing her mouth she gave a whaup call so clear and true that it might have come from the throat of a bird.

"Yes," I said, "I can cry like a whaup. But when am I to use the signal?"

"You had best try it every now and then; for somewhere on the way it may reach the ears of Andra. He'll ken it an' answer ye in the same way, and ye'll ken you've found him."

Mary took her mother in her arms and kissed her. If she had been given to tears I know that her eyes would have brimmed over then; but the brave old woman bore herself stoutly.

"Ye'll tak' care o' yoursels, bairns," she said, "and even if ye shouldna find Andra, be sure to come back afore nicht. If you dinna meet him on the hills, you'll likely find him at his ain fireside when ye get back again."

So we set out. For a time our paths led in the same direction and when we came to the edge of the moor Mary sent her whaup calls sailing through the morning air. We waited, but there was no reply; then we walked on together. She was very quiet, and anything I could find to say seemed strangely empty: but I slipped my arm through hers and she returned its pressure gently, so that I knew she could hear my heart speak. All too soon we came to the place where we must separate.

"That," she said, "is where I found you," and she pointed to a green patch among the heather.

"Come," I said, and we left the path for a moment and stood together there. In the hush of the morning, with no witness but the larks above us, I took her in my arms and kissed her passionately. "Here," I said, "life and love came to me: and happiness beyond all telling,"--and I kissed her again.

She nestled to me for a moment, then shyly drew herself away. "Has it meant a' that to you?" she whispered. "Then what has it meant to me? It has brocht love into my life, beloved, and love is of God."

I folded her in my arms again, and held her. A little tremor shook her as I bent and kissed her on the brow and eyes and lips. "Flower of the Heather, God keep you," I said. On my little finger was a silver ring. It bore the crest of my house. I drew it off, and taking Mary's hand in mine I slipped it upon her finger and kissed it as it rested there. "For love's sweet sake," I said.

She gazed at her finger and then looked at me archly, her wonted playfulness awaking. "I wonder what faither will say? He'll read me a sermon, nae doot, on setting my affections on the things o' this world; but I winna care. A' I want is to find him; and if he likes he can preach at me till the crack o' doom."

I smiled at her upturned face. "And when we find him, Mary, as find him we will, I will ask him to let me marry you."

A light flashed in her eyes that all morning had been strained and sad. "Let's find him quick," she said. "Noo we maun awa. That is your road, and this is mine. Good-bye, and God bless you," and she lifted her face to me.

I would fain have prolonged the happy moment, but reason prompted me to be strong, so I bent and kissed her fondly, little dreaming of all the sorrow that the future held. At the end she showed herself to be more resolute than I was, for it was she who tore herself away. I watched as she sped lightly over the tussocks of heather like a young fawn, then I turned and took the path she had indicated to me, a path which I had blindly followed amidst storm and lightning once before. Ere I had gone far I turned to follow her with my eyes, and as I watched she turned to look for me. I waved my hand to her, and she waved back to me. The sunlight fell on that dear head of hers and, even across the distance, I could see the brown of her hair and the witching coil of gold set like an aureole above her forehead.

I plodded forward steadily, looking to right and left and from time to time uttering the whaup call. But there was no answer; nor did I anywhere see sign of Andrew. When I turned again to look for Mary she had passed out of sight and, though I scanned the distance eagerly, I could catch no glimpse of her.

My path had begun to lead me up the hills and as I went I was conscious that the strength of my injured limb was not all that I had thought. On the level it served me well enough, but on the slopes the strain began to tell. I was not to be beaten, however, by mere physical pain and struggled on with all the spirit I could command, though my progress was hindered seriously. It was close to noon when I came to the place of the hill-meeting where I had first seen Mary face to face. I clambered down into the hollow. It was a place of hallowed memories. In the hope that Andrew might be near, I uttered the whaup call: but there was no reply. I sat down, and took from my pocket some of the food with which Jean had provided me, and as I ate I pondered. I was not yet half way to my destination and the portion of the road that lay before me was harder far than that along which I had come. I judged that in my crippled state it would be evening before I could reach the loch-side, and to return to Daldowie again that day would be impossible. I dared not go back without having completed my search. To fail of accomplishing my part of the quest would be disloyalty to the friends to whom I owed my life.

My absence for a night would doubtless cause them anxiety, and as I thought of Mary's pain I was sore tempted to abandon my search and turn back to Daldowie at once. But I remembered my debt to Andrew and determined that at all costs I should see this matter through to the end.

Possibly Andrew was lying somewhere in my path with a broken limb such as I myself had sustained, and if I abandoned the search, his death would be upon my head. When I considered what Mary would think of me in such a case, shame smote me; so, without more ado, I set out again and battled on until, as the sun began to climb down the western sky, I found myself within sight of the loch.

Always the twilight hour is the hour of memories, and as I made what haste I could towards the great sheet of water they crowded in upon me. There, on the right, was the hiding-place which had afforded me shelter for so many nights: there on a memorable day I had caught sight of Mary, remote yet bewitching: there, on the other side, was the place where Alexander Main lay sleeping. Then I remembered the mission upon which I had come and uttered the whaup call. The sound was flung back by some echoing rock, but there was no response from any human throat. Again I uttered it, but no answer came; Andrew was not here. I made my way round the end of the loch and sought the little cairn of stones beneath which rested the body of my friend. Taking my bonnet off, I bent reverently above the little mound. He had given his life for me. Had I yet shown myself worthy of such sacrifice? I plucked a handful of early heather, purple in the dying light, and laid it among the grey stones of the cairn. Purple is the colour of kings. Then I stole away, and once more uttered the whaup call; but there was no answer, save that some mere-fowl rose from the surface of the lake and on flittering, splashing wings, furrowing the water, fled from my presence.

I sought the place where I had hidden aforetime and where but for my friend I should have been captured by the dragoons. It was undisturbed. No one, apparently, had made use of it since I had been there. In my weary state and with my aching limb, it was useless to try to return to Daldowie in the darkness. Haply Andrew was already safe, with Mary and Jean, by his own fireside. I pictured them sitting there; I saw them at the taking of the Book; I heard Mary's voice leading the singing, and I knew that to-night they would be singing a psalm of thanksgiving. I heard again, as I had so often heard when lying in the garret above the kitchen, the scrape of the chairs upon the flagged floor as the worshippers knelt to commit themselves to the care of the Eternal Father: and I knew that somewhere in his petitions Andrew would remember me; and his petition would rise on the soft wings of Mary's faith and soar above the high battlements of heaven, straight to the ear of God.

I wondered whether my absence would distress them. Mary, I knew, would be on the rack of anxiety. Her mother, no doubt, would be anxious too: but their anxiety would be tempered by the wise counsel of Andrew who would point out to them, no doubt with emphasis, and possibly with some tart comment on the witlessness of women, that it was not to be expected that I, a lamiter, could accomplish such a long journey in the space between daylight and sunsetting. I could hear him say: "I could ha'e tellt ye afore he started. The lad's a' richt; but it's a lang road, and would tax even me, an' auld as I am I'm a better man than Bryden ony day."

As I pondered these things the darkness fell, lit by a myriad scintillant stars which mirrored themselves in the depths of the lake so that as I sat there I seemed to be in the centre of a great hollow sphere, whose roof and floor were studded with innumerable diamonds. For a time I sat feasting my eyes on this enchanting spectacle; then I crawled into my hiding-place and pillowing my head on a sheaf of dead bracken leaves I composed myself to sleep. I slept heavily and when I awoke the hour of dawn was long past. Some old instinct made me push aside the overhanging fronds with a wary hand and peep out cautiously; but there was nothing to be seen except the great rolling hillside. As of old, the laughing waters of the loch called to me, and soon I was revelling in their refreshing coolness.

When I had clambered out I scampered along the edge of the loch till I was dry, then putting on my clothing I sat down and breakfasted. I had not much food left; hardly enough to blunt my appetite, but I hoped that I should be able to make good speed on the homeward journey, and that in a few hours I should once again rejoin the expectant household at Daldowie.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*BAFFLED*

My meal over I went to the loch-side, and dropping on my hands and knees took a long draught of the cool water. Then, raising myself, I uttered the whaup call, but I did not expect any answer and I received none. I looked across the loch to the little cairn that stood sentinel above the sainted dead, and then I turned and made for home and Mary.

I climbed up the slope to my left and scanned the moor. For miles and miles it spread before me, but far as the eye could reach there was no one to be seen. Then the spell of the solitude fell upon me, and I began to understand how, in the dawn of the world, the dim-seeing soul of man had stretched out aching hands in the lone places of the earth if haply it might find God.

The mood passed, and I prepared to haste me on my journey. Taking my bearings carefully, I decided to make straight for Daldowie. The ache in my injured limb had abated and I found that I could make fair speed. My heart was light; I was going back to Mary, and I should find Andrew safe. The larks above me were storming the heavens with their song; my heart was singing too; and soon my lips were singing as well. I sang a love-song--one of Mary's songs--and as I sang I smiled to think that I was practising the art of what Andrew had called "speaking like a ceevilised body."

Midday came, as the sun above me proclaimed, and I judged that already I was half-way home, when suddenly, in the distance, I saw some moving figures. The wariness of a hill-man flung me at once upon my face, and peering through a tuft of sheltering heather, I looked anxiously towards them.

They were mounted men, and I saw that they were troopers. I counted them anxiously. They were searching the moor in open order and I was able to make out a dozen of them. They were between me and Daldowie. Had they seen me? Were they coming in my direction? Breathless I watched. I knew that if they had seen me, they would put spurs to their horses and come galloping towards me. They made no sign--I had not been noticed. I was lying in the open with nothing to hide me but the tuft of heather through which I peered. There was not enough cover there to hide a moor fowl, but close at hand was a bush of broom, and worming myself towards it, I crawled under it and lay hidden.

To the unskilled eye, the distance across the rolling face of a moor is hard to measure, but I judged the dragoons were at least a mile from me.

As I watched I saw them gather together in a cluster. Had they found Andrew, or might it be the poor demented lad whom Andrew had risked his life to hide, or was it some other hunted hill-man? My ears were taut with expectation as I waited for the rattle of muskets; but I was wrong. I saw the troopers fling themselves from the saddles and in a moment a little column of smoke began to steal into the air, and I knew that they had off-saddled to make their mid-day meal. That gave me a respite, and I thought hurriedly what I had best do. Should I endeavour to worm my way further afield until I might with safety rise to my feet and race back to my old hiding-place beside the loch?

Almost I felt persuaded to do so, then I remembered that this would place a greater distance between myself and Mary, and she herself might be in danger. A chilling fear seized me. What was it I had heard of Lag? Was it not that he and his dragoons had gone further west, and were quartered again at Wigtown? If that were so, then possibly the dragoons before me were Winram's men, and the promise of protection given by Lag to the good folk of Daldowie would no longer hold. The horror of it! What could I do? My fears had taken such hold on me that my strength ebbed, and I was as water poured out upon the ground. It was not fear for myself that unmanned me, but a torturing anxiety for Mary's safety. The hour of their midday meal seemed endless. So long as they rested I was safe, and yet, with a strange perversity, I longed for the moment when once again they should mount their horses and continue their quest. Anxiously I looked up at the sun. Already he was past the meridian and I breathed a sigh of relief. In his haste lay my safety, for the close of day would bring the search to an end, for a time at least, and then I could return to my loved one.

At last I saw the troopers climb into their saddles. Was it fancy, or did my eyes deceive me? They seemed to have altered the direction of their search. Spreading out across the moor, trampling every bit of heather under foot, they searched eagerly, but their backs were towards me. I breathed again, for if they did not change their course once more, I should remain undiscovered.

The moments went by on leaden feet, but the sun marched steadily on through the sky. Still the troopers quartered and requartered the same tract of moor, and still, to all seeming, their quest was fruitless. I found myself wondering what they were looking for. Was it a quest at a venture, or were they searching for the boy who, two days ago, had found shelter at Daldowie? Two days ago! Was that all? It seemed far longer. What was Mary doing now? It was drawing near the time of the milking. Perhaps at this very moment she was out on the hill-side bringing in the cows. Dear little Mary: I could hear her call them home: see her tripping winsomely along the hill-side. My heart cried out to her.

The sound of a whistle cut the air and the dragoons turned their horses. It was the signal for their home-going, and a strange voice which I did not know for mine, though it issued from my lips, said "Thank God."