CHAPTER XXXIV.--LOVE IN THE WOODS.
Young Lachie did not bide long on our side of the water: a day or twoand he was away back to his people, but not before he and I, in a way,patched up once more a friendship that had never been otherwise thandistant, and was destined so to remain till the end, when he married myaunt, Nannie Ruadh of the Boshang Gate, whose money we had been led tolook for as a help to our fallen fortunes. She might, for age, have beenhis mother, and she was more than a mother to the child he brought toher from Carlunnan without so much as by your leave, the day after theytook up house together. "That's my son," said he, "young Lachie." Shelooked at the sturdy little fellow beating with a knife upon the barkof an ashen sapling he was fashioning into a whistle, and there was nodenying the resemblance. The accident was common enough in those days."Who is the mother?" was all she said, with her plump hand on the littlefellow's head. "She was So-and-so," answered her husband, looking intothe fire; "we were very young, and I've paid the penalty by my rueing itever since."
Nannie Ruadh took the child to her heart that never knew the glamour ofher own, and he grew up, as I could tell in a more interesting tale thanthis, to be a great and good soldier, who won battles for his country.So it will be seen that the Dame Dubh's story to us in the cot by Aorahad not travelled very far when it had not in six years reached thegood woman of Boshang Gate, who knew everybody's affairs between the twostones of the parish. M'Iver and I shared the secret with MacLachlan andthe nurse of his dead lover; it went no farther, and it was all themore wonderful that John should keep his thumb on it, considering itsrelevancy to a blunder that made him seem a scoundrel in the eyes ofMistress Betty. Once I proposed to him that through her father she mighthave the true state of affairs revealed to her.
"Let her be," he answered, "let her be. She'll learn the truth someday, no doubt." And then, as by a second thought, "The farther off thebetter, perhaps," a saying full of mystery.
The Dark Dame, as I say, gave me the cure for a sore heart. Her news, socunningly squeezed from her by John Splendid, relieved me at once of thedread that MacLachlan, by his opportunities of wooing, had made himselfsecure in her affections, and that those rambles by the river toCarlunnan had been by the tryst of lovers. A wholesome new confidencecame to my aid when the Provost, aging and declining day by day to thelast stroke that came so soon after, hinted once that he knew no one hewould sooner leave the fortunes of his daughter with than with myself.I mooted the subject to his wife too, in one wild valour of a suddenmeeting, and even she, once so shy of the topic, seemed to look upon mysuit with favour.
"I could not have a goodson more worthy than yourself," she was kindenough to say. "Once I thought Betty's favour was elsewhere, in an airtthat scarcely pleased me, and------"
"But that's all over," I said, warmly, sure she thought of MacLachlan.
"I hope it is; I think it is," she said. "Once I had sharp eyes on mydaughter, and her heart's inmost throb was plain to me, for you see,Colin, I have been young myself, long since, and I remember. A braveheart will win the brawest girl, and you have every wish of mine foryour good fortune."
Then I played every art of the lover, emboldened the more since I knewshe had no tie of engagement. Remembering her father's words in theharvest-field of Elrigmore, I wooed her, not in humility, but in theconfidence that, in other quarters, ere she ever came on the scene, hadgiven me liberty on the lips of any girl I met in a lane without morethan a laughing protest Love, as I learned now, was not an outcome ofthe reason but will's mastership. Day by day I contrived to see my lady.I was cautious to be neither too hot nor too cold, and never but at mybest in appearance and in conversation. All my shyness I thrust under myfeet: there is one way to a woman's affections, and that is franknessto the uttermost. I thought no longer, ere I spoke, if this sentimentshould make me ridiculous, or that sentiment too readily display myfondness, but spoke out as one in a mere gallantry.
At first she was half alarmed at the new mood I was in, shrinking fromthis, my open revelation, and yet, I could see, not unpleased altogetherthat she should be the cause of a change so much to my advantage. Ibegan to find a welcome in her smile and voice when I called on thehousehold of an afternoon or evening, on one pretext or another, myselfashamed sometimes at the very flimsiness of them. She would be knittingby the fire perhaps, and it pleased me greatly by some design of myconversation to make her turn at once her face from the flames whoserosiness concealed her flushing, and reveal her confusion to'the yellowcandle-light. Oh! happy days. Oh! times so gracious, the spirit and thejoy they held are sometimes with me still. We revived, I think, the glowof that meeting on the stair when I came home from Germanie, and thehours passed in swallow flights as we talked of summer days gone bye.
At last we had even got the length of walking together in an afternoonor evening in the wood behind the town that has been the haunt incourting days of generations of our young people: except for a littlemelancholy in my lady, these were perhaps life's happiest periods. Thewind might be sounding and the old leaves flying in the wood, the airmight chill and nip, but there was no bitterness for us in the season'schiding. To-day, an old man, with the follies of youth made plain andcontemptible, I cannot but think those eves in the forest had somethingprecious and magic for memory. There is no sorrow in them but that theyare no more, and that the world to come may have no repetition. How thetrees, the tall companions, communed together in their heights among thestars! how the burns tinkled in the grasses and the howlets mourned.And we, together, walked sedate and slowly in those evening alleys,surrounded by the scents the dews bring forth, shone upon by silver moonand stars.
To-day, in my eld, it amuses me still that for long I never kissed her.I had been too slow of making a trial, to venture it now without someeffort of spirit; and time after time I had started on our stately roundof the hunting-road with a resolution wrought up all the way from mylooking-glass at Elrigmore, that this should be the night, if any, whenI should take the liberty that surely our rambles, though actual word oflove had not been spoken, gave me a title to. A title! I had kissed manya bigger girl before in a caprice at a hedge-gate. But this little one,so demurely walking by my side, with never so much as an arm on mine,her pale face like marble in the moonlight, her eyes, when turned onmine, like dancing points of fire---Oh! the task defied me! The task Isay--it was a duty, I'll swear now, in the experience of later years.
I kissed her first on the night before M'Iver set out on his travelsanew, no more in the camp of Argile his severed chief, but as a Cavalierof the purchased sword.
It was a night of exceeding calm, with the moon, that I had seen as acorn-hook over my warfare with MacLachlan in Tarra-dubh, swollen to thefull and gleaming upon the country till it shone as in the dawn of day.We walked back and forth on the hunting-road, for long in a silencebroken by few words. My mind was in a storm. I felt that I was losing myfriend, and that, by itself, was trouble; but I felt, likewise, a shamethat the passion of love at my bosom robbed the deprivation of much ofits sorrow.
"I shall kiss her to-night if she spurns me for ever," I said to myselfover and over again, and anon I would marvel at my own daring; but theact was still to do. It was more than to do--it was to be led up to, andyet my lady kept every entrance to the project barred, with a cunningthat yet astounds me.
We had talked of many things in our evening rambles in that wood, butnever of M'Iver, whose name the girl shunned mention of for a causeI knew but could never set her right on. This night, his last in ourmidst, I ventured on his name. She said nothing for a little, and fora moment I thought, "Here's a dour, little, unforgiving heart!"Then, softly, said she, "I wish him well and a safe return from histravelling. I wish him better than his deserts. That he goes at allsurprises me. I thought it but John Splendid's promise--to be acted onor not as the mood happened."
"Yes," I said; "he goes without a doubt. I saw him to-day kiss hisfarewells with half-a-dozen girls on the road between the Maltland andthe town."
&n
bsp; "I daresay," she answered; "he never lacked boldness."
My chance had come.
"No, indeed, he did not," said I; "and I wish I had some of it myself."
"What! for so common a display of it?" she asked, rallying, yet withsome sobriety in her tone.
"Not a bit," I answered; "that--that--that I might act the part of alover with some credit to myself, and kiss the one girl I know in thatcapacity."
"Would she let you?" she asked, removing herself by a finger-length frommy side, yet not apparently enough to show she thought herself the onein question.
"That, madame, is what troubles me," I confessed in anguish, for herwords had burst the bubble of my courage.
"Of course you cannot tell till you try," she said, demurely, lookingstraight before her, no smile on the corners of her lips, that somehowmaddened by their look of pliancy.
"You know whom I mean," I said, pursuing my plea, whose rusticsimplicity let no man mock at, remembering the gawky errors of his ownexperience.
"There's Bell, the minister's niece, and there's Kilblaan's daughter,and----"
"Oh, my dear! my dear!" I cried, stopping and putting my hand daringlyon her shoulder. "You know it is not any of these; you must know I meanyourself. Here am I, a man travelled, no longer a youth, though stillwith the flush of it, no longer with a humility to let me doubt myselfworthy of your best thoughts; I have let slip a score of chances onthis same path, and even now I cannot muster up the spirit to brave yourpossible anger."
She laughed a very pleasant soothing laugh and released her shoulder."At least you give me plenty of warning," she said.
"I am going to kiss you now," I said, with great firmness.
She walked a little faster, panting as I could hear, and I blamed myselfthat I had alarmed her.
"At least," I added, "I'll do it when we get to Bealloch-an-uarainwell."
She hummed a snatch of Gaelic song we have upon that notable well, asong that is all an invitation to drink the waters while you are youngand drink you may, and I suddenly ventured to embrace her with an arm.She drew up with stern lips and back from my embrace, and Elrigmore wasagain in torment.
"You are to blame yourself," I said, huskily; "you let me think I might.And now I see you are angry."
"Am I?" she said, smiling again. "I think you said the well, did younot!"
"And may I?" eagerly I asked, devouring her with my eyes.
"You may--at the well," she answered, and then she laughed softly.
Again my spirits bounded.
"But I was not thinking of going there to-night," she added, and thehowlet in the bush beside me hooted at my ignominy.
I walked in a perspiration of vexation and alarm. It was plain that herewas no desire for my caress, that the girl was but probing the depthof my presumption, and I gave up all thought of pushing my intention toperformance. Our conversation turned to more common channels, and Ihad hoped my companion had lost the crude impression of my wooing aswe passed the path that led from the hunting-road to theBealloch-an-uarain.
"Oh!" she cried here, "I wished for some ivy; I thought to pluck itfarther back, and your nonsense made me quite forget."
"Cannot we return for it?" I said, well enough pleased at the chance ofprolonging our walk.
"No; it is too late," she answered abruptly. "Is there nowhere else herewhere we could get it?"
"I do not think so," I said, stupidly. Then I remembered that it grewin the richest profusion on the face of the grotto we callBealloch-an-uarain. "Except at the well," I added.
"Of course it is so; now I remember," said she; "there is plenty ofit there. Let us haste and get it" And she led the way up the path, Ifollowing with a heart that surged and beat.
When our countryside is changed, when the forest of Creag Dubh, whereroam the deer, is levelled with the turf, and the foot of the passengerwears round the castle of Argile, I hope, I pray, that grotto on thebrae will still lift up its face among the fern and ivy. Nowadays whenthe mood comes on me, and I must be the old man chafing against thedecay of youth's spirit, and the recollection overpowers of other timesand other faces than those so kent and tolerant about me, I put myplaid on my shoulders and walk to Bealloch-an-uarain well. My children'schildren must be with me elsewhere on my saunters; here I must walkalone. I am young again when looking on that magic fountain, still thesame as when its murmur sounded in my lover's ears. Here are yet thestalwart trees, the tall companions, that nodded on our shy confessions;the ivy hangs in sheeny spray upon the wall. Time, that ranges, hashere no freedom, but stands, shackled by links of love and memory tothe rocks we sat on. I sit now there and muse, and beside me is a shadowthat never ages, with a pale face averted, looking through leaflessboughs at the glimpse of star and moon. I see the bosom heave; I see theeyes flash full, then soften half-shut on some inward vision. For I amnever there at Bealloch-an-uarain, summer or spring, but the season, inmy thought, is that of my wife's first kiss, and it is always a pleasantevening and the birds are calling in the dusk.
I plucked my lady's ivy with a cruel wrench, as one would pluck a sweetdelusion from his heart, and her fingers were so warm and soft as I gaveher the leaves! Then I turned to go.
"It is time we were home," I said, anxious now to be alone with myvexation.
"In a moment," she said, plucking more ivy for herself; and then shesaid, "Let us sit a little; I am wearied."
My courage came anew. "Fool!" I called myself. "You may never have thechance again." I sat down by her side, and talked no love but told astory.
It is a story we have in the sheilings among the hills, the tale of "TheSea Fairy of French Foreland"; but I changed it as I went on, and madethe lover a soldier.
I made him wander, and wandering think of home and a girl beside thesea. I made him confront wild enemies and battle with storms, I set himtossing upon oceans and standing in the streets of leaguered towns, orat grey heartless mornings upon lonely plains with solitude around, andyet, in all, his heart was with the girl beside the sea.
She listened and flushed. My hero's dangers lit her eyes like lanthorns,my passions seemed to find an echo in her sighs.
Then I pitied my hero, the wandering soldier, so much alone, so eager,and unforgetting, till I felt the tears in my eyes as I imaged hishopeless longing.
She checked her sighs, she said my name in the softest whisper, laidher head upon my shoulder and wept. And then at last I met her quiveringlips.
CHAPTER XXXV.--FAREWELL.
On the morrow, John Splendid came riding up the street on his way tothe foreign wars. He had attired himself most sprucely; he rode a goodhorse, and he gave it every chance to show its quality. Old women criedto him from their windows and close-mouths. "Oh! _laochain,_" they said,"yours be the luck of the seventh son!" He answered gaily, with theharmless flatteries that came so readily to his lips always, they seemedthe very bosom's revelation. "Oh! women!" said he, "I'll be thinking ofyour handsome sons, and the happy days we spent together, and wishingmyself soberly home with them when I am far away."
But not the old women alone waited on his going; shy girls courtesied orapplauded at the corners. For them his horse caracoled on Stonefield'scauseway, his shoulders straightened, and his bonnet rose. "Thereyou are!" said he, "still the temptation and the despair of a decentbachelor's life. I'll marry every one of you that has not a man when Icome home."
"And when may that be?" cried a little, bold, lair one, with a laughinglook at him from under the blowing locks that escaped the snood on herhair.
"When may it be?" he repeated. "Say 'Come home, Barbreck,' in every oneof your evening prayers, and heaven, for the sake of so sweet a face,may send me home the sooner with my fortune."
Master Gordon, passing, heard the speech. "Do your own praying,Barbreck------"
"John," said my hero. "John, this time, to you."
"John be it," said the cleric, smiling warmly. "I like you, truly, and Iwish you well."
M'Iver stooped and took the proffered
hand. "Master Gordon," he said, "Iwould sooner be liked and loved than only admired; that's, perhaps, thesecret of my life."
It was not the fishing season, but the street thronged with fishers fromKenmore and Cairndhu and Kilcatrine and the bays of lower Cowal. Theirtall figures jostled in the causeway, their white teeth gleamed in theirfriendliness, and they met this companion of numerous days and nights,this gentleman of good-humour and even temper, with cries as in aschoolboy's playground. They clustered round the horse and seized uponthe trappings. Then John Splendid's play-acting came to its conclusion,as it was ever bound to do when his innermost man was touched. He forgotthe carriage of his shoulders; indifferent to the disposition of hisreins, he reached and wrung a hundred hands, crying back memory formemory, jest for jest, and always the hope for future meetings.
"O scamps! scamps!" said he, "fishing the silly prey of ditches whenyou might be with me upon the ocean and capturing the towns. I'll neverdrink a glass of Rhenish, but I'll mind of you and sorrow for your sourales and bitter _aqua!_"
"Will it be long?" said they--true Gaels, ever anxious to know the leaseof pleasure or of grief.
"Long or short," said he, with absent hands in his horse's mane, "willlie with Fate, and she, my lads, is a dour jade with a secret It'll belong if ye mind of me, and unco short if ye forget me till I return."
I went up and said farewell. I but shook his hand, and my words were fewand simple. That took him, for he was always quick to sound the depth ofsilent feeling.
"_Mo thruadh! mo thruadh!_ Colin," said he. "My grief! my grief! hereare two brothers closer than by kin, and they have reached a gusset oflife, and there must be separation. I have had many a jolt from my fairyrelatives, but they have never been more wicked than now. I wish youwere with me, and yet, ah! yet----. Would her ladyship, think ye, forgetfor a minute, and shake an old friend's hand, and say good-bye?"
I turned to Betty, who stood a little back with her father, and conveyedhis wish. She came forward, dyed crimson to the neck, and stood by hishorse's side. He slid off the saddle and shook her hand.
"It is very good of you," said he. "You have my heart's good wishes tothe innermost chamber."
Then he turned to me, and while the fishermen stood back, he said, "Ienvied you twice, Colin--once when you had the foresight of your fortuneon the side of Loch Loven, and now that it seems begun."
He took the saddle, waved his bonnet in farewell to all the company,then rode quickly up the street and round the castle walls.
It was a day for the open road, and, as we say, for putting the sevenglens and the seven bens and the seven mountain moors below a youngman's feet,--a day with invitation in the air and the promise of giftsaround The mallards at morning had quacked in the Dhuloch pools, theotter scoured the burn of Maam, the air-goat bleated as he flew amongthe reeds, and the stag paused above his shed antlers on Torvil-side tohide them in the dead bracken.
M'Iver rode beside flowering saugh and alder tree through those oldarches, now no more, those arches that were the outermost posternswhere good-luck allowed farewells. He dare not once look round, and hisclosest friends dare not follow him, as he rode alone on the old roadso many of our people have gone to their country's wars or to sporranbattles.
A silence fell upon the community, and in upon it broke from theriver-side the wail of a bagpipe played by the piper of Argile. Itplayed a tune familiar in those parts upon occasions of parting andencouragement, a tune they call "Come back to the Glen."
Come back to the glen, to the glen, to the glen, And there shall the welcome be waiting for you. The deer and the heath-cock, the curd from the pen, The blaeberry fresh from the dew!
We saw the piper strut upon the gravelled walk beside the bridgegate, wesaw Argile himself come out to meet the traveller.
"MacCailein! MacCailein! Ah the dear heart!" cried all our people,touched by this rare and genteel courtesy.
The Marquis and his clansman touched hands, lingered together a little,and the rider passed on his way with the piper's invitation the lastsound in his ears. He rode past Kilmalieu of the tombs, with his bonnetoff for all the dead that are so numerous there, so patient, waiting forthe final trump. He rode past Boshang Gate, portal to my native glenof chanting birds and melodious waters and merry people. He rode pastGearron hamlet, where the folk waved farewells; then over the riverbefore him was the bend that is ever the beginning of home-sickness forall that go abroad for fortune.
I turned to the girl beside me, and "Sweetheart," said I softly,"there's an elder brother lost. It is man's greed, I know; but richthough I am in this new heart of yours, I must be grudging the comradegone."
"Gone!" said she, with scarcely a glance after the departing figure."Better gone than here a perpetual sinner, deaf to the cry of justiceand of nature."
"Good God!" I cried, "are you still in that delusion?" and I hinted atthe truth.
She saw the story at a flash; she paled to the very lips, and turnedand strained her vision after that figure slowly passing round the woodypoint; she relinquished no moment of her gaze till the path bent and hidJohn Splendid from her eager view.
THE END.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends