CHAPTER LIV.
ROBBERY ON THE KING'S HIGHWAY.
Now that which follows concerns not myself, but Maisie Lennox and othersthat were at this time forth of the Tolbooth. Yet, because the storyproperly comes in here, I pray the reader to suffer it gladly, forwithout it I cannot came to my tale's ending, as I must speedily do. HowI came to know it, is no matter now, but shall without doubt afterwardsappear.
While Anton Lennox and I lay in the Tolbooth, those that loved us werenot idle. Wat moved Kate and Kate moved Roger McGhie of Balmaghie. Sothat he set off to London to see the King, in order to get remission forme, and if need be to pay my fine, because there was nothing he wouldnot do to pleasure his daughter. But though his intercession did good indelaying the warrant, yet my owning of the raising the flag at Sanquharwas too much for the King, and in due course my warrant sped; of whichthe bruit came north with a servant of Balmaghie's who rode like thewings of the wind. But indeed I was not greatly disappointed, for sincemy declaration to the Privy Council, I never expected any other end.
As soon, however, as the news came to the house of Balmaghie, MaisieLennox betook herself to the woodside to think. There she stayed for thebetter part of an hour, pacing up and down more like an aged man than ayoung maiden. Then, as my informant tells me, she came in again with aface wonderfully assured.
"Give me a horse and suit of lad's clothes," she said to her who keptthe drapery closets and wardrobes at the house of Balmaghie.
"Preserve us, lass, for what wad ye hae lad's claes?" said the ancienthousekeeper. But without waiting to reply, Maisie Lennox went and gotthem.
"The lassie's gane wud![12] There's nae reason in her," she cried out inamazement.
[Footnote 12: Mad.]
But indeed it was a time when men and women were not inclined to standupon reasons. For each being supposed to have his neck deep in the tow,he had no doubt his own good logic for whatever he proposed.
So Mistress Crombie, housekeeper to the Laird of Balmaghie, withoutfurther question, fitted Maisie Lennox with a suit of lad's clothes,which (having taken off and again suitably attired herself) she strappedin a roll on her saddle bow and covered with a plaid. Then, dressed likea maid that goes to her first place and rides a borrowed horse, she tookher way eastward. Now at that time, so important were the proclamationsand Privy Council matters, that every week there rode a post who carriednaught but reprieves and sentences.
It had been the custom of late, ever since the numerous affrays near theborder of Berwick, that this messenger of life and death should ride byCarlisle and Moffat to Edinburgh.
Now this young maid, contrary to the wont of women folk, had all herlife said little and done much. So when Maisie Lennox came to the sideof the Little Queensberry Hill, having ridden all the way sedately, as asober maiden ought, she went aside into a thicket and changed herwoman's appearance to that of a smart birkie who rides to college. Itwas about the time when the regents call up such to the beginning oftheir classes. So it was a most feasible-like thing, and indeed therewere a good many upon the roads. But Maisie Lennox kept out of theircompany, for these wandering students are ever inclined to be goatish,and full of impish pranks, whether as I saw them at Groningen or inEdinburgh town.
So she (that was for the time being he) came riding into the town ofMoffat, just when the London state messenger was expected. There my lassentered the hostelry of the White Hart, which was kept by a decent womannamed Catherine Cranstoun. As a ruffling young gallant, she strode in,with her chest well out and one hand on the hilt of the rapier, whichshe held modishly thrust forward. But Maisie, when she found herselfwithin, was a little daunted to see a great pair of pistols, a sword,and other furniture of a King's rider lie upon the table. While fromwithin a little chamber, the door of which stood ajar, she heard thesound as of one who sleeps, and snores sonorously in his sleep.
"A good day to ye, Mistress Cranstoun," said Maisie boldly, and mostlike a clerkish student. "Will ye get me a drink of good caller water?"
"That," said the good wife shrewishly, turning her eyes scorninglyacross her nose, "is not good asking at a change-house. I warrant we donot live and pay our winter's oats by sellin' caller water to studentbirkies!"
"So, good madam," said our Maisie again; "but if you will get me a drinkfrom your famous medicinal spring--a good fresh quart--most gladly Iwill pay for it--aye, as if it had been claret wine of the best bin inyour cellar."
At hearing of which the landlady pricked up her ears.
"I will e'en gae bring it mysel'," she said in a changed voice, for suchorders came not every day. "It is for a wager," she thought. "The loonsare ever after some daft ploy."
As she went to the door she had a thought.
"Mind ye," she said, "meddle not wi' the pistols, for they belong to oneon the King's service."
So she set out to bring the water in a wooden cogie with a handle.
As soon as she was fairly gone, Maisie stole on tiptoe to the door ofthe room whence the snoring proceeded. She peeped circumspectly within,and there on a rough bed with the neck of his buff riding-coat thrownopen, lay the King's rider, a great clean shaven fellow with a croppedhead, and ear-rings in his ears. The edge of the mail bag peeped fromunder the pillow, and the ribbons of seals showed beneath the flaps.
Maisie laid her hand on her heart to still its painful beating. Clearlythere was no chance of drawing the bag from under the rider's head, forhis hand was twisted firmly in the strap. It was with mighty grief inher heart that Maisie Lennox stepped back. But at sight of the pistolson the table, a thought and a hope sprang up together within her. Shehasted to take them up and draw the charges, leaving only a sprinklingof powder in the pan of each.
And as she rode off, she bore with her the landlady's benediction, forthe good wife had never been so paid for caller spring water before.
It was at the entrance to the wild place known as the Devil's Beef Tub,near the last wood on the upward way over the hills, that Maisie waitedfor the King's rider. There were, no doubt, many thoughts in her heart,but she did not dwell upon them--save it might be upon this one, that ifthe rider discovered that the charges had been drawn, it would certainlygo ill with her and worse with those whom she had come out to save.
What wonder then if her maid's heart flew faster even than Gay Garlandhad done when he fled before the gypsy clan.
At last, after long waiting, she heard far off the clatter of a horse'sfeet on the road, and her courage returned to her. As the King'smessenger came trotting easily down an incline, she rode as quietly outof a byway into the road and let him range alongside.
With a polite toss of the reins, as was then the modish fashion, shebade him good day.
"Ye are a bonny birkie. Hae ye ony sisters?" said the man in the Lothiantongue.
Maisie answered him no--an only bairn and riding to the college atEdinburgh.
"Ye'll be a braw student no doubt."
She told him so-so.
"I'se warrant ye!" said he, for he was jovial by nature, and warmed withMistress Cranstoun's wine.
So they rode on in friendly enough talk till they were nearing the wood,when Maisie, knowing that the time had come, wheeled about and bade him"Stand!" At the same time she pointed a pistol at his head.
"Deliver me your mails," she said, "or I shall take your life!"
The man laughed as at a pleasant jest.
"Gae wa' wi' ye, birkie. Nane o' your college tricks wi' me, or ye mayaiblins come to a mishap. I am no' a man to tak' offence, but thissomewhat passes merrymaking!"
But when Maisie pulled the other pistol and levelled it also at hishead, the rider hesitated no longer, but pulled out his own and took aimat her heart.
"Your blood be on your own head, then! I never missed yet!" he cried,and pulled the trigger.
But the powder only flashed in the pan. With an oath he pulled the otherand did likewise with it, but quite as fruitlessly.
Then he leaped down and tried to grip Maisie's horse
by the bridle, forhe was a stark carle and no coward.
But her horse obeyed the guiding hand. With a swing to the left sheswept out of his reach, so as to catch the bridle of the horse whichcarried the mails and which, fresh from the stable, was inclined to cropthe herbage. Then she rode away leaving the man standing amazed andspeechless in the middle of the road. He started to run after hisassailant, but Maisie sent a bullet back, which halted him. For bychance it struck a stone among the red dust at his feet, and wentthrough between his legs buzzing like a bumblebee. And this is indeed athing which would have halted most folk.
It was with a fearful heart that Maisie Lennox, in the deepest shades ofthe wood, ripped open the bags. Almost the first paper she came upon washer father's death warrant. With trembling hand she turned over thepapers to find mine also. But there were only Privy Council letters anddocuments in cypher. Over and over she turned them, her heart, I doubtnot, hammering loudly. But there was not another warrant anywhere. Itmust have been sent forward by another hand. It might even be inEdinburgh already, she thought. Almost she had returned the letters tothe bag and left them at the tree foot, when she noted a little bulge inthe thickness of the leather near the clasp. In a moment she had herknife within, and there, enclosed in a cypher letter to the President ofthe Council, was a free pardon, signed and sealed, wanting only the nameinserted. Without doubt it was intended for some of the private friendsof Duke Queensberry. But at sight of it Maisie's heart gave a stillgreater stound, and without a moment for consideration she galloped offtowards Edinburgh, upon the fresh horse of his Majesty's post rider.When she came to the first woods over the crown of the dreary hill road,she put off the lad's apparel and dressed again as the quiet maid uponher travels, whom none would suspect of bold robbery of his Majesty'sdespatches upon his own highway.
Then as she took the road to Edinburgh, consider what a turmoil andbattle there was in her heart. She says that she saw not the road allthe way for thinking, and I doubt it not. "My father or my lad----" sheargued with herself. "Which name shall I put in? It may not serve themlong, but it will save them at least this day from death."
And in the clatter of her horse's feet she found no answer to herquestion.
Then she told over to herself all that her father had done for her sinceshe remembered--the afternoons when it was the Sabbath on the pleasantgreen bank at the Duchrae loaning end, the words of wise counsel spokenthere, the struggle at the cave when the cruel Mardrochat was sent tohis account. She did not forget one. Other things also she owns that shethought of. "Whatever may happen to me, I must--I shall save my father!"she concluded.
She was on a lonely place on the moors, with deep moss-hags and holes inthe turf where men had cut peat. These were now filled with black water.She stopped, took out the warrant for her father's execution, tore itinto a thousand pieces, and sunk it carefully in the deep hag. The whitehorse of the King's rider meanwhile stood patiently by till she mountedagain--I warrant as swiftly as she used to do in the old days at theDuchrae.
But the tearing of the warrant would only delay and not prevent herfather's death. She saw that clearly. There came to her the thought ofthe free pardon. To inscribe a name in the blank space meant a releasefrom prison and the chance of escape. She resolved to write it when shecame to the next change-house.
But as she rode she fell to the thinking, and the question that surgedto and fro in her heart, like the tide in a sea-cave, was--which namewould be found written on that pardon when she rode to the Tolbooth ofEdinburgh to deliver it into the hands of the Captain of the Guard.
As she thought she urged her horse the faster, so that the sooner shemight come to the change-house and settle the question.
"He is my father," she said over and over, dwelling on all that herfather had been to her. "I cannot--I will not think of others beforehim. It is my father's name I will write in the pardon--I must, yes Imust!"
And the name of another did she not mention at all, as I have beeninformed. At last she came to the door of the change-house, and,throwing her reins over the tieing post at the gate, she went in boldly.
"Bring me an inkhorn and a goose-quill!" she cried to the dame of theinn, forgetting that she had donned her maid's clothes again, andspeaking in the hectoring voice of the birkie student. She threw asilver coin on the table with a princely air that suited butindifferently with the sober fashion of her maiden's dress. And amongthe mutchkins on the ribbed and rimmed deal table, she squared herselfto write in the name upon her free pardon.
She set her pen to the parchment bravely. Then she stopped, took a longbreath and held it, as though it were the dying breath of onewell-beloved which she had in her keeping. With sudden access of resolveshe began a bold initial. She changed it. Then she wrote again hastilywith a set face, but holding her hand over the writing, as though toshield the words from sight. Which being done, she looked at what shehad written with a blanched and terror-stricken countenance.
No sooner was the ink dry, than bending again to the paper, she beganeagerly to scrape at it with her finger-nail, as though she would evenyet change her thought.
But as she rubbed the parchment, which was very fine and soft, part ofit curled up at the edge into a tiny roll like a shaving of bark whenone cuts a white birch. Instantly Maisie discerned that there were twoparchments instead of one.
With a light and cunning hand she separated them carefully. They hadbeen secretly attached so as to look like one. Casting her eyes rapidlyover the second parchment, her heart leaped within her to find that itwas another pardon, the duplicate of the first, and, like it, dulysigned and sealed. It was a moment's work to write in the other nameupon this great discovery. Then throwing, in her joy, a gold piece uponthe table beside the shilling, she mounted at the stance, and rode awayin the direction of the capital.
"My word!" said the good wife of the change-house, gazing after her,"but that madam doesna want confidence. I doot she will be after nogood!"
"She doesna want siller," quoth her husband, gathering up the money,"and that's a deal more to the point in a change-house!"
But Maisie Lennox has never told to any--not even to me, who have someright to know her secrets--that name which she first wrote when she hadto choose between her father's life and her lover's.
She only says, "Let every maid answer in her own heart which name shewould have written, being in my place, that day in the change-house!"
And even so may I leave it to all the maidens that may read my historyto let their hearts answer which. For they also will not tell.