Kitabı oku: «Lochinvar: A Novel», sayfa 27
CHAPTER LIII
WITHIN THE KING'S MERCY
As they came nearer to the city they began to pass groups of country folk, all hastening in to see the glories of the court. For the king had come so far from his capital to receive the homage of his northern province, before departing to Ireland on the great campaign which was to make him unquestioned monarch of the kingdoms three.
Soon Wat and Kate reached the ancient bar which spanned the northern road by which they had ridden.
"Whither-away so fast?" cried the sentinel to them.
"From Scotland to see the king!" said Wat, confidently, giving the man the salute in a manner only practised by the regiments in Holland.
"You are of his Highness's Scot regiments?" cried a much-surprised voice from the low doorway.
"Of the Douglas Dragoons," replied Wat, over his shoulder.
"Pass – a gallant corps!" returned the officer of the guard, who had been watching, giving Wat back his salute in form, but, notwithstanding, keeping his eyes fixed upon Kate, whose head shone like a flower out of the blue deeps of the cape in which the rest of her beauty was shrouded.
As they rode more slowly on, several distinct streams of people all setting in one direction told them without need of question in what place the king held his court. There were many strange folk to be seen about the ancient city that day. In front of the cathedral were encamped the king's Laplanders, each armed with a great two-handed sword, nearly as long as the owner (for they were little men of their stature), and wearing bear-skins over their black armor.
The splendid uniforms of the prince's body-guard were also to be seen here and there. But it was not till they entered the wide grassy court of the castle that the full splendor of the scene was revealed to them.
Again and again they were challenged, but Wat's confident reply, "From Scotland to see the king!" together with his knowledge of the military etiquette in the Dutch army (and perhaps also in some measure the beauty of his companion), insured him a free and courteous passage on every occasion.
As they rode into the court-yard of the castle the king was just coming out of a pavilion which had been erected to receive him. The gentlemen of his body-guard, in orange uniforms, and with brilliant armor upon their breasts, lined the square. The dignitaries of the province stood more uncertainly about.
Walter and Kate rode straight up to within twenty yards of the king. Then Wat dismounted and took his wife by the hand. She vaulted lightly to the ground. So, hand-in-hand, the pair of runaway lovers stood before the king.
William of Orange was a man valiant by nature. He had no fear of assassination. And so on this occasion he put aside one or two assiduous courtiers who would have interposed between him and Lochinvar.
Wat stood with his hat in his hand waiting for the king to put a question. But William of Orange was silent. It was the custom of his house that they never spoke the first word.
"Have I your highness's leave to speak?" said Wat, at last.
William looked him all over with his eagle eye.
"I have seen you before," he said; "you are the Scots officer who brought me the papers concerning the forces at Amersfort."
Wat bowed, and at once began his speech to the king.
"Your highness," he said, "I am not here to ask a pardon for myself, but to claim your courteous protection for this lady – who is my wife."
The circle of dames and damsels who elbowed and rustled behind William at this point manifested the greatest interest. Kate had let the hood of her cloak fall from her head, and now stood, with the simple white of her bridal dress, unsoiled even after her long journey, showing beneath it.
"I will speak freely to your highness," said Wat, "asking no boon for myself. I am Walter Gordon of Lochinvar, in Galloway. Twice I am your outlaw – once according to the law of King James have I been an exile from my native land."
He spoke clearly and firmly, like one who will hide nothing.
The king bowed slightly, showing no more interest or animation than if he had been listening to the light gossip of the court.
"Because we two loved each other, I have carried off a bride from your councillor of state, my Lord Barra, that I might make her my wife. I escaped from your prison of Amersfort in order that I might rescue my love. I fought at Killiekrankie and Dunkeld – fought for King James, that I might win a way to her. For myself, therefore, I ask no mercy, and I expect none. But with confidence and unbound heart I place this lady, my wife, under the protection of your highness, a prince just and clement – so that whatever happens she may not fall into the power of her enemy and mine, the Lord Barra, from whom and from death I have saved her this day!"
"And how did you save her?" said William, looking at him level-eyed, as one man looks at another whom he knows to be also a man.
"I went to the wedding to drink the bride's last loving-cup, and when the bride came to the hall-door to speak with me I looked in her eyes once. Then I took her on my saddle-bow and rode away from among them all," said Wat, simply.
A little cheer fluttered out among the courtiers at this conclusion, and the ladies clapped their hands as at a play.
The king silenced them with a wave of his hand.
"And you expect – ?" said William, and paused, questioningly.
"I expect nothing, Prince of Orange," said Wat, boldly. "But I resolved to come to you and tell you the worst. For I would rather have your justice than any other man's mercy – especially that of the men who rule for you in Scotland."
The king shrugged his shoulders.
"Aye," he said. "I am with you there. I wish that stiff-necked country of yours were a thousand miles off and Duke Hamilton the king of it."
"You fought by my side at Calmthout, did you not?" he said, suddenly, bending his piercing eyes on the young man.
Wat bowed, with a sudden access of pleasure shining on his face.
"And you saved the colors at Louvain," the king added.
Wat continued to hold his head down. William's memory was marvellous.
"You also brought the papers, relative to the manning and armament of the camp, out of the inn of Brederode, wresting them from the French spies at the risk of your life. And I made you an officer for it."
He paused again, still smiling. Never was there a brave man so nobly clement as William of Orange.
"If I pardon you the double treason – and the prison-breaking," he added, a little thoughtfully, "will you command again for me – not a company this time, but a regiment?"
It was an offer noble, generous, worthy of the greatest prince.
The courtiers and the great folks assembled gave a shout, which was not checked this time.
The king still stood silent, smiling, expectant, confident of Wat's answer.
"My general, and your most noble highness," began Lochinvar, slowly, "but lately it would have been the greatest honor of my life to command a regiment in the service of the Prince of Orange. But I cannot command one in the service of William, King of England."
"Think again," said the king, who understood him. "I have regiments over seas as well as in England."
"But they might be needed here, and I could not desert my colors a second time for loyalty, as once I did for love."
"What, then, do you desire?" said the king, shortly, looking manifestly disappointed.
"Only your highness's most noble clemency," replied Wat, gravely; "the right to live quietly in mine own ancient tower, under the protection of your just and equal laws, giving my word of honor, if you will, never again to bear arms during your highness's life."
"You have it, my Lord Lochinvar," said the king. "Gallantly you have won your bride. Wear her on your breast and keep her safe with the strength of your arm. I have lost me a good soldier and she has gotten her a good man."
Kate ran forward with a charmingly girlish gratitude, and, kneeling, kissed the king's hand.
She looked about her to where Lochinvar stood. There was entreaty and command in her eye.
"It is the first thing I have ever asked of you as your wife!" she said, in a low voice.
For a moment he resisted. Then Wat came forward, since his love had called him, and, bending his knee, he said, "I kiss your hand, most noble, most generous prince."
"Rise, my Lord Lochinvar," replied the king; "keep your castle and your ancient loyalty, till your lands, and abide in peace within your borders. I shall see that neither council nor councillor stir you. And as for my Lord of Barra, I have bidden him to confine himself to his own islands. He is no more councillor of mine. I have at last found the truth concerning the matter of the inn at Brederode."
So, with a wave of his hand, the king passed away. A great king he was, though even in that hour Wat had named him no more than prince. Then, as soon as he was gone, a swarm of courtiers surrounded Wat, and the ladies took Kate off to make much of her. For so great a marvel as the open carrying away of a bride on her marriage day, with her own free will and consent, had not been heard of in any land.
But when all was over, my Lord of Barra rode in, anxious and jaded with hard spurring; but the king turned his back on him.
"I know my friends at last," he said. "Let me not see your face again, my Lord Barra. Ye have my leave to abide in your isles, if ye will."
But instead Barra betook himself forthwith to France, where he was received into great honor as a consistent favorer of the true king. He was killed at Steenkirk, as was fitting, leading a charge. For though a traitor, Murdo of Barra was a brave man.
EPILOGUE OF SUPEREROGATION
BEING CHAPTER FIFTY-FOURTH, AND LAST
Peace and silence cinctured the ancient tower of Lochinvar like the blue circle of the vault of heaven. Kate and Wat were walking the battlements. It was a narrow promenade, but they kept the closer together. From the gable chimneys immediately above them the blue perfumed reek of a peat fire went up straight as a monument. In the kitchen Jean Gordon and her tow-headed servitor, Mall, were preparing the evening meal. There, at the foot of the loch, could be seen Jack Scarlett switching his long fishing-pole, his boat and his figure showing black against the bright lake.
Wat shaded his face with his hand and looked under it, for the sun shot his rays slantwise.
"What is the matter with old Jack?" he said; "yonder he goes, pulling as hard as he can for the shore. I see two people sitting on a heather-tussock by the landing-place."
When Kate had looked once swiftly, she clapped her hands. "'Tis Maisie and Will!" she cried, merrily. "Oh, I wonder if they have brought the babe?"
"The babe?" said her husband, "wherefore should they bring the babe, carrying him all the way from Earlstoun?"
"I should never let him out of my arms," cried Kate, "if I had such a boy."
She stopped somewhat suddenly and changed the subject.
"Look," she said, pointing with her finger, "Jack is showing them his fish. It is as well that he seems to have a good, taking in his basket; for, faith! there is little in the house but salted black-faced mutton."
Long before the boat could approach near enough to the tower to render conversation possible, Kate and Maisie were crying out unintelligible greetings one to the other, while with his hand on her skirts Will Gordon endeavored to induce his wife to sit down, lest she should overbalance herself and fall out of the boat.
Kate ran down the narrow turret stairs to the landing-place, whereupon Wat followed hastily, lest she should throw herself bodily into the water. The boat touched the wooden fenders, and the next moment the two women were in each other's arms. The men shook hands gravely, but said nothing, after their kind. Jack Scarlett took up his string of fish and departed kitchenward without a word, keeping his eyes studiously on the ground.
Meanwhile the two women were sobbing quietly and contentedly, each on her friend's shoulder.
Then Will Gordon must needs turn and endeavor to cheer them with the eternal masculine tact.
"Why, lassies," he said, with loud joviality, "what can there be to cry about now, when everything has fallen out so well after all our troubles?"
His wife turned to him fiercely.
"You great gaby!" she cried, pointedly, "get into the house and leave us alone. Can you not see we are just glad?"
"Yes – glad and happy!" corroborated Kate. "What silly things men be!"
Wat and Will slunk off without a word. They did not so much as smile at the manner of the gladness of women. Even when they were safe in the square, oak-panelled hall, they seemed to have little to say to each other, except as to the crops on Gordonstoun and concerning the planting of trees at Will's new house of Afton.
Presently the women came back, whereupon, for no obvious reason, Wat and Will immediately plucked up heart and became suddenly voluble.
"Wat," said Kate, daring him to a refusal with her eyes, "I am going over to Earlstoun to-morrow to see the baby."
"What!" cried her husband, "why not fetch it here to-night? I will lead an expedition to bring it this very moment, and Scarlett and Will shall be my officers."
"It, indeed, you – you man!" cried Kate, contemptuously. "Why, you could not be trusted with him."
"We might break it," said Will Gordon, quietly, "or it might even cry, and then what should we do? Better is it that we should all return to the Earlstoun to-morrow. Sandy and Jean have gone to Afton for a while."
And so it was arranged, perhaps because of the last-mentioned fact.
But Kate cried out impetuously, after a silence of five minutes: "I do not believe that I can wait till to-morrow to see the lovely thing."
"No, nor I either!" said Maisie, grievingly. She let her eyes rest a moment reproachfully on her husband, to convey to him that it was all his fault.
The two men looked at each other. Their glances of mutual sympathy said each to each: "This it is to be wedded."
"Well," said Wat, more cheerfully, like a man who knows it is vain to fight against his destiny, "let us all go there together to-night."
The women sprang up and clapped their hands.
"Scarlett," cried Kate, "ferry us across in the boat at once."
"What may be the great hurry?" he said. "The trouts are frying fine."
"We are going back to Earlstoun," said Kate, with decision in her tone.
"Is the auld hoose on fire, or what's a' the red-hot haste?" called Scarlett, from the kitchen, where he was superintending the sprinkling of oatmeal on the trouts – a delicate operation.
"Man, the bairn may be greeting!" said Will Gordon; whereat Wat Gordon suddenly laughed aloud – and then just judgment seemed about to descend upon them. But their several wives looked at each other to decide which should be the executioner. "After all," said the four eyes, as they took counsel, "is it worth it?" It was enough that they were men– nothing could be expected of that breed when it came to a matter of the finer feelings.
Jean Gordon came anxiously panting up the stairs.
"You will be the better o' your suppers afore ye gang ony sic roads at this time of night," she said, determinedly.
So in a trice the trouts were brought in, and Scarlett sat down along with Lochinvar and his guests, for such was the sweet and honorable custom of the tower.
Then in the beauty of a late and gracious gloaming, they rowed over softly to the blossoming heather of the loch-side, and took their way by two and two up the hill. The two women walked on in front in whispered sibylline converse, sometimes looking over their shoulders to insure that their husbands did not encroach too closely upon the mysteries.
At the top of the hill Wat and Kate with one instinct stopped a moment and looked down upon the peace of their moorland home. Jack Scarlett was dragging a rod across the loch from the stern of the returning boat. Jean Gordon and Mall, her maid, were setting the evening fire to "keep in" till the morning. The topmost chimney still gave forth a faint blue "pew" of peat-reek, which went straight up into the still night air and was lost among the thickening spear-points of the stars.
Kate took her husband's arm.
"Are you sorry, Wat?" she said, with something like the dew of tears in her voice, "that you gave up the command of a regiment to come to this quiet place – and to me?"
In the hearing of his cousin Wat only smiled at her question, but privately he took possession of his wife's hand, and kept it in his all the way as they went down the hill, till they came through the Earlstoun wood past the tree in which Sandy had hidden so long. But at the well-house gate Kate suddenly dropped Wat's hand, and she and Maisie darted simultaneously towards the great doorway of Earlstoun.
Their husbands stood petrified.
"There is baby crying, after all! Did I not tell you?" cried Kate and Maisie together, looking reproachfully at each other as they ran.
Wat and Will were left alone by the curb of the well-house of Earlstoun; they clasped hands silently in the dusk of the gloaming and looked different ways. And though they did not speak, the grip of their right hands was at once a thanksgiving and a prayer.
