Chapter XII: Part 12

The cord ran up from the volume into the air towards the window, and, instinctively, I began to pull it in. From the weight of it I knew that there was something upon the other end. Foot by foot, yard by yard, as a seaman passes a cable through his hands, I hauled in the string until I heard a little metallic click as the object attached to it struck the stanchion set in the window, and the string became taut. Seizing the cord in my teeth, I scrambled up the wall. There on the sloping sill, one edge touching the iron bar, lay my file. I gripped it and would have fallen to work upon the stanchion at once, but I saw that I had not yet come to the end of the cord, which ran over the outer edge of the sill and disappeared from sight. So, unlooping the file from the running knot in which it was held, I continued to draw in the cord. As it came up I saw it thicken and knew that my faithful henchman in the street below was sending me a rope. Placing the file between my teeth, I hauled the rope in feverishly till at last the lower end of it was in my grip. I dropped it into the cell behind me and with new strength, but with infinite care, I set myself again to my task upon the bar. Now at the bottom, and now at the top I worked, the iron dust falling in little jets and trickling over the sill. Was it fancy, or was I working with greater skill?--the file seemed to bite more deeply and more easily into the iron. First on one side of the bar, then on the other, I worked, changing from top to bottom, or from bottom to top, as too long work in one position cramped me. Rasp, rasp ... I felt the bar vibrate like a violin string in the hand that held it. Rasp, rasp, rasp ... and a puff of wind from the outside blew the iron dust into my mouth and eyes. What cared I for that? Rasp, rasp, rasp ... and the top of the bar was cut so thin that I could break it through. I gripped the file in my teeth and, seizing the stanchion high up with both my hands, threw all my weight upon it. It bent just above its base, but did not break, and where its iron fibres were at tensest strain in the bottom of the groove which I had already cut, I set the file to work once more. The iron gave like crumbling bread before the teeth of the file, till the bar was so thin that with one hand I could bend it in whichever direction I pleased. One strong pull towards me, one mighty thrust outwards, and the stanchion broke with a snap so sudden that the hand which held it shot out through the window. I steadied myself with my left hand on the inner edge of the sill; then I dropped down on tip-toe and seized the rope. As I did so, my fingers touched the volume which had brought me to safety. Breaking the string which bound it, I slipped it into my pocket. It would never do to leave it, neither would it do to leave behind me the disguise I had worn. I gathered up the bundle and tied it tightly about with the cord, the end of which I took in my teeth. Then with the rope round my neck I swarmed up the wall to the window. To my joy, when I reached it, I found that in my efforts to break the bar I had bent the lower end inwards. The stump, thus curved, would give a securer hold to the rope upon which I was about to trust myself. It seemed hardly strong enough to bear my weight, but its length was ample, far greater than I should need. So I doubled it over the stump of the stanchion and having passed it out over the sill, began to worm myself through the window. Slowly and painfully I pushed my way through, and at last my head and the upper part of my body were beyond the aperture. I bent forward, gripping the rope as far off as my arms could reach, and throwing my weight down upon my hands so that the rope was taut, I wriggled myself through until I felt my toes were touching the inner edge of the sill.

Now had the moment come for all my courage. Slowly moving my hands one beyond another, I disengaged my feet from the inner edge of the sill and for a moment hung head downwards. Would the rope hold? If not, I should crash upon the pavement beneath me, a broken, lifeless mass. But it held! As I felt my toes slipping down the slope of the sill, I twisted my body to one side so that my feet and legs described a half-circle, and for a moment I swung to and fro against the wall like the pendulum of a clock. Then I lowered myself quickly. Before the last of the rope had run through my hands my feet were upon the ground, and I was free. Somewhere a voice, close beside me, whispered, "No sae bad. No sae bad." Turning, I saw Hector. He patted me on the back, and then whispered anxiously, "I hope you ha'ena forgot to bring my Horace?" I could have screamed with laughter, but all I did was to nod my head with vigour. Then I took the cord from between my teeth and proceeded to haul upon it. The bundle at its end caught for a moment as it was passing through the window, and then fell, a dark mass out of the heights above, and I caught it as it fell. Hastily I put it into Hector's hands, and seizing the lower end of the rope jerked it once--twice--thrice. The loop above disengaged itself from the stanchion, and in its fall struck me upon the upturned face.

The town-clock struck once. "Half-fower," whispered Hector. "For God's sake let us hurry." Quickly I coiled the rope up into a hank. Hector seized me by the arm and half dragged me across the street to a close mouth. When I tried to thank him he stopped me.

"There's nae need o' that. Awa' wi' ye to Lincluden. Haste ye! Below the big window ye'll fin' a flicht o' steps. The second moves when ye step on it: but never mind--that's naething. The fifth seems firm: but it's no'. I'm the only man that kens that. Shove hard at the left-hand bottom corner--and crawl in when it swings roun', and stop there till I come for ye. Mary's a' richt and in safe hands. Dinna fash yersel' aboot her; but gi'e me the rope. I lifted it off the Provost's drying-green, and though I may be a liar, I'm no' a thief yet and I maun put it back. Awa' wi' ye like a hare."

I needed no second bidding. Hurrying along under the shadow of the houses, I soon found myself in a little lane which ran down to the edge of the water. I made for the Staked Ford, crossed the river hot-foot there, and hot-foot raced on my way. Dawn had not yet begun to break when I reached the Abbey. Once within the shelter of its walls I had no difficulty in finding the steps of which Hector had told me. The second moved as I trod upon it, but I remembered his caution and hastened to the bottom. Then I turned, and kneeling on the last step I pushed hard against the fifth as he had bidden me, and it swung round. I crawled into the cavity beneath it and, turning, drew the step into place again. Then on my hands and knees, for there was not sufficient room to do more, I crawled on until I found myself in a spacious passage.

*CHAPTER XLIII*

*BY THE TOWER OF LINCLUDEN*

Under my feet was dry crisp sand, and knowing that I was in perfect safety I lay down at full length. I could sleep here undisturbed. Mary was in good hands: I had Hector's word for that, and ere long I knew that I should see her again and be able to claim her for my very own. When I was able to tear my thoughts away from the enchanted dreams of our reunion, I fell upon sullen doubt. We should be in daily peril so long as we continued to remain in Scotland. There was nothing for it but to escape from this tortured land. But how? I knew the ports were watched, and I had heard how the roads that led to the border were patrolled by the dragoons. Mary's escape and mine would spur the persecutors to measures more stern. At whatever risk, we must attempt to get to England. There lay safety. And then I thought of Hector. Hector, the resourceful, the indomitable, would find a way; and with this thought in my mind, I settled down to sleep.

How long I slept I cannot tell, but when I awoke and felt the sand beneath me and, reaching out, touched upon either hand rough walls of stone, I thought for a moment that I had been buried alive. Then I remembered where I was.

I crawled along the passage until I was beneath the steps. A faint little feather of light came through the chinks between them and from its tenuousness I judged that it was night. I must have slept all through the day. Cautiously I swung round the step and crawled out until I stood within the precincts of the Abbey beneath the Gothic window.

The sky was studded with stars. I judged that I might with safety go further afield to stretch my limbs, so I stole out of the Abbey and walked across the level lawn until I came to the edge of the river. It moved silently through the darkness, so slowly as to seem asleep, and I thought of my own quiet Avon. I walked along the bank to the point where the Cluden steals silently into the bosom of the shining Nith, to flow on with it, one and indivisible, to the sea.

I followed the course of the stream downward until the black, still surface of the College pool lay at my feet. As I stood there I listened to the faint murmur of the river as it flowed at the foot of the banks beneath. There was love in its language, and I, whose heart was aglow with love, could hear and understand. The Nith was whispering to the Cluden, adrowse in its arms, such little tender messages as soon I should be whispering to my beloved. I drifted away upon the soft wings of reverie to a land of dreams, but I was brought back suddenly by hearing afar off the sound of the town clock. I counted its strokes. It was midnight. Midnight! and there was no sign of Hector; nor had I yet seen Mary! What could have happened to them? Had disaster befallen them, and were all the high hopes which I had formed doomed yet to be brought to the ground? I dared not think so, and, to rid myself of my fears, I threw off my clothing and with a running leap plunged head foremost into the College Pool. The coldness of the water stung me like a lash, but there was refreshment in it, and with hope once more on tip-toe, I yielded myself to the enjoyment of the moment, and swam until the stiffness left my limbs. Then I made for the bank again, and when I had dressed sought my hiding-place. Sometime ere dawn, I imagined, Hector would come to me, with news of Mary. With this hope in my mind I sat in my gloomy vault waiting patiently. Hour after hour went by, and still he did not come, and at last sleep overcame me and I sank into dreamland again. When love sits on the throne of a man's heart, dreamland is his empire, and on winged feet I wandered with Mary at my side, through the meads, flower-dappled, of that bewitching land. Then I woke again, and realised that it was a dream and that nothing surrounded me but darkness.

Once more I crawled beneath the stair and peeped out. It was broad day, but still Hector had not come. Then fear seized me. Had he fallen into the hands of Lag and been done to death? Was the price of my freedom to be his life, and if he had been taken, where was Mary? I had his assurance that she was in a place of safety. There was comfort in that knowledge. But the comfort was alloyed by the thought that I had no knowledge whatever of her whereabouts and that she was lost to me. I was almost tempted to throw caution to the winds, and quit my hiding-place in broad daylight to go in search of them both. I stretched out my hand to seize the step and swing it back, and then discretion returned to me and I refrained. Any rashness now might bring to nothing all we had accomplished. I must wait. There was nothing for it but patience and unwavering trust. Every hour that dragged its weary length along was leaden with torpor. Would the day never come to an end? Hector, I knew, was not likely to come to me save under the screen of the darkness, and the darkness seemed very far off. The longest day, however, draws sometime to a close, and at last the rays of light stealing through the chinks in the staircase ceased to be burnished spears and were transmuted into uncertain plumes of smoke. The hour of twilight had come; soon darkness would envelop the earth, and with the darkness Hector might come. I crawled out of the confined space in which I was lying and sought the deeper part of the passage. As I did so, I heard a grating sound. Someone was moving the step. It must be Hector! Yet in that moment of tense expectation I kept a grip upon myself and did not move. If, instead of Hector, it should prove to be some murderous pursuer on my track, I knew that in this darkness, to which my eyes through long imprisonment had become accustomed, I should have the advantage and might fall upon him unawares. A voice spoke and my fears were set at naught. The packman had come!

"Are you there?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"Ha'e you got my Horace?"

"Confound Horace and all his works! Where is Mary?"

"Mary, the bonnie lass! she's a' richt. Ye micht trust me for that. Ye'll be seein' her in less than half an 'oor. Where's my book?"

I handed him the volume, and though I could not see him I guessed from the sound of the leaves fluttering through his fingers that he was examining it carefully.

"It seems to be nane the waur, except that the corner o' ane o' its braids is broken. Man, it's a lucky thing for you that I'm a scholar, and carry Horace wi' me. When I got tired o' waitin' for ye at the trysting-place, I thocht that something must ha'e gane wrang, so I gaed doon to the Tolbooth to ha'e a look for mysel'. I got a terrible shock when I struck my foot on the file you had dropped. I thocht a' was up then; but it didna tak' me lang to mak' up my mind. At first I thocht o' flingin' the file through the window, then I thocht that if I missed it would mak' an unco' clatter and micht waken somebody, so I fell back upon Horace and he served. I put the book through the window at the second shot, which is no' bad for an auld man, as ye will dootless admit; and here ye are in safety. Mony a time Horace has fetched me oot o' the dungeons o' despondency, but I never kent him help a body oot o' the Dumfries Tolbooth afore."

The garrulous fellow would doubtless have continued longer in a like strain, but I would have none of it. My heart was crying for my loved one. "Tell me," I exclaimed, "where is Mary?"

"Come on," he said with a laugh, "and see for yoursel'."

He led the way out into the open and I followed close behind him. As we emerged a man approached us out of the darkness. I started and laid a hand upon Hector's arm.

"There's naething to fear," he said. "It's only the minister frae the cave at the Linn. He's come to mairry you."

"To marry me," I exclaimed. "Who has arranged it?"

"I ha'e nae doot," answered Hector, "Mary and you arranged it lang syne on the braes at Daldowie. A' I ha'e dune is to mak' your arrangements possible."

My heart was full.

The minister greeted me warmly, and together the three of us made for the summit of the little knoll beside the Abbey. While Mr. Corsane was congratulating me upon my escape and upon the rescue of Mary, the packman had turned his back upon us and was gazing earnestly towards the mouth of the Cluden. As we talked he interrupted us suddenly by saying:

"They're coming noo, I can see them." Along the edge of the bank below us, three figures were moving. Soon they had begun to ascend the knoll.

"Mary's there," said Hector, "and the twa wi' her are the good-man o' Nunholm and his better three-quarters."

I sprang towards the advancing figures and calling "Mary," clasped her in my arms. There are moments too sacred for speech. I could only kiss her. Then linking my arm through hers I helped her to the top of the mound.

There in the aisle of the trees with the light of the kindly stars filtering through and falling on the ground with a holier radiance than ever streamed through the east window of a cathedral, the minister made us one. He could not unite our hearts. That had been done long ago. He could only join our hands.

Hector, as ever, proved himself to be a friend in need, for, when the moment came for me to place a ring upon Mary's finger, I realised with a pang that I had none. But Hector slipped one into my hesitating hand, whispering, "It was meant for the widda." The simple service was soon over, but ere he gave us his blessing the minister said:

"In quieter times, when I, please God, am restored to my parish, your marriage will be registered in the records of my church at Minniehive: meantime I declare you man and wife in the sight of God and according to the laws of this realm." Then he raised his hand to bless us.

I turned to embrace my wife; but Hector was before me. He kissed her loudly upon both cheeks, and as he yielded her shrinking form to me said: "Nae need o' my salve there. They're as saft as the damask rose."

"For ever, dearest," I whispered, as she clung to me.

"My ain dear man," she breathed; and on her warm cheek close pressed against my own I felt a tear. I folded her in my arms.

"My children," said the minister, drawing near is, "I must leave you now, and get me back to my hiding-place: but may He who brought joy to the wedding feast at Cana of Galilee company with you all the days of your lives. Good-bye." He turned, and was gone.

"Now," said Hector, "we maun hurry. We ha'e a lang road to travel afore daybreak. Come on."

Together we began to hasten down the hill, and soon were at the edge of the river close to the mouth of the Cluden. The good wife of Nunholm and her husband led the way. I took Mary in my arms and carried her through the water behind them. No man ever bore a burden more precious. Her arms were about my neck. In mid-stream I paused and, bending, kissed her. I had forgotten Hector behind us.

He sighed. "Ay. It mak's me jealous. I wish the widda was here. But ye've a hale life-time o' that afore ye, so haste ye, for we're no oot o' danger yet."

Mary smiled proudly up at me in the moonlight. "Nae danger maitters noo. But let us haste."

When we came to the bank on the other side, the farmer led the way to a hedge and we passed through a gap into a field across which we hurried together. In a few minutes we found ourselves beside a little farm-house.

"Come awa' ben," said the farmer's wife, throwing the door open. "It's no' a very grand wedding feast, but it'll dae to set you on the road, and it shall never be said that the guid-wife o' Nunholm lacks in hospitality."

We entered the kitchen and found an ample supper awaiting us. Mary had endeared herself, and little wonder, to these good folks during the two days she had spent with them, and they were full of anxiety for her safety.

We made all the haste we could through the meal, and when it was nearly over the door was thrown wide to the wall and a shock-headed lad thrust his body in. The farmer turned to him: "Is a' richt, Ebenezer?" he asked.

"Ay, faither, there's no' a trooper between here and Dumfries."

We finished our meal, and bade the good wife and her husband an affectionate farewell, the former insisting on Mary's wrapping herself in her own best plaid.

"Ye've a long road to travel, lassie," she said, "and ye maunna catch cauld. Tak' it as a keepsake, and if ye're ever back in these pairts, dinna forget tae come and see me."

I thanked the good man and his wife for their kindness to us, and, Hector leading, we went out into the night.

*CHAPTER XLIV*

*"QUO VADIS, PETRE?"*

Ere the darkness had given place to the dawn we three were lying in a copse of hazel bushes not far from the Castle of Caerlaverock within a stone's throw of the sea. On leaving Nunholm we had made a detour so as to avoid the town, and struck the road to Glencaple far outside its boundaries.

The journey, made in stealth, had been without adventure. Hector led the way; Mary and I followed close behind him arm in arm. We had spoken little; Mary and I hardly at all, for the touch of her arm in mine, tender as a caress, was more eloquent than speech; but Hector found time to tell all he had done since the moment of my escape from the Tolbooth.

For him the intervening hours had been crowded. He had gone to the cave at the Linn to fetch the minister to marry us: but he had also devised a means to help us back to England, and it was for this end that he had brought us to the place where we were.

"There was juist ae thing I failed to do, for I hadna the time," he said. "I intended to speir again at the widda, for I should ha'e been a prood man tae ha'e been mairried at the same time as yoursels. But the widda maun juist bide my time. She's kept me waitin' lang enough. She'll maybe appreciate me a' the mair if I keep her waitin' in turn. Nae doot she'll miss me, for I'm comin' wi' ye as far as the Isle o' Man. Ye see this affair will mak' a terrible steer in the toon o' Dumfries; and it will be safer for me to be oot o' the road till the storm blaws by. Forby, it will gi'e me the chance o' introducin' my magical salve to the Island. Anthony Kerruish, the maister o' the _Sea-mew_, tells me that it is no kent there, and besides if I had a quate six months in the island I micht get on wi' that _magnum opus_ o' mine."

Mary and I were delighted to learn that he was coming with us, for well we knew that he could stay behind only at grave risk. As we thanked him, with full hearts, for all he had done, he held up a deprecating hand.

"Hoots," he said, "I've dune naething: and in ony case I took my fee o' Mistress Bryden's cheeks." He laughed quietly as he stole out of the copse.

Dawn was breaking. The dark shadow of Criffel was turning to a ghostly grey, and on the face of the water we could see, about half a mile away, a little barque lying at anchor. Hector lit a candle, and taking off his bonnet passed it in front of the light twice. Then he blew the candle out. His signal had been seen; a little answering light flashed for a moment on the deck of the barque, and was gone. Then a man dropped into the boat that nestled under the lee of the barque, and began to pull towards the shore. As he drove the boat on to the sand we slipped out of our shelter. I took Mary in my arms, and, wading out into the tawny water, I placed her in the boat. Then I jumped in. Hector, close behind me, flung a leg into the boat: then I heard him sigh so deeply that I thought he had bruised himself. I turned, and saw him withdraw his leg, and seize the boat by the prow. With a mighty shove he sent her off the sand into the deep water, and stood erect gazing after her.

"Good-bye," he said, with a tremor in his voice, as he took off his bonnet.

"Good-bye?" I exclaimed doubtingly. "What do you mean? I thought you were coming with us?"

"So I was," he answered. "But I remembered Peter: and I'm gaun back. My work's no' feenished yet." And with that he splashed out of the water and disappeared into the copse.

But we saw him again. When we were safely on board the barque, and the anchor was up, and the skipper and his men were setting their sails to the breeze, Mary and I stood on the poop and looked anxiously back to the little wood by the water-side. A figure came out of the shadows and waved a hand. We waved back in answer, and the figure disappeared.

*CHAPTER XLV*

*ON THE WINGS OF THE SEA-MEW*

The wind and the tides favoured us, and the little barque took to the sea like the bird whose name she bore.

Before us a rosy path, painted by the rising sun, stretched into the distance. The soft winds of the dawn filled the brown sails and carried us onward, and the little waves patted the sides of our boat as though they were the hands of the sea-maidens, come from out of the deep to cheer us on our way.

We sat together in the stern of the boat, our feet resting on a heap of tarry cordage. I had wrapped her plaid about her to keep my Mary warm--and under its folds I had made her hands captive in one of mine.

"I can hardly believe it," she said. "It is amaist ower guid to be true: to ha'e you by my side, my ain man, when I thocht you were deid."

"And I," I answered, "thought that I had lost you for ever. Many a time, of a night, I have looked up at the stars and chosen the brightest of them, and called it Mary's star: because I thought it must be your dwelling-place. And all the while you were not dead at all."

"And were you really very, very sorry when you thocht that I was deid?" she asked, with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Mary!" I exclaimed, "how can you?" And as there was no one to see but a following gull which hung above us, I kissed her. "But tell me," I continued, "what happened to you after we parted on the moors--and how came I to find this among the ashes of Daldowie," and I drew out the fragment of her ring and showed it to her.

"My ring!" she cried. "The ring you gave me! Did you fin' it there? Oh, laddie!" and she nestled against me so tenderly that, in that happy moment, the weary months of pain through which I had lived seemed as nothing.

Then she told me what had befallen her. She had gone to the hiding-place, but found no trace of her father; and after seeking for him far and wide, but without avail, she had decided to return home. On her way back she discovered troopers out upon the moor between herself and home, and she had been compelled to hide for the night among the heather. It was not until late on the following afternoon that she had ventured to steal back to Daldowie, only to find her home in ashes. As I had done, when I returned upon the day following, she had found three skeletons among the ruins, and, with horror of heart, she had counted that one of them was mine.

"I leaped," she said, "among the ashes, and though they burned me cruelly, I brushed them aside frae the face that I thought was yours to see your smile again. But a' I saw was red embers and fleshless bones. Oh, sweetheart--how I cried!" And she buried her head upon my shoulder and sobbed for a moment. Then she raised her face and smiled.

"You maun think me silly. I'm greetin' noo for joy, I cried then for sorrow. As mither used to say--'Women are kittle cattle'--aren't we?" and she smiled, until the light in her sweet eyes dried the tears as the sun dries the dew from the heather bells. "And I suppose," she added, "that's when I lost my ring--though I didna miss it till I had left Daldowie far behin' me."

"And where have you been," I asked, "since then? Both Hector and I searched the length and breadth of Galloway for you, but without avail."

"Oh, fie," she said. "Ha'e you no' been tellin' me that you thocht I was in the Kingdom of Heaven--and you looked for me in the Kingdom o' Galloway," and in the playful notes of her voice I heard the echo of her mother's.

"Where was I?" she continued. "Weel, I was within three miles o' Dumfries a' the time. Ye see, when I left Daldowie, I didna ken where tae go. I ran for miles and miles ower the hills, till I could run nae langer; and then the dark fell, and I lay doon among the heather and cried mysel' to sleep. But when the mornin' cam' I sat up and said to mysel', 'Mary Paterson--you maunna be a fool.' I spoke it oot lood--and it sounded sae like mither's voice that I began to greet again, and I went on greetin' till I could greet nae mair, and then I felt better." She looked at me roguishly. "And after that," she went on, "I set oot for Dumfries. I thocht if I could reach the Solway I micht wade across it to England, but--I'm thinkin' noo that I've seen it, I would ha'e been drooned in the attempt." She laughed, and the gull above us, with its yellow legs apart, and its tail stretched tensely fan-wise, dropped down and touched the sea with its beak, and having seized its prey, wheeled round on wide wings and floated above us again.

"Food I got frae kindly cotters, and when at last I reached Dumfries I set oot to mak' for Glencaple. But when half-way there I sat doon by the road and began to think, and then for the first time I missed my ring, and thinkin' o' the day when you put it on my finger and o' a' the love you bore me, I fair broke doon and cried like a bairn. I was greetin' sae sair that I didna notice a lady dressed in black until she was standing beside me. Very gently she asked me what ailed me, and the look in her face made me feel that she had kent sorrow herse?--so I tellt her everything. Before I was finished she was greetin' as sair as mysel', and then she slipped her airm through mine and drew me to my feet and kissed me. 'I am but a poor widow,' she said, 'whose husband and sons have died for the Covenant: but the widow's cruse never runs dry, and you are welcome to a share of whatever the Lord sends me.' She led me to her bonnie wee hoose, set in a plantin' o' beech trees on the Glencaple road, and she has been a mother to me, and I a daughter to her ever since. Sometimes we would shelter fugitive hill-men--and often I ha'e ta'en them food--and it was for that, for I was caught red-handed, that I was made prisoner and thrown into the Tolbooth."

"And that," I said, taking up the tale, "is how you come now to be sitting, my wife, beside me." I kissed her beneath her little shell-like ear.

"Behave yoursel'," she said with mock sternness. "The captain will see you!"

"And what if he does?" I asked, as I repeated the offence.

"Did you see me on the road to the Tolbooth?" she continued.

"Yes," I said, "that is where I saw you. Just when hope seemed utterly dead--you came."

The woman in her spoke: "Did I look feart?" she asked.

"Not a bit; you looked as brave as you are."

She laughed as she replied, "I'm gled I didna show it, for mither would ha'e been ashamed o' me if she knew, but in my hert I was as frichtened as a bairn."

"Never mind," I said, "you have nothing to fear now. You are mine for ever."

"For ever," she answered. "That's a lang, lang time; are ye sure ye'll never get tired o' me?"

"Sweetheart," I answered fervently, "long ago you told me to love you for your soul. I have learned to do so, and such a love can never die"; and as the captain's back was turned and there was neither sea-gull nor sailor-man to see, I took her winsome face in both my hands and smothered her with kisses.

*CHAPTER XLVI*

*SUNSHINE AFTER STORM*

The morning after we had waved our farewell to Hector saw us safe in the Isle of Man. Here, through the kindness of the skipper of the _Sea-mew_, we found a lodging until such time as he could arrange for us a passage to England on some barque that was sailing thither. Two days later we were on board the _Kitty-wake_, which carried us safely to the port of Liverpool. On the outskirts of the town, in the little village of Walton, in a cottage behind the old church we found a lodging with the good woman to whom the master of the _Kitty-wake_ had commended us.

Now that I was back in England I determined to seek a reconciliation with my uncle and guardian. With some trepidation I wrote him a letter telling him of all that had befallen me, asking his pardon for the anxiety I must have caused him, and craving permission to bring my wife to see him in the old home. It was a hard letter to write, hard and perplexing, and when it was completed I was far from satisfied with it. But Mary, who helped me with wise words, assured me that unless his heart were of adamant it would melt him. So I dispatched it, and waited anxiously for a reply. A fortnight passed, and there was no answer; but one morning when the third week was drawing to a close a post-boy on horseback knocked loudly at the cottage door and I heard him ask: "Does Walter de Brydde, Esquire, live here?" I rushed to the door and received the missive from his hand. "Four shillings to pay, sir," he said. Gladly I paid the fee, and gave him something wherewith to slake his thirst at the nearest tavern. Raising the butt of his crop to his cap, he dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and was off.

I hastened into Mary's room. The letter was heavily sealed with red wax and the superscription upon it was in writing that I did not know. All excitement, I broke the seal. The letter was from the firm of notaries which for generations had conducted the affairs of our family. They begged to inform me that my letter had been handed to them in their capacity as notaries in charge of my uncle's affairs. They regretted to announce that some seven months ago he and his lady had died of a fever within a few days of each other, the wife predeceasing her husband. As my uncle had died without issue, they had the honour to inform me that the estates passed to me as the next heir male. They noted with satisfaction that I had taken unto myself a wife and they looked forward with pleasure to making the acquaintance of my lady at no distant date. They took the liberty of enclosing for my immediate necessities a draft upon their agents in Old Hall Street in the city of Liverpool, and they trusted that as early as should be convenient to myself and my good lady we would return to Warwick and take up our residence in the old manor. They ventured to hope that the long and amicable relations which had existed between my family and their firm would continue. They assured me of their devoted services at all times, and they had the honour to subscribe themselves my humble and obedient servants.

We read the surprising document with heads pressed close together, amazement fettering our tongues. Suddenly Mary drew away, and clasping her hands, exclaimed:

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" I said. "Why? The silly old man and his wife were nothing to you."

"Oh no, it's no' that. I cam' to you a tocherless lass wi' naething to gi'e ye but my love--and noo ye're rich."

"Sweetheart!" I cried: and dropping the letter with the draft upon the table, I took her in my arms and drew her towards me. "Your love is more to me than all the riches of the Spanish Main. Gold is but dross: love is of God, and eternal."

She slipped an arm about my neck, and laid her head upon my shoulder.

"Ye can kiss me," she said--and added roguishly as she smiled at me--"if ye like."

So it came to pass that within a fortnight of receiving the letter we arrived at Warwick, making the journey, as became our state, in a hired carriage with postilions. The needle-women of Liverpool had done their work well, and as I looked at the dainty figure, all frills and furbelows, beside me in the carriage I almost felt that I had lost the Mary I had learned to love at Daldowie. But the light in the pools of her eyes, the aureole above her forehead, and the smile on her bewitching face as she said, "Now, behave yersel'. Ye maunna crush my new goon," told me it was Mary still.

*CHAPTER XLVII*

*THE END; AND A BEGINNING*

A year has passed, and once again it is the month of May. My little flower of the heather, transported from the hill-sides of Galloway and set in the kindlier atmosphere of this southern clime, has blossomed into a flower of rare beauty. She has not a peer among the ladies of Warwick, and that is saying much.

Sometimes, as we sit together on the green lawn that slopes down to the quiet Avon, and think of all the things that befell in the days that are dead, we wonder if they were all a dream. Yet in spite of what she suffered among them, Mary sometimes whispers to me that her heart is sick for the grey hills of Galloway, for the sting of the wind on her cheeks, for the cry of the whaup in her ears; and I find it hard to comfort her. But I think she will never again be sick at heart for the hills of heather, for a new joy has come into her life and mine. A week ago the wonder happened.

When, in the early dawn, the good nurse brought me the news as I paced in a fever up and down my study floor, I was all ardent, as any man would be, to see my Mary and her child on the instant. But the nurse bade me curb my impatience, telling me that Mary was asleep. So I made my way out to the lawn, and, leaning on the retaining wall, gazed down upon the Avon. Early roses wet with dew were pouring their incense into the still air, and I plucked me a handful for Mary. As I stood by the wall with the flowers in my hand I chanced to look up the river towards the bridge, and on it I saw a man upon whose shoulders was a pack. Lighting my pipe, I sat down upon the garden seat with the heap of roses beside me. As I sat there I heard a little voice that I had never heard before. Through the open window, my child was joining its little cry to that of a jubilant bird, and my heart was glad within me and the whole sun-kissed earth was ringing with melody. O Mary mine!

The sound of footsteps upon the carriage-drive made me turn, and I saw--Hector.

I rushed to him with hands outstretched. "Hector!" I cried, and shook him warmly by the hand.

"Ay, it's me richt eneuch. I got your letter. Ye were wise to write in Latin--but, man, your construction's awfu'--gey near damnable. Ye should mak' mair use o' the ablative absolute. I was pleased tae hear frae ye, though, and things being mair settled up yonder I juist thocht I'd tak' a daunner into England to pit you richt on ane or twa points o' syntax. An' hoo's your good lady?"

"Mary is splendid," I said. "She has just this morning given birth to a daughter."

"My best respects to her and my felicitations upon this great event; but I'm sorry--I'll juist tak' the road again and gang awa' hame. I couldna ha'e come at a waur time."

"My dear Hector, what do you mean? Mary would never forgive me if I let you go." And, dropping into the language which I knew he loved, I slipped my arm through his and said, "Come awa' intae the hoose."

To-night I have been penning the final pages of this my book, with Hector sitting at his ease in a leathern chair reading a volume from the well-stocked shelves of the study. And I--because my hand was weary, or because my heart was aching for a sight of Mary--stole up to her room a moment since. She was lying in the great carved oaken bed, with the light from the candles in their silver sconces falling upon her dear face and the glory of her hair as it lay outspread on the lavender-scented pillow. I bent over her, and slipping an arm under her shoulders kissed her, and she pushed down the white coverlet with her pretty hand to let me peep at our daughter lying asleep in the fold of her arm.

"Isn't she bonnie?" she whispered. "I think we'll ca' her Jean."

"Flower o' the heather and little heather-bell," I said, and gathered them both in my arms.

* * * * * * * *

_*BY THE SAME AUTHOR*_

*THE ADVENTURE OF DEATH*

An uplifting and strengthening book, free from gloom, and written with literary charm. _Fifth Impression_

*THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE*

"Eloquent and popular talks, such as have been commended to many renders by Dr. Mackenna's 'Adventure of Death.'"--_The Times. Second Impression_

*BRACKEN AND THISTLEDOWN*

"A work of singular charm, gracious in the spirit pervading it, pawky in its humour, and bright and keen in its delineation of character. The book should make a very wide appeal."--_Liverpool Post. Third Impression_

*THROUGH FLOOD AND FIRE*

"Mr. Mackenna is a true son of Scott and (dare it be said?) much more likely to appeal to the younger generation than the master. He has the power of vivid story-telling, a remarkable gift for atmosphere and his people are real human stuff."--_Daily Chronicle_

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