John Burnet of Barns: A Romance

by John Buchan

We rode to the nearest cottage and asked whither the folk had gone who landed with the last ferry. The woman answered gruffly that she had seen none land, and cared not. At the next house I fared little better; but at the third I found a young fisher lad, who, for the sake of a silver piece, told me that they had headed over the moor about three hours ago.

"And what lies beyond the moor?" I asked.

"Beyond the muir," said he, "is a muckle hill they ca' Mistilaw, a' thick wi' bogs, and ayont it there are mair hills and mosses, and syne if ye ride on ye'll come to Eaglesham, whaur the muirs end and the guid lands begin. I yince was ower there wi' my faither, aboot a cowt, and a braw bit place it is, and no like hereaways."

So Nicol and I, with dogged hearts and numbed bodies, rode into the black heath where there was no road. The snow had lost all hardness and was thick and clogging to our horses' feet. We made as good speed as we could, but that, after all, was little. About midday we had crossed the first part of our journey and were clambering and slipping over the shoulder of Mistilaw. This hill is low and trivial contrasted with our great Tweedside hills, but it well deserves its name, for it is one vast quagmire, where at all seasons mists and vapours hang. Beyond it, and all through the afternoon, we struggled among low hills and lochs. We halted at a solitary shepherd's hut among the wilds, and ate a vile meal of braxy and oaten-cake. Then again we set forth, and, in the darkening, came to the wide moor which is the last guard of the wastes and borders the pleasant vale of the Cart.

Now here I fell into a great fit of indecision. It was clear that Gilbert and Marjory were but a little way off in the House of Eaglesham, and I had almost reached the end of my travels. But here my plans came to a sudden end. Was I to ride forward and boldly demand my cousin to let her go? I knew my cousin's temper; he could make but one reply, and at last some end would be placed to our feud. But with this came another thought. Gilbert was not a man of one device but of many. If I sought to wrest my lady from his hands by force, it was most likely that he would be the winner. For he was ever ripe for high, bold and dastardly policies, and at such a time was little likely to be punctilious.

So in my extremity I fell to consulting with Nicol, and between us we devised a plan. I liked it so well that I lost all dismal forebodings and proceeded to put it in action. Night fell just as we came to the meadows above the village, and the twinkling lights of the place served as our guides. There was an inn there which I remembered of old time, for the innkeeper had come originally from Tweeddale. At first I would shun the place, but then I remembered that the man was dead these half-dozen years, and all the place so changed that I was secure from recognition, even had I not been so disguised and clad. So without any fear we rode up to the door and sought admittance.

The place was roomy and wide; a clean-swept floor, with a fire blazing on the hearth, and a goodly smell of cooked meat everywhere. They brought us a meal, which we ate like hungry men who had been a long day's journey in a snow-bound world. Then I lay back and stared at the firelight, and tried hard to fix my mind on the things which were coming to pass. I found it hard to determine whether I was asleep or awake, for the events of the past hours were still mere phantasmagoria in my memory. Through all the bewildering maze of weariness and despair, and scrupulosity of motive, there was still that one clear thought branded on my mind. And now, as I sat there, the thought was alone, without any clear perspective of the actors or the drama to be played. I scarce thought of Marjory, and Gilbert was little in my mind, for the long series of cares which had been mine for so many days had gone far to blunt my vision, and drive me to look no further than the next moment or the next hour. I was dull, blank, deadened with this one unalterable intention firm in my heart, but, God knows! little besides.

About nine or ten, I know not rightly, my servant roused me and bade me get ready. He had ordered the landlord to have the horses round to the door, giving I know not what excuse. I mounted without a thought, save that the air was raw and ugly. We rode down the silent street out on to the heath, where the snow was deeper, and our steps all but noiseless. The night was clear and deadly chill, piercing to the marrow. A low snow-fog clothed the ground, and not a sound could we hear in that great, wide world, save our own breathing and our horses' tread. A sort of awe took me at the silence, and it was with solemn thoughts that I advanced.

In a mile we left the heath, and, dipping down into the valley of the stream, entered a wood of pines. Snow powdered us from the bare boughs, and a dead branch crackled underfoot. Then all of a sudden, black and cold and still, from the stream-side meadows and all girt with dark forest, rose the house. Through the tree trunks it looked ghostly as a place of the dead. Then I remembered that this was the hill-front, where no habitable rooms were; so, marvelling no more at the dearth of light, we turned sharp to the left and came on the side looking to the river.

Two lights twinkled in the place, one in the basement, and one in the low, first story. I cast my memory back over old days. One was from the sitting-parlour where the old Gilbert Burnet had chosen to spend his days, and the other—ah, I had it, 'twas from the sleeping-room of the old Mistress Burnet, where she had dragged out her last years and drawn her last breath. But for these there was no other sign of life in the house.