CHAPTER VI
I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET
I slept till dawn the dreamless sleep of those who have drowned care in bodily exertion. It was scarce light when I awoke, and, with the opening of the eyes, there came with a rush the consciousness of my errand. I leaped out of bed, and sitting on the edge considered my further actions.
First I sought to remove from my person some of the more glaring stains of travel. There was water in the room, bitter cold and all but frozen, and with it I laved my face and hands.
Then I opened the chamber door and stepped out into one of the long corridors. The house was still, though somewhere in the far distance I could hear the bustle of servants. I cast my mind back many years, and strove to remember where was the room where the morning meal was served. I descended the staircase to the broad, high hall, but still there were no signs of other occupants. One door I tried, but it was locked; another, with no better fate, till I began to doubt my judgment. Then I perceived one standing ajar, and, pushing it wide, I looked in. Breakfast was laid on the table, and a fire smoked on the hearth. I entered and closed the door behind me.
There was a looking-glass at the far end, and, as I entered, I caught a glimpse of my figure. Grim as was my errand, I could have laughed aloud at the sight. My hair unkempt, my face tanned to the deepest brown, my strange scarlet clothes, marred as they were by wind and weather, gave me a look so truculent and weird that I was half afraid of myself. And then this humour passed, and all the sufferings of the past, the hate, the despairing love, the anxious care came back upon me in a flood, and I felt that such garb was fitting for such a place and such a season.
I warmed my hands at the blaze and waited. The minutes dragged slowly, while no sound came save the bickering of the fire and the solemn ticking of a clock. I had not a shade of fear or perturbation. Never in all my life had my mind been so wholly at ease. I waited for the coming of my enemy, as one would wait on a ferry or the opening of a gate, quiet, calm, and fixed of purpose.
At last, and it must have been a good hour, I heard steps on the stair. Clearly my cousin had slept long after his exertions. Nearer they came, and I heard his voice giving some orders to the servants. Then the door was opened, and he came in.
At first sight I scarcely knew him, so changed was he from the time of our last meeting. He was grown much thinner and gaunter in countenance, nor was his dress so well-cared for and trim as I remembered him. The high, masterful look which his face always wore had deepened into something bitter and savage, as if he had grown half-sick of the world and cared naught for the things which had aforetime delighted him. His habit of scorn for all which opposed him, and all which was beneath him, had grown on him with his years and power, and given him that look as of one born to command, ay, and of one to whom suffering and pain were less than nothing. As I looked on him I hated him deeply and fiercely, and yet I admired him more than I could bear to think, and gloried that he was of our family. For I have rarely seen a nobler figure of a man. I am not little, but in his presence I felt dwarfed. Nor was it only in stature that he had the preëminence, for his step was as light and his eye as keen as a master of fence.
He had expected a very different figure to greet him at the other side of the table. In place of a lissom maid he saw a grim, rough-clad man waiting on him with death in his eyes. I saw surprise, anger, even a momentary spasm of fear flit across his face. He looked at me keenly, then with a great effort he controlled himself, and his sullen face grew hard as stone.