Lochinvar: A Novel

But, had they known it, there was a way of access to Wat. As they came out of the prison gates they met Barra. The provost-marshal, with a gloomy countenance, informed them that the prince took a very serious view of the affair of their cousin. However, he was in hopes that the sentence, though severe and exemplary, would not in any case be death. Probably, however, it might involve a very long period of imprisonment.

"The prince and his council have resolved that an example must be made. There have been, they say, far too many of these brawls in the army. It is such occurrences which breed ill-blood betwixt the soldiers and the townsfolk."

"But in that case," said Maisie, "why not persuade the prince to make an example of somebody else – not, surely, of our cousin Wat?"

Barra shrugged his shoulders.

"I am afraid," he said, softly, "that we cannot always arrange matters so that the penalties shall fall on shoulders whose sufferings will not hurt us. But you, dear ladies, can wholly trust me to use all my influence, so that your friend may soon find himself again at liberty."

Thus talking, they had turned to the right, and were now walking down the Street of the Prison. Maisie went a little ahead with her hand on her husband's arm, thinking that perhaps if Kate were left to herself she might be able to move the provost-marshal to kindlier purposes. Barra lingered as much as he could, in order to separate Kate and himself as widely as possible from the pair in front.

They passed close to Wat's window, and the prisoner watched them go by with black despair in his heart.

As they reached the gloomy angle of the prison, Barra indicated, with a wave of his hand, a remarkable gargoyle in the shape of a devil's head, frowning from the battlements of the gray, beetling tower. Through the closed bars of his window Wat noticed the gesture, as Barra intended that he should.

"My God!" he cried aloud, to the deaf walls, "he has brought her this way to gloat with her over my prison-house!"

And he flew at the bars of his window, striking and shaking them till his hands were bruised and bleeding.

"Let me get out! God in heaven! Let me get out – that I may kill him!" he cried, in the madness of agony.

But the bars resisted his utmost endeavor. Not so much as a particle of mortar stirred, and after spending all his strength in vain, Wat fell back on his hard pallet utterly exhausted, and lay there for hours in a vague and dazed unconsciousness.

The sullen, tranced hours verged towards evening, and Wat still lay motionless.

The keeper had twice been to his cell with food. But finding on the occasion of his second visit the previous supply of bread and water untouched, he had merely laid down the small loaf of black bread which was served out to the prisoners every night, and so departed.

At intervals a low voice seemed to steal into Wat's cell through the silence of the prison.

"A friend would speak with you – a friend would speak with you."

The words came up from the street beneath. At the third or fourth repetition Wat rose wearily and, with a dull and hopeless heart, went to the window whence he was wont to feed the dog with pellets of bread in the morning. A girl, small and slim of body, plainly attired in a black dress, stood directly underneath. Wat was about to turn back again to his couch, thinking that the summons could not have been intended for him, when the maid eagerly beckoned him to remain.

"Do you not remember me?" she said; "I am the Little Marie. I have never gone back to the Hostel of the Coronation. I have been very wicked. I know I have brought you here. I know that you cannot forgive me; but tell me something – anything that I may do for you?"

"It is not at all your fault that I am here," replied Wat Gordon, "only that of my own mad folly. Do not reproach yourself, nor trouble yourself, I pray you. There is nothing at all that you can do for me – "

"No one you love to whom I could carry a message – a letter?" The girl looked wistfully up at him as she said this. "I would deliver it so safely, so secretly."

A little before, Wat would gladly, eagerly indeed, have accepted the offer, and sent her at once to the street of Zaandpoort, in spite of his dismissal. But now his eyes had seen.

"Nay, Little Marie," he said, smiling sadly. "There is no one whom I love, no one who cares in the least to hear of me or of my welfare."

The girl stood still, plucking at the lace on her black sleeve, and looking down.

"Run home now, Little Marie," said Wat, kindly. "I am glad you have left the Hostel of the Coronation. Do not go back there any more."

The girl stood still in her place beneath the window.

At last she said, without looking up, "There is one whom you do not love, who cares much that you are in prison and alone!"

"And who may that be, Marie – old Jack Scarlett, mayhap?"

The girl looked up for a moment – a sudden, flashing look through blinding tears.

"Only bad-hearted Little Marie – that would die for you!" she said, brokenly.

And without caring even to wipe away her tears, she walked slowly down the midst of the Street of the Prison, seeing no one at all, and answering none of the greetings that were showered upon her.

CHAPTER XIII

MY LORD OF BARRA'S VOW

Kate stood at her favorite window, looking down upon five little boys playing barley break in a solemn plantigrade Dutch fashion in the dust of Zaandpoort Street by the canal. Opposite her stood Barra. He was dressed in his customary close-fitting suit of black velvet, and his slim waist was belted by the orange sash of a high councillor, while by his side swung a splendid sword in a scabbard of gold. A light cape of black velvet was about his shoulders, and its orange lining of fine silk drooped gracefully over his arm.

"Listen to me, dear lady," he was saying. "I am a soldier, and not a courtier. I have not glozing words to woo you with. No more than a plain man's honest words. I love you, and from that I shall never change. At present I can offer you but a share of the exile's bitter bread. But when the prince comes to his own, there shall be none in broad Scotland able to count either men or money with Murdo, Earl of Barra and of the Small Isles."

"My Lord Barra," said Kate, "I thank you for your exceeding courtesy. I feel your surpassing condescension. But I cannot marry you now nor yet again. If I loved you at all I should be proud and glad to take you by the hand and walk out of the door with you into the wide world – for you renouncing friends, fame, wealth, all, as if they were so many dead leaves of the autumn. But since I do not and cannot love you, believe that the proffer of great honor and rank can never alter my decision. This, indeed, I have told you before."

"Well do I know," answered the high councillor, "that you have spoken, concerning me, words hard and cruel to be borne. But that was before either of us understood the depth of my devotion – before you knew that I desired, as I seek for salvation, to make you scarcely less in honor than the queen herself, among those isles of the sea, where true hearts abide. The cause of our religion is great. Help me to make of our Scotland a land of faith and freedom. Love me for the sake of the cause, Kate, if not for mine own most unworthy sake."

"The cause is indeed still great and precious to me. I have been honored to suffer the least things for it. Nevertheless the cause is not to be served by one doing wrong, but by many doing right. You are – I believe it – an honorable man, my Lord Barra. You will serve your master faithfully till that good day comes when Scotland shall again have freedom to worship under kirk-rigging or roof-tree, or an it liketh her under the broad span of the sky."

"But you carry in your heart the image of a traitor," said Barra, a little more fiercely – "a double traitor, one whom I have seen false both to his country and to you. Know you that only my bare word stands between your lover and death?"

"I know not whether Walter Gordon be dead or alive," replied Kate, gently. "I say not that I love him, nor yet that he loves me. I do not know. But I say that if he does love me, in the only way I care to be loved, he would rather die a thousand deaths than that, in order to preserve his life, his true love should wed a man whom she cares not for either as lover or as husband."

"Then you will not love me?" said he, bending his head towards her as if to look into her soul.

"I cannot, my Lord Barra," she made him answer; "love comes not like a careful man-servant. It runs not like a well-trained dog at the sounding of a whistle. One cannot draw back the arras of the heart and say to love, 'Hither and speedily!' The wind bloweth, say the preachers, where it listeth. And so love also comes not with observation. Rather, like a thunderstorm, it bears victoriously up against the wind. For just when the will is most set against love, then it takes completest possession of the heart."

"Could you have loved me," he asked, more calmly, "if you had known no other? If the other existed not?"

"That I know not," said Kate. "All my life long I have never loved man or woman where I wanted to love, or was bid to love. Whether, therefore, in this case or that one could have loved serves no purpose in the asking. Nor, indeed, can it be answered. For the only issue is, that of a surety I love you not. And do you, my lord, of your most gentle courtesy, take that answer as one frankly given by an honest maid, and so depart content. There are in this land and in our own country a thousand fairer, a thousand worthier than I."

"Kate," said Barra, more intently and tenderly than he had yet spoken, "some day, and in some isle of quiet bliss where all evil and untoward things are put behind us, I will yet make you love me. For never have I thus set all my fancy on any woman before. And by the word of Murdo, Lord of Barra, none but you will I wed, and, by the honor of my clan, no other shall have you but I!"

He held out his hand. Kate, desiring him to go, gave him hers a little reluctantly. He bent to it and kissed it fervently.

"On this hand I swear," he said, slowly and solemnly, "that while I live it shall be given in marriage to none other, but shall be mine alone. By the graves that are green on the Isle of Ashes and by the honor of the thirty chieftains of Barra – I swear it."

Kate took her hand quickly again to her.

"Ye have taken a vain oath, my lord," she said, "for marriage and the giving of a hand are not within the compulsion of one, but are the agreement of two. And if this hand is ever given to a man my heart shall go with it, or else Kate McGhie's marriage-bed shall be her resting-grave!"

* * * * *

It was but two years since the Little Marie had carried her first basket of flowers to the streets of Brussels. From an ancient farm nigh to the city she had come, bringing with her her fresh complexion, her beauty, her light, swift, confident, easily influenced spirit.