The Standard Bearer

“And you are journeying to the west to join the Hill-folk?”

I smiled as I looked into her deep and anxious eyes.

“Again you have rightly divined,” I said.

“And what stipend are ye to get from them?”

“I am to have no stipend. It has not been mentioned between us.”

“O Quintin!” she cried suddenly, her eyes growing ever larger and darker, till the pupil seemed to invade the iris and swallow it up.

But though I waited for her to speak further she said nothing more.

So I went on to tell her how I was going to the west to spend my life among the poor folk there who had been so long without a shepherd.

“And would you” – she paused – “would you leave us all?”

“Nay,” said I, “for this Earlstoun shall ever be a kindly and a beloved spot to me. Often when the ways are long and dreary, the folk unfriendly, will my heart turn in hither. And, whenever I am in Galloway, be sure that I will not pass you by. Your father hath been a good and loving friend to me.”

“My father!” she cried, with a little disdainful outward pout of the lip.

“Aye, and you also, Mistress Mary. You have been all too kind to a broken man – a man who, when the few coins he carries in his purse are expended, knows not whence he will get his next golden guinea.”

I was silent for a while and only looked steadily at her. She moved her feet this way and that on the floor uncertainly. Her grace and favour cried out to me anew.

“As for me, Mary,” I said, “I need not tell you that I love you. I have loved you ever since I met you on the Bennan brae-face. But now more greatly – more terribly that I love altogether without hope. I had not meant to speak again, but only to take your hand once thus – and get me gone!”

Impulsively she held her fingers out to me and I clasped them in mine.

I thought she was ready to bid me farewell, and that she desired not to prolong the pain of the interview.

“Fare thee well then, Mary,” said I. “I have loved the cause because it is the Cause of the Weak. I have striven to raise again the Banner of Blue. I have loved my people. But none of these hath this aching, weary heart loved as it has loved Mary Gordon. I have neither heart nor right to speak of my love, nor house nor home to offer. I can but go!”

“Speak on,” she said, a little breathlessly, but never once taking her eyes from my face.

“There is no other word to tell, Mary,” said I. “I have spoken the word, and now there remains but to turn about and set face forward as bravely as may be, to shut out the pleasant vision, seen for a moment, to leave behind for ever the heart’s desire – ”

“No! No! No!” she interrupted, jerking her clasped hands quickly downward.

“To lay aside the deep, unspoken hopes of a man who has never loved woman before – ”

She came a little nearer to me, still exploring my face with her eyes, as I spoke the last words.

“Did you not, Quintin? Are you sure?”

“I have never loved before,” said I, “because I have loved Mary Gordon from the beginning, yea, every day and every hour since I was a herd boy on the hills. Once I was filled with pride and the security of position. But of these the Lord hath stripped me. I am well-nigh as poor as when I came into the world. I have nothing now to offer you or any woman.”

“Nay,” she cried, speaking very quickly and suddenly, laying her clasped hands on my arm, “you are rich – rich, Quintin! Listen, lad! There is one that loves you now – who has loved you long. Do you not understand? Must I, that am a maid, speak for myself? Must I say, I love you, Quintin?”

And then she smiled suddenly, gloriously, like the sun bursting through black and leaden clouds.

Oh, sweet and perilously sweet was her smile!

“Mary,” I cried, suddenly, “you are not playing with me? Ah, for God’s dear sake, do not that! It would break my heart. You cannot love a man broken, penniless, outcast, one of a down-trodden and despised folk. You must not give yourself to one whose future path is lone and desolate!”

“I love you, Quintin!”

“One who has nothing to offer, nothing to give, not even the shelter of a roof-tree – a wanderer, a beggar!”

“I love you, Quintin!”

And the hands that had been clasped on my arm of their own sweet accord stole upward and rested lovingly about my neck. The eyes that had looked so keenly into mine were satisfied at last, and with a long sobbing sigh of content Mary Gordon’s head pillowed itself on my breast.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE LAST ROARING OF THE BULL

“Come,” she said, after a while, “let us go to my father!”

And now, the rubicon being passed, there shone a quick and alert gladness upon her face. Her feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground. The mood of sedateness had passed away, and she hummed a gay tune as we went down the stairs.

Alexander Gordon was coming across the yard to speak with his wife as Mary and I appeared hand in hand at the stair foot.

He stopped as it had been suddenly aghast when he caught sight of us.

“Mary!” he cried.

She nodded and made him a little prim curtesy.

“What means this?” he said, sternly.

“Just that Quintin and I love one another!”

And as she spoke I saw the frown gather ominously on Alexander Gordon’s face. His wife came near and looked at him. I saw him flash a glance at her so quick, so stern, and full of meaning that the ready river of her speech froze on her lips.

“This is rank foolishness, Mary!” he cried; “go indoors this instant and get to your broidering. Let me hear no more of this!”

But the spirit of the Gordons was in the daughter as well as in the sire.

“I will not,” she said; “I am of age, and though in all else I have obeyed you, in this I will not.”

Glance for glance their eyes encountered, nor could I see that either pair quailed.

The Laird of Earlstoun turned to me.

“And you, sir, whom I trusted as my friend, how came you here under pretext of amity, thus to lead away my daughter?”

The question was fiercely spoken, the tone sullenly angry. Yet somehow both rang hollow.