Lochinvar: A Novel

As Lochinvar rode through the glinting dewy woodlands he saw youths and damsels parading the glades in couples – keeping, however, their faces carefully towards the house for the signal that the bride was coming. Already the bridegroom had arrived with his company, and, indeed, most of them were even now in the hall drinking prosperity and posterity to the wedding.

"Haste you, my lord!" cried one malapert damsel to Wat, as he rode past a group of chattering minxes, "or you will be too late to win your loving-cup of luck from the hands of the bride, ere she goes to don her veil."

To her Wat Gorden bowed with his gayest air, and so passed by. The company was just coming out of the hall as he rode up. There, first of all, was my lady. Behind her came Roger McGhie, looking wan and frail, but carrying himself with his old dignity and gentle courtesy. And there, talking gayly to my lady, was Murdo, Lord of Barra, now proud and elate, having come to the height of his estate and with the cup of desire at his lip.

These three stopped dead when they saw the gay rider on the black horse, reining his steed at the foot of the steps of the house of Balmaghie. For a space they stood speechless. But the master of the house, Roger McGhie, it was who spoke first.

"'Tis a marvel and a pleasure to see you here, my Lord Lochinvar, on this our bridal day – a welcome guest, indeed, if you come in peace to the house which once gave you shelter in time of need."

"Or come you to visit your ancient friends, who have not wholly cast you off, Lochinvar, though you have forgotten them?" added my lady, dimpling with a pleasure more than half malicious, on the broad terrace above him.

But Murdo of Barra said no word, as he stood on the upper steps gnawing his thin mustache, and talking aside to his groomsman as though that which was happening below were but some trifling matter which concerned him not.

"Light down and lead the dance, my lord," said Roger McGhie, courteously. "None like you, they say, can tread a measure, none so readily win a lady's favor – so runs the repute of you."

"I thank you, Balmaghie," answered Wat, courteously; "but I came without invitation, without summons, to ask but that last favor – the loving-cup of good luck from the bride's fair hands ere I ride to meet my fate. For I must needs ride fast and far this day."

"It is well and knightly asked, and shall be granted," said Roger McGhie. "Bid Kate bring hither a loving-cup of wine for my Lord of Lochinvar, who bides her coming at the hall-door."

Black Murdo of Barra moved his hand impatiently.

"Let a bridesmaid fetch it," he said. "The bride is doubtless at her dressing and brooks not to be disturbed."

"Give me but the moment, and to you I leave the rest," said Walter Gordon, looking up at him with the light of a desperate challenge shining clear in his eye.

Then the maidens of the bridal standing about whispered eagerly to each other.

"Ah, that were a bridegroom, indeed! See him sit in the saddle like a god – fitter for our bonny Kate than yon black, scowling Murdo."

Then out through the open doorway of the hall there came a vision of delight. The young bride came forth, clad in white, daintily slender, divinely fair. Not yet had she assumed her bridal veil. In simple white she moved, her hair rippling in sunlit curls to her neck, her maiden snood still for the last time binding it up. A silver beaker brimmed with the red claret wine in her hand. And as she came bearing it in, the wedding guests opened a way for her to pass, murmuring content and admiration. Barra stepped forward as if to relieve her of the burden, but she passed him by as though she had not seen him.

Presently she stood at the side of Wat Gordon's charger, which looked back at her over his shoulder as though he, too, marvelled at her beauty.

The true-lovers were met for the last time.

"Would that they need never part!" said a wise bridesmaid, leaning over and whispering to her mate. For their story was known, and all the young were very pitiful.

"Amen to that! Look at Murdo, how black and gash he glowers at them!" said her companion.

Wat Gordon took the cup and held it high in one brown gauntlet, still keeping the hand that gave it in his other.

"I pledge the bride – the bride and her own true-love!" he said, loud enough for all to hear.

Then he drank and leaned towards Kate as though to return the cup with courteous salutation.

None heard the word he whispered. None save she who loved him can ever know, for Kate has not revealed it. But the word was spoken. The word was heard. A moment only the bride's eyes sought her lover's. The next his arm was about her waist, and her foot left the gravel with a spring airy as a bird's first morning flight. The reins were gathered in Wat's hand, his love was safe on the saddle before him. The spurs were set in Drumclog's dark flanks, the brave horse sprang forward, and before ever so much as a cry could go up from that watching assembly, Wat Gordon was riding straight for Dee water with his love between his arms.

CHAPTER LII

CATCH THEM WHO CAN!

For a space that concourse of marriage guests stood frozen with surprise and wonder. Then a hoarse cry arose from Black Murdo and his friends. With one accord they rushed for the stables; but some groom, eager to enjoy his holiday untrammelled at the wedding, had locked the doors. The key could not be found. The door must be broken down. Then what a cursing, shouting, striking of scullions ensued, Black Murdo in the midst raging like a fiend!

But all the while Kate was in the arms of her love, and the brave horse went rushing on, stealing mile after mile from the confusion of their foes. They were past the water of Dee, fording by the shallows of Threave, before ever a man of their pursuers was mounted at Balmaghie. On they rode towards the green-isleted loch of Carlinwark, at whose northern end they were trysted to meet with the curate and Jean Gordon.

Soon Carlinwark's dappled square of blue gleamed beneath them as they surmounted the Wizard's Mount and looked down upon the reeking chimneys of cottages lying snugly in the bield of the wooded hollow. Never slackening their speed on the summit, they rushed on – Drumclog going down hill among the rabbit-holes and thorn bushes as swiftly and surely as on level pavemented city street.

And there at last, by the Three Thorns of a thousand trysts, stood the curate of Dalry, Peter McCaskill, and Jean Gordon by his side with a blue cloak over her arm. A little way behind them could be seen the brawny blacksmith of Carlinwark, Ebie Callan, his sledge-hammer in one hand and the bridle-rein of a chestnut mare in the crook of his left arm.

There was as yet no sight or sound of pursuit behind them when they stayed Drumclog.

"Hurrah!" said the curate, standing before Wat and Kate in his white cassock and holding his service-book in his hand. "Are your minds made up? There is little time to lose, 'Dearly beloved, forasmuch,' and so on – Walter Gordon of Lochinvar, do you take this woman whom you now hold by the hand (take her by the hand, man)" – so on and on he mumbled, rustling rapidly over the leaves of his book – "before these witnesses? And do you, Katherine McGhie, take this man? – very well then – 'whom God hath joined…' There, that is finished, and 'tis as good a job as if it had been done by the Dean of Edinburgh. They cannot break Peter McCaskill's marrying work except with the dagger. And as to that, you must ride to save your skin, Wat, my lad."

"Mount upon this good steed, my lady," said the blacksmith to Kate; "she will carry you to Dumfries like the wind off the sea. She is faster than anything this side of the border."

And after she had mounted, with Ebie Callan's gallant assistance, Jean Gordon cast the blue cloak about her.

"See and draw the hood decently about your head when ye come to the town-end o' Dumfries," she cried.

"And," said the curate, "mind ye, Black Murdo has a double post-relay of horses prepared for his bride and himself all the road to York, where the king is. Ebie has been ten days away through these outlandish parts layin' them doon. So ye can just say when ye get to the White Horse in the Vennel: 'The horses for my Lord of Barra and his lady,' and there ye are! In the town of Dumfries they do not know Black Murdo frae Black Satan – nor care. And now away wi' ye! I hear them coming, but ye'll cheat them yet. There's nocht in the stables o' Balmaghie that can catch you and your bonny lady if ye keep clear o' moss-holes."

The pursuers were just topping the hill when the black and the chestnut were again put to their speed, and then, with a wave of the hand from Kate, and shake of his chevron-glove from Wat, the lovers were off on their long and perilous ride. The curate stood looking after them a moment; then, pulling his surplice over his head, he waved it frantically, like a giant kerchief, murmuring the while: "The blessing o' the Almighty and Peter McCaskill be on ye baith!" – which was all the benediction that closed the marriage service of Wat Gordon and Kate McGhie.

Jean Gordon had turned aside to wipe her eyes, and the blacksmith stood staring after them with his mouth wider open than ever. As the pair surmounted the tangled hill of whins behind the little village of Causewayend, Wat looked down a moment from the highest part, but without checking his horses, in order to note the positions of his pursuers. Seeing this, the blacksmith became suddenly fired with enthusiasm. He lifted the mighty sledge which he had brought out in his hand and twirled it about his head.

"To the black deil wi' a' that wad harm ye or mar ye, ye bonny pair!" he shouted.

This was Ebie Callan's formula of blessing, and quite as serviceable in its way as that of the curate.

But at that moment a horseman, coming at a hand gallop down the hill, broke through the thicket and rushed at speed between the Three Thorns almost upon Peter McCaskill and the smith. His horse reared and shied at the waving surplice and the threatening hammer, whereupon the rider went over the pommel of his saddle and crashed all his length on the hard-beaten path. When he regained his footing, lo! it was Black Murdo of Barra himself, and very naturally he rose in the fiercest of tempers.

He drew his sword and would have rushed upon the curate, but that the blacksmith stepped in front with his sledge-hammer.

"Haud up, my man!" he exclaimed, peremptorily, as if the Lord of Barra had been a kicking horse he had set himself to shoe; "stand back gin ye dinna want your pow cracked like a hazel-nut. Mind ye, Ebie Callan never missed a chap wi' the fore-hammer in his life!"

At this point Peter McCaskill suddenly flapped his surplice in the face of Barra's horse, which flourished its heels and cantered away to meet its companions.

For by this time the other pursuers were beginning to come up, and, seeing that nothing could be gained by delay, Barra called to one of these, whose horse he took, and, delaying till a more convenient season any vengeance on Ebie Callan, once more set off in pursuit.

"Praise the Lord, they hae gotten a grand start. There's no' yin o' the vermin will come within a mile o' oor Wat on this side o' Dumfries whatever," affirmed the curate.

"And what's mair," added the smith, "if he gets the horses I laid doon for my lord, he will ride into Carlisle with no' a McGhie or black hieland McAlister within miles o' him."

"Except the McGhie on the chestnut," said Peter McCaskill.

"And even she's a Gordon noo, if ye hae as good skill in your welding trade as I hae in mine," replied Ebie Callan, turning away to his smithy bellows.

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