THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAMAW
It was the third day of April, a day so cool and mild that every one who could was in the open air, that I sat in the little strip of garden behind my lodging, reading the Symposium of Plato in the light of certain digests of Master Quellinus. The beds of hyacinth, yellow and blue and red, were flaunting before my eyes, and down by the water's edge the swallows were twittering and skimming. The soft spring wind fluttered the leaves of my book and stirred my hair, so that I found it hard indeed to keep my attention fixed. Some yards behind me Nicol sat cleaning a fishing-rod, for in the idle days he amused himself with trying his skill among the sleepy streams. He was whistling some bars of "Leezie Lindsay," and the tune, which I had often heard in Tweeddale, put me much in mind of home and inclined my heart violently to the place I had left. So soon I found my Plato lying listlessly on my lap, and my thoughts far away over sea.
Just now, I knew, would be the lambing-time in the Tweed hills, and all the valleys would be filled with the noise of sheep. The shepherds, too, would be burning the bent, and the moors sending up wreaths of pungent smoke. I minded the smell so well that I almost fancied it was in my nostrils in place of the moist perfume of hyacinth and violet. At Barns, Tam Todd would be seeing to the young trees and fishing in the full streams. At Dawyck, Marjory would be early abroad, plucking the spring flowers and bringing in armfuls of apple-blossom to deck the rooms. The thought of Marjory gave me sudden discomfort. I reflected for the thousandth time that I had heard nothing of her for months, and I fell to wondering greatly at her silence. By and by, what with thinking of home and of her and chafing at her neglect, I found myself in a very pretty state of discontentment.
It was just then that I heard a voice behind me, and turning round saw Nicol approaching in company with another. The stranger was a man of remarkable appearance. He was scarcely the middle height, but his breadth across the shoulders was so great that he seemed almost dwarfish. He had arms of extraordinary length, so long that they reached almost to his knees, like the Tartars in Muscovy that I have read of. His square, weather-beaten face was filled with much good humour, and the two eyes which looked out from beneath his shaggy brows were clear and shrewd.
"This is Maister Silas Steen o' the brig Seamaw," said Nicol, making an introduction, "whae has come from Scotland this morning, and says he has letters wi' him for you." Having delivered himself, my servant retreated, and left the newcomer alone with me.
"You'll be Master John Burnet of Barns?" said he, looking at me sharply.
"The same, at your service," said I.
"It's just a bit letter for you," and he dived into his pocket and produced a packet.
I took it hastily, for I had some guess who was the writer. Nor was I wrong, for one glance at the superscription told me the truth. And this is how it ran:
"For Master John Burnet in the house of Mistress Vanderdecker near the Breedestraat, at Leyden.
"DEAR JOHN: I have not written thee for long, and I trust that thereby I have not given thee trouble. I am well and happy, when this leaves me, though desiring thy return. I trust your studies are to your satisfaction. Tam Todd, from the Barns, was over yestreen, and gave a good account of all things there."
Then came a pause, and the writing was resumed in a hurried, irregular hand.
"I am not free to write my will. O John, dear John, come back to me. I am so unhappy. I cannot survive without thee another day" (this latter word had been scored out and month put in its place). "I am in dreadful perplexity. Come quick.
"MARJORY."
You may imagine into what state of mind the reading of this letter threw me. My lady was in trouble, that was enough for me, and she desired my aid. I guessed that the letter had been written stealthily and that some trouble had been found in its conveyance, for it bore the marks of much crumpling and haste. I could make no conjecture as to its meaning, and this doubt only the more increased my impatience.
"From whom did you get this?" I asked.
"From a great, thin, swart man, who brought it to me at Leith, and bade me deliver it. I came post haste from Rotterdam this day."
I ran over in my mind the serving-folk at Dawyck, and could think of none such. Then, like a flash, I remembered Tam Todd. This doubly increased my fears. If Marjory could get no porter for her message save one of my own servants, then the trouble must be at Dawyck itself.
I can find no words for the depths of my anxiety. To think of Marjory in sorrow and myself separated by leagues of land and sea well-nigh drove me distracted. There and then I resolved on my course.
"Your ship is at Rotterdam?" I asked.
"Yes," said the captain.
"When does she sail?"
"To-morrow night, when the cargo is on board."
"I'll give you twenty pieces of gold if you'll sail to-night."
The captain shook his head. "It canna be done," he cried; "my freight is lace and schiedam, worth four times twenty pieces, and I canna have a voyage for naething."
"Listen," said I, "I am in terrible perplexity. I would give you a hundred, if I had them; but I promise you, if you bring me safely to the port of Leith, they shall be paid. Ride back to your vessel and ship all the stuff you can, and I will be with you at eleven o'clock this night, ready to sail."
The fellow shook his head, but said nothing.
"Man, man," I cried, "for God's sake, I implore you. It's a matter to me of desperate import. See, there are your twenty pieces, and I'll give you my bond for eighty, to be paid when we win to Leith."
"Tut, Master Burnet," said he, "I will not be taking your money. But I'm wae to see you in trouble. I'll take you over the nicht for the twenty pieces, and if I lose on the venture, you can make it up to me. It's safer carrying you and running straight for the pier, than carrying schiedam and dodging about the Bass. And I'm not a man that need count his pennies. Forbye, I see there's a lady in the case, and I deem it my duty to assist you."
I was at first astonished by the man's ready compliance, but when I saw that he was sincere, I thanked him to the best of my power. "Be sure I shall not forget this service, Captain Steen," said I; "and if it is ever in my power to serve you in return, you may count on me. You will take some refreshment before you go;" and, calling Nicol, I bade him see to the stranger's wants.
Meantime it behooved me to be up and doing if I was to sail that night. I knew not what to think of the news I had heard, for, as I thought upon the matter, it seemed so incredible that aught could have gone wrong that I began to set it all down to mere loneliness and a girl's humours. The strangeness of the letter I explained with all the sophistry of care. She did not wish to disturb me and bring me home before my time. This was what she meant when she said she was not free to write her will. But at the end her desolateness had overmastered her, and she had finished with a piteous appeal. Even so I began to reason, and this casuistry put me in a more hopeful frame of mind. It was right that I should go home, but when I got there I should find no cause for fear. But there was much to be done in the town and the college ere I could take my departure. So when I had paid all the monies that I owed, and bidden farewell to all my friends (among whom Sir William Crichtoun and Master Quellinus were greatly affected), I returned to my lodgings. There I found Nicol in great glee, preparing my baggage. He was whistling the "Lawlands of Holland," and every now and then he would stop to address himself. "Ye're gaun hame," I heard him saying, "ye're gaun hame to the hills and the bonny water o' Tweed, and guid kindly Scots folk, after thae frostit Hollanders, and fine tasty parritsh and honest yill after the abominable meats and drinks o' this stawsome hole. And ye'd better watch your steps, Nicol Plenderleith, my man, I'm tellin' ye, and keep a calm sough, for there's a heap o' wark to be dune, and some o' it geyan wanchancy."
"Good advice, Nicol," said I, breaking in upon him; "see that you keep to it."
"Is that you, Maister John? Ye'll be clean high aboot gaun back. Ye'll hae seen a' that's to be seen here, for after a' it's no a great place. And ye maun mind and put a bottle o' French brandy in your valise, or you'll be awfu' oot on the sea. I think it's likely to be coorse on the water."
I took my servant's advice, and when all was done to my liking, I walked down to the college gate for one last look at the place. I was in a strange temperpartly glad, partly sadand wholly excited. When I looked on the grey, peaceful walls, breathing learning and repose, and thought of the wise men who had lived there, and the great books that had been written, and the high thoughts that had been born, I felt a keen pang of regret. For there was at all times in me much of the scholar's spirit, and I doubted whether it had not been better for me, better for all, had I chosen the life of study. I reflected how little my life would lie now in cloisters and lecture halls, in what difficulties I would soon be plunged and what troublous waters I might be cast upon. My own land was in a ferment, with every man's hand against his brother; my love might be in danger; of a surety it looked as if henceforward quiet and gentleness might be to seek in my life. I own that I looked forward to it without shrinkingnay, with a certain hopeful anticipation; but I confess also that I looked at the past and all that I was leaving with a certain regret. Indeed, I was born between two stools; for, while I could never be content to stay at home and spend my days among books, on the other hand, the life of unlettered action was repugnant. Had it been possible, I should have gladly dwelt among wars and tumults with men who cared not for these things alone, and could return, when all violence was at an end, to books and study with a cheerful heart. But no man has the making of the world, and he must even fit himself to it as he finds it. Nor do I think it altogether evil to have many desires and even many regrets, for it keeps a man's spirit active, and urges him on to valiant effort. Of this I am sure, that contentment is the meanest of the virtues.
As I left the place there was a cool, grey haze over all the gardens and towersmellow and soft and lucid. But to the north, where lay the sea, there was a broken sky, blue, with fitful clouds passing athwart. It seemed, as it were, the emblem of my lifethe tranquil and the unsettled. Yet in the broken sky there was a promise of sunshine and brilliance, which was not in the even grey; and this heartened me.
So at four that evening we mounted horse and rode forth by the way we had come, and ere the hour of eleven were on the wharf at Rotterdam, sniffing the distant smell of the sea.