"to-morrow I set out on my travels."
"I am vexed that you are going away," and she looked at me sadly; "it will be lonely in Tweeddale without you."
"My dear lass, I will not be long. Two years at the longest, and then I will be home to you, and travel no more. What say you, Marjory?"
"Your will be done, John. Yet I would I could have gone with you."
"I would you could, my dear," I said. "But that might scarce be. You would not like, I think, to sail on rough seas, or bide among towns and colleges. You love the woods too well."
"Wherever you were," said she, with her eyes drooped, "I would be content to be."
"But Marjory, lass," I spoke up cheerfully, for I feared to make her sad, "you would not like me to stay at home, when the world is so wide, and so many brave things to be seen."
"No, no. I have no love for folks who bide in the house like children. I would have you go and do gallantly, and come home full of fine tales. But where do you mean to go, and how will you pass your time?"
"Oh," said I, "I go first to Rotterdam, where I may reside for a while. Then I purpose to visit the college at Leyden, to study; for I would fain spend some portion of my time profitably. After that I know not what I will do, but be sure that I will be home within the two years. For, though I am blithe to set out, I doubt not that I will be blither to come back again."
"I trust you may not learn in those far-away places to look down on Tweeddale and the simple folks here. I doubt you may, John; for you are not a steadfast man," and, at this, she laughed and I blushed, for I thought of my conduct at Glasgow.
"Nay, nay," I answered; "I love you all too well for that. Though the Emperor of Cathay were to offer me all his treasure to bide away, I would come back. I would rather be a shepherd in Tweeddale than a noble in Spain."
"Brave words, John," she cried, "brave words! See you hold to them."
Then after that we fell to discussing Michael, and his ways of amusing himself; and I bade Marjory tell her brother to look in now and then at Barns to see how Tam Todd fared. Also I bade her tell him that it was my wish that he should hunt and fish over my lands as much as he pleased. "And see you keep him in order," I added, laughing, "lest he slip off to the wars again."
"Oh, John," she said, with a frightened look, "do not speak so. That is what I fear above all things, for he is restless, even here, and must ever be wandering from one place to another."
"Tut, my dear," I said; "Michael, be sure, is too honest a man to leave you again, when I am off, once I have left you in his care. Have no fear for him. But we are getting as dull as owls, and it is many days since I heard your voice. I pray you sing me a song, as you used to do in the old days. 'Twill be long ere I hear another."
She rose and went without a word to her harpsichord and struck a few notes. Now Marjory had a most wonderful voice, more like a linnet's than aught else, and she sang the old ballads very sweetly. But to-day she took none of them, but a brisk martial song, which pleased me marvellously well. I will set down the words as she sang them, for I have hummed them many a time to myself:
"Oh, if my love were sailor-bred
And fared afar from home,
In perilous lands, by shoal and sands,
If he were sworn to roam,
Then, O, I'd hie me to a ship,
And sail upon the sea,
And keep his side in wind and tide
To bear him company.
"And if he were a soldier gay,
And tarried from the town,
And sought in wars, through death and scars,
To win for him renown,
I'd place his colours in my breast,
And ride by moor and lea,
And win his side, there to abide,
And bear him company.
"For sooth a maid, all unafraid,
Should by her lover be,
With wile and art to cheer his heart,
And bear him company."
"A fine promise, Marjory," I cried, "and some day I may claim its fulfilment. But who taught you the song?"
"Who but the Travelling Packman, or, maybe, the Wandering Jew?" she said, laughingly; and I knew this was the way of answer she used when she would not tell me anything. So, to this day, I know not whence she got the catch.
Then we parted, not without tears on her part, and blank misgivings on my own. For the vexed question came to disturb me, whether it was not mere self-gratification on my part thus to travel, and whether my more honourable place was not at home. But I banished the thoughts, for I knew how futile they were, and comforted my brave lass as best I could.
"Fare thee well, my love," I cried, as I mounted my horse, "and God defend you till I come again"; and, whenever I looked back, till I had passed the great avenue, I saw the glimmer of Marjory's dress, and felt pricked in the conscience for leaving her.
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