Hugh Herriot, you’re the leal friend! But ’twas not to be discussing my stitchery that I sent for you this afternoon, it was to ask you something. After the wedding, when I go with my man to his own place – will ye come with me?’
‘Come wi’ ye?’ said I, and for the moment I could think of nothing more to say. I felt stupid with the surprise of it.
And in the silence there came the sound of horses’ hooves from beyond the house. Three horses, I thought, my mind being shaped to such things of longhabit. And then the distant sounds of bustle from the stable-yard.
My lady noticed my check, and took it for uncertainty or maybe even unwillingness, and she said, ‘Mistress Mary comes with me, and old Linnet and Laverock, and it seems to me they’ll be wanting someone of their own with them, too. Come with me, Hugh – or will ye be sair to go so far from your own folks?’
I shook my head. ‘My grandfather’s dead, and there’s no one else I’d care to see again.’
‘Your grandfather?’ she said. ‘Ye’ve spoken of him now and again. I did not know that he was dead.’
‘No more did I, until the carrier brought me word, the morn.’
‘Oh, Hugh, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘and here I am asking you to make your mind up about this, when it’s the sore heart ye’ll have; and thinking’s none so easy with a sore heart. Bide a few days.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’d not have been like to see him again in any case; and as for leaving these parts – ’twas in my mind to be ’listing for a sojer anyways, in a year or two.’
She smiled, ‘Then come with me for the year or two.’
‘I’d like that fine,’ I said, ‘just fine, my lady.’
She kept me there a while longer, asking about my grandfather and the like; and all the while I could hear the bustle of an arrival in the stable-yard. I did wonder if it was Claverhouse himself, but he came more quietly as a rule. And then just as I was going, Mistress Ruthven came into the garden on flying feet, that pretty soft hair of hers bursting out from under her cap – her caps always seemed too big for her, like huge white cambric columbine flowers half quenching her small brown face. But this time the brownness of her face was flushed with foxglove pink, and her eyes dancing.
‘The painter-chiel who is to make your wedding portrait is come,’ said she. ‘He looks like a wee yellow toad perched up on top of the post-horse, and him with a great curled red peruke on the top, fine enough for a six-foot gentleman! Do you suppose he’s a prince in disguise?’
And I heard their laughter skirling behind me as I went out and back to the stable-yard.
And though I did not know it at the time, that, the coming of the Dutch painter, was the third of the three things that were to play a part in the shaping of my life.
Mynheer Cornelius van Meere, that was his name, did indeed look somewhat like a toad under the monstrous curled red peruke; and as long and lean as he was short and squat, was Johannes his apprentice, a wey-faced sulky-seeming callant, with the red rash on his cheeks and chin that plagues some of us when our beards first begin to sprout; aye, an odd looking couple. They were both still in the stable-yard when I got back to it, the apprentice unloading the bundles and cases of painting gear from the pack pony that carried it, while the master stood by to see it done, for clearly he would trust none of the grooms to touch it.
The two post-horses were already being rubbed down, and the pack pony fell to my lot when the weary little brute was finally unloaded. And meanwhile both the newcomers were swept away by the steward, and that was the last we saw of them for a while.
But we heard. As I have said, we heard most things in the stable-yard.
Cornelius van Meere had taken over the Little Dining-room for his workshop. I had never seen it, of course, but I had heard it was a bonnie room, with wallscovered in tooled and gilded leather; and I
‘Come wi’ ye?’ said I, and for the moment I could think of nothing more to say. I felt stupid with the surprise of it.
And in the silence there came the sound of horses’ hooves from beyond the house. Three horses, I thought, my mind being shaped to such things of longhabit. And then the distant sounds of bustle from the stable-yard.
My lady noticed my check, and took it for uncertainty or maybe even unwillingness, and she said, ‘Mistress Mary comes with me, and old Linnet and Laverock, and it seems to me they’ll be wanting someone of their own with them, too. Come with me, Hugh – or will ye be sair to go so far from your own folks?’
I shook my head. ‘My grandfather’s dead, and there’s no one else I’d care to see again.’
‘Your grandfather?’ she said. ‘Ye’ve spoken of him now and again. I did not know that he was dead.’
‘No more did I, until the carrier brought me word, the morn.’
‘Oh, Hugh, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘and here I am asking you to make your mind up about this, when it’s the sore heart ye’ll have; and thinking’s none so easy with a sore heart. Bide a few days.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’d not have been like to see him again in any case; and as for leaving these parts – ’twas in my mind to be ’listing for a sojer anyways, in a year or two.’
She smiled, ‘Then come with me for the year or two.’
‘I’d like that fine,’ I said, ‘just fine, my lady.’
She kept me there a while longer, asking about my grandfather and the like; and all the while I could hear the bustle of an arrival in the stable-yard. I did wonder if it was Claverhouse himself, but he came more quietly as a rule. And then just as I was going, Mistress Ruthven came into the garden on flying feet, that pretty soft hair of hers bursting out from under her cap – her caps always seemed too big for her, like huge white cambric columbine flowers half quenching her small brown face. But this time the brownness of her face was flushed with foxglove pink, and her eyes dancing.
‘The painter-chiel who is to make your wedding portrait is come,’ said she. ‘He looks like a wee yellow toad perched up on top of the post-horse, and him with a great curled red peruke on the top, fine enough for a six-foot gentleman! Do you suppose he’s a prince in disguise?’
And I heard their laughter skirling behind me as I went out and back to the stable-yard.
And though I did not know it at the time, that, the coming of the Dutch painter, was the third of the three things that were to play a part in the shaping of my life.
Mynheer Cornelius van Meere, that was his name, did indeed look somewhat like a toad under the monstrous curled red peruke; and as long and lean as he was short and squat, was Johannes his apprentice, a wey-faced sulky-seeming callant, with the red rash on his cheeks and chin that plagues some of us when our beards first begin to sprout; aye, an odd looking couple. They were both still in the stable-yard when I got back to it, the apprentice unloading the bundles and cases of painting gear from the pack pony that carried it, while the master stood by to see it done, for clearly he would trust none of the grooms to touch it.
The two post-horses were already being rubbed down, and the pack pony fell to my lot when the weary little brute was finally unloaded. And meanwhile both the newcomers were swept away by the steward, and that was the last we saw of them for a while.
But we heard. As I have said, we heard most things in the stable-yard.
Cornelius van Meere had taken over the Little Dining-room for his workshop. I had never seen it, of course, but I had heard it was a bonnie room, with wallscovered in tooled and gilded leather; and I
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