“I'D be right glad to do it, if it wasna for Hugh's bairns.” These words, which decided the lot of more lives than one, were spoken two centuries and a half ago in the dining-hall of an old castle in the west of Scotland one of those rude, square buildings, half dwelling house, half fortress, in which generations of stout, warlike lairds had tarried on the business of their rough, brave, stirring lives. The speaker, who was usually “Wild Charlie Graham,” was a tall, dark hired man of about five-and-thirty, who might have been handsome but for a retreating forehead, I weak mouth, and a general lack of firmness and decision in the expression of his face. He had two listeners, but addressed himself principally to one of them, a burly, red-haired personage, whose buff jerkin, military boots, and silver-studded belt, from which depended a sword in a costly scabbard sufficiently marked his profession. The other was a man of peace, or one at least the weapons of whose warfare were not carnal. He was the much-respected Master John Aird, minister of the Kirk of Scotland, in the parish of Craigendenny.
“Hugh's bairns?” queried the soldier, looking up from a goblet of good Burgundy. Food was coarse, and not too plentiful, in the Castle of Denniscraig, yet somehow good wine was always to be found there; and, to do Wild Charlie justice, the best he had he shared with his friends. “Hugh's bairns? Do ye mean the bonny lad and lass we saw here anon? Why, take the lad with you to the wars. I warrant me, laird, he'll fall upon his feet.”
“I’m no' the laird, Captain Stuart,” said Charlie, a little shortly. “As for the ladies, he's but ten years old—at least I think so; I Dinna rightly remember. Does my lord of Hamilton want balms to fight for him?”
“Ten? I thought him twelve at the least. A right likely lad to make a soldier of I How curiously he looked at all my accoutrements, and how eagerly he asked about the war! He had a good kind of notion, too, who were fighting, and what about, and I saw his face flush when I talked of the Lion of the North and the deliverance of oppressed Germany. Nay, man, I do not jest. Bring him with you, and we will have him entered as page to some person of quality, and ere you can look about you, you will find him buckling on a buff jerkin with the best.”
“But,” said Charlie the undecided (though too often the fierce and reckless), “but I canna bring the lassie.”
“I should maist certainly opine―not,” said the minister, with slow, deliberate utterance, and much emphasis upon the last word.
“Well, well,” the soldier resumed, a little impatiently, “have ye no friends to leave her with? Credit me, Master of Denniscraig―since that, I presume, is your designation―such a chance comes not twice in a man's lifetime.”
“Twice in a lifetime, honorable captain” laughed Charlie incredulously. “To my knowledge, there have been six or seven parties recruiting for the foreign wars here in Scotland during as many years.”
“Ay, for the foreign wars in general,” returned the soldier, with a sweep of his hand, “including military operations in Hungary; Bohemia, Poland, Denmark, Pomerania, and the other parts of Allemagne, not to mention the island of Rhé, which is a dependency of France. But, sir, has any man come to you before, and said, ‘Take service with me under the brave Marquis of Hamilton, who, with the express sanction of our sovereign lord King Charles, is leading a choice and gallant band, the flower of Scotch and English chivalry, to the assistance of our august ally the great King of Sweden, the unconquered general, the model soldier, the hero and champion of Protestantism’?”
“I like the service well enough, and the conditions also, which you have been so obliging as to propound unto me at large,” said Charlie; “and if so be I can fitly dispose of the bairns, I'm fain to gang with you, as I have said.”
“Send them to me,” said the minister. “My house is not large, but it is large enough to hold Hugh's bairns; so is my heart, and that of my guidwife also.”
It was curious to note the varying expressions that chased each other over the face of Wild Charlie before he answered. First came a touch of genuine emotion at the generous kindness of an old and tried friend. Then followed perplexity, vexation, even repugnance, succeeded by a look of good-humored amusement. At last he spoke. “Nay, my kind old friend,” he said warmly; “I thank you heartily for your maist liberal proffer, but I think nine mouths quite enough for your meal-tubs to feed. Nine, said I? It is twelve now, since the wee orphan grandchildren have come to you from Mauchline. I'll think, and fix it some other way. There's you auld carline in Edinburgh, our father's sister—maybe she'll take the lassie. She's got siller enough, anyway. I'll try it, and I dinna think she'll refuse.”
“Is it done then?” asked the captain, stretching out his hand.
“Done!” said Charlie, giving it a cordial grasp.
“And may God grant His blessing thereupon!” added the minister, who indeed thought honestly that this was the best thing Wild Charlie Graham could do with his hitherto wasted life.
A silence fell upon the group. The captain was satisfied; Charlie for once was thinking seriously; the minister also had food for thought. But he was the first to speak. “It wears late,” he said. “I must e'en be going.”
“Hast far to go, minister?” asked the captain.
“Twa three miles or so, maist of it by the seashore,” answered John Aird, rising to seek his well-worn “maud” and his blue bonnet.
Charlie, with whom hospitality was an instinct, turned to the narrow slit of window looking out on the sea. “It's unco cauld,” he said. “Bide here the night, Maister John.”
“No' me,” returned the minister, shaking his head. “What for should I? It's a braw night, and the moon shines like day.”
“True enough,” remarked the captain. “I have a mind to the walk myself, for your wine is good, Master of Denniscraig, and caller air follows well after good wine.”
“How will you win back?”
“Trust an old campaigner for that,” laughed the soldier.
So the matter was settled, and the man of war and the man of peace went forth together into the clear, frosty, moonlit night.