heightened by the personal elegance and manly beauty of their possessor;
neither will we say that the romantic and susceptible girl was not
predisposed, by the same cause, to discover, in all he said, fully more,
perhaps, than would have been apparent to a more indifferent listener.
Be this as it may, it is certain that on this night, and on this
particular occasion, Ellen Martin felt, and felt for the first time,
the, to her new, strange, and delightful emotions of incipient love.
What avails it to say that prudence should have forbidden this? The
object of Ellen's sudden regard was a stranger, a total stranger. His
name even was not known, nor his rank in society otherwise than by
conjecture, which, though favourable, was, of course, vague and
uncertain. The circumstances, too, in which he had been met with, were
such as to preclude all possibility of connecting any one single
elucidatory fact with his history. But when, in a young and
inexperienced mind, did love submit to be controlled by reason? and when
did the young heart exhibit the faculty of resisting impressions at
will? Certainly not in the case of Ellen Martin, who was, at this
moment, placed precisely in those circumstances most eminently
calculated for exciting, in susceptible bosoms, the one great and
engrossing passion of the female heart.
After about an hour's travelling, the party, with their guide, arrived
at a solitary house situated in a little glen or strath overhung with
precipitous rocks, and through which wound a narrow and irregular road,
that led in one direction over the hills that stretched far to the west,
and in the other to the lower grounds, from which the neighbouring
mountains rose. The house itself, although apparently a very old one,
was of the better order of houses in the Highlands at that period. It
was two stories in height, roofed with grey slate, and exhibited at wide
intervals small dingy windows filled with the thick, wavy, and obscure
glass of the time. Altogether it had the appearance of being the
residence of a person of the rank of a small proprietor or tacksman. As
the party approached the house, all was quiet within and around it. Not
a light was seen, or movement heard. The hour was late, and the inmates
had been long to rest. When within a short distance of the house, the
conductor of the party, addressing the latter, said:--
"You will be so good as wait here, my friends, for a few minutes, until
I prepare Mr. Chisholm for your reception. He is an old and intimate
friend of mine, and will be glad, on my account, to show you every
kindness in his power."
Having thus expressed himself, he left them, and, in a few moments
after, returned to conduct them to the house, where they were received
with great kindness by the landlord, a middle-aged man of respectable
appearance and mild manners. On entering, the party were ushered into a
large room, where a servant girl was busily employed in kindling a fire
of peats. These quickly bursting into flame, the travellers, in a very
few minutes, found themselves enjoying the agreeable warmth of a blazing
fire. But the kindness of their host was not limited to external
comforts. With true Highland hospitality, the board was loaded with
refreshments of various kinds; huge piles of oaten cake, with
proportionable quantities of eggs, cheese, butter, cold salmon, and
mutton ham, and, though last, not least, a little round, black, dumpy
bottle of genuine mountain dew.
Delighted with their reception, pleased with each other, and urged into
that exuberance of spirits which good cheer and comfortable quarters are
so well qualified to inspire, especially when they present themselves so
unexpectedly and opportunely as in the case of which we are
speaking--the party soon began to get exceedingly merry; so much so,
that they finally determined, as morning was now fast approaching, not
to retire to bed at all, but to spend the few hours they intended
remaining where they were. In this resolution they were the more readily
confirmed by a certain proceeding of their late guide, in happy
accordance with the mirthful feelings of the moment. This was his taking
down from the wall a fiddle, which hung invitingly over the fire-place,
and striking up some of the liveliest airs of his native land. The
effect was irresistible; for he played with singular grace and skill,
striking out the notes with a distinctness, precision, and rapidity,
that gave the fullest effect possible to the merry strains which he
poured on the ears of the captivated listeners. The party were
electrified. The gentlemen leapt to their feet, the table was removed
bodily, with all its furniture, to one side of the apartment, and, in an
instant after, the ladies also were on the floor. In another, the whole
were wheeling through the mazes of a Highland reel. Nor did the
merriment cease till the rising sun alarmed the revellers, by suddenly
pouring his effulgence into the apartment. On this hint, the music and
mirth both were instantly hushed; and the party, throwing aside the
levity of manner of the preceding hours, began, with business looks, to
prepare for their departure. Their host pressed them to stay breakfast;
but, being anxious at once to get forward and to enjoy the morning ride,
this invitation they declined. Their ponies, which had been in the
meantime carefully attended to by their hospitable landlord, were
brought to the door, and in a few minutes the whole party were mounted,
and were about to start, when the circumstance of their late guide's
again taking the reins of Ellen's pony in his hand, and apparently
preparing to repeat the service of the previous night, for a moment
arrested their march; all protesting that they would on no account
permit him to put himself, by accompanying them, to the slightest
further inconvenience on their account. With what sincerity Ellen joined
in this protest--for she did join in it--we do not know; but it is
certain that her opposition to his accompanying them did not appear at
all so cordial as that of her companions.
The objections of the party, however, were politely, but peremptorily
overruled by their guide, who reconciled them to his determination of
escorting them, by remarking that, without his assistance, they would
never find their way amongst the hills, and that, moreover, he was going
at any rate several miles in the very direction in which their route
lay. These assurances, particularly the latter, left no room for farther
debate, and the party proceeded on their way; the guide and Ellen, as
before, leading the march. But, as it was now daylight when any little
chance distance that might occur between the parties was of less
consequence and less attended to, they were always much farther in
advance than on the preceding night; indeed, frequently so far as to be
for a considerable time out of sight of their companions. In this
proceeding, Ellen had, of course, no share whatever. It was solely the
result of a certain little course of management on the part of her
escort, who availed himself of every opportunity of widening the
distance between his fair companion and the other members of the party.
It was on one of these occasions, when the lovers--for we may now
without hesitation call them such--had turned the shoulder of a hill
which Ellen's guide knew, calculating from the distance which the party
were behind, would conceal them from the view of the latter for a
considerable time--it was on this occasion, we say, that he suddenly
seized Ellen by the hand, and, ere she was aware, hurried it to his
lips; but, as quickly resigning it--
"Ellen," he said, looking up to her with an expression of tenderness and
contrition that instantly disarmed the gentle girl of the resentment
into which the freedom he had just taken had for an instant betrayed
her--"forgive me--will you forgive me? That cursed impetuosity of
temper--the failing of my race, Ellen--has hurried me into an
impropriety. I have offended you. I see it--but do forgive me."
"On condition that you do not attempt to repeat it," said Ellen,
smiling, though there was evidently much agitation in her manner.
"I promise," replied the offender. A pause ensued, during which neither
spoke. At length, Ellen's guide, who seemed to have been struggling with
some powerful and oppressive motion, suddenly, but gently arrested the
progress of the pony on which she rode, and said, in a voice altered in
tone by intensity of feeling--
"Ellen, I wish to God we had never met!"
"Why should you entertain such a wish?" inquired Ellen, timidly, and
blushing as she spoke.
"Because then I had not been broken-hearted," said her companion, with a
sigh. "I had still retained my peace of mind--my step should still have
been light on the heather, and my thoughts free and careless as the
wind upon the mountains."
"You speak in enigmas," replied Ellen, blushing deeper than before. "I
do not understand you," she added, but with a manner that contradicted
the assertion.
"Then I will be more plain with you, Ellen," replied her companion:--"I
love you, I love you, fair girl, to distraction."
This declaration was too unequivocal to be evaded; yet poor Ellen,
though her heart responded to the sentiment, knew not what reply to make
in words. Her agitation was extreme--so great as almost to impede her
respiration.
"We are strangers, sir," she at length said--"total strangers; and such
language as this should, if spoken at all, be spoken only when it is
warranted by a longer and more intimate acquaintance. Ours is literally
but of yesterday, although you have certainly crowded into that short
space as much kindness as it would possibly admit of; and I and my
friends are grateful for it--sincerely grateful. Still we are but
strangers."
"Strangers, Ellen!" replied her lover, getting more and more energetic
and impassioned as he spoke--"no, we are not strangers--at least you are
none to me. From the first instant I saw you, you were no longer a
stranger. From that instant, you had a home in this heart, and on that
instant you stood before me confessed one of the loveliest and gentlest
of your sex. What more would an age of acquaintance have discovered?
What more is there need to learn."
At this instant, a shout from one of the gentlemen of the party
interrupted the enthusiastic speaker, and put an end, for the time, to
the conversation of the lovers. The call, however, that had been made on
their attention by their friend, being merely intended to intimate that
they had them in view, Ellen's guide soon found another opportunity of
renewing his suit. We do not, however, think it necessary that we should
renew a description of it--tedious as the conversation of all lovers is
to third parties. We shall only say, then, that, long ere Ellen and her
handsome and accomplished guide parted, the affections of the simple,
confiding girl were unalterably fixed. Whether they were happily
disposed of, the sequel will show.
After having crossed "muirs and mountains mony o'," Ellen and her lover
arrived on the ridge of a hill, which commanded a distinct, though
distant view of the town of Banff, when the latter suddenly stopped,
and--"Ellen," he said, "here we must part. I can proceed no farther with
you; but it will go hard with me if I do not see you very soon again."
"Nay," said Ellen, "since you have come so far with us, you must go yet
a little farther. You must go on to the town, and afford us an
opportunity of acknowledging the obligations under which we lie to you.
My father will be most happy to see you."
The expression of a sudden pang crossed the fine countenance of the
stranger. His lip quivered, and his brow contracted into momentary
gloom; but, with what was apparently a strong effort, he subdued the
feeling, whatever it was, which had caused this indication of mental
pain, and replied, after a brief pause--
"No, Ellen, it cannot be. I must not--I--I dare not enter Banff with the
light of day."
"Dare not!" said Ellen, in surprise. "Why dare you not? What or whom
have you to fear?"
"Fear?" replied her companion, somewhat distractedly--"I fear the face
of no single man, weapon to weapon; but, were I to enter Banff, I might
not have such fair play. There are some persons there with whom I am at
feud; and my life would be in danger from them. This was what I meant,
when I said that I dared not enter Banff. Yet it is not that I would not
_dare_, either," he added, raising himself proudly to his full height,
and laying an emphasis expressive of defiance on the word; "but it would
be foolhardy--absurdly imprudent. I cannot--I may not go further with
you, Ellen."
Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach of the rest of the
party, who at this moment rode up to Ellen and her companion. These, on
being told that the latter was now about to leave them, repeated, and in
nearly similar words, the invitation which Ellen had already given him;
but it was not in similar words to those he had used on that occasion,
he answered them. To them he merely said that pressing business called
him in another direction, and repeated that, where they now were, they
must part. He however, promised, though with the manner of one who has
no fixed intention of fulfilling that promise, that the first time he
went to Banff, if circumstances would permit, he would certainly pay
them a visit.
"Since you will not go with us, then," said one of the gentlemen, "at
least inform us to whom we are indebted for the extraordinary kindness
which you have shewn us. Favour us with your name if you please."
"My name, sir!" said the late guide, smiling. "Why, that is a matter of
no consequence. You will know me when and wherever you may see me again,
I dare say, and that is enough." Saying this, he shook hands with each
of the party--with Ellen this ceremony was accompanied by a look and
pressure of peculiar intelligence--and bounded away with the same light
and elastic step with which he had approached them on the preceding
night, and was soon lost to view.
It would not be easy for us to say precisely what were the opinions
entertained by Ellen's party, of the warm-hearted but mysterious person
who had just left them. These were various, vague, and indefinite. That
he was a person far above the ordinary classes of the country, was
evident from his dress, his manner, and his accomplishments. The first
was that of a gentleman, the latter were those of a man of education and
talent. These obvious proofs of his rank there was no gainsaying; nor
would they admit of any difference of opinion. But it had not escaped
those who were now engaged in discussing the subject of the stranger's
probable history, that, during the whole time they had been together,
neither his name, profession, nor place of residence, had ever
transpired. They had not been at any time alluded to, even in the
slightest or most distant manner. It was only now, however, that the
oddness of this circumstance seemed to strike the members of the party
with the full force of its peculiar character. Each now asked the other
in surprise, if they had not ascertained any of the particulars just
mentioned from the stranger; and all declared that they had not. More
extraordinary still, as it now appeared on reflection, his name had
never once been mentioned by the person in whose house they had passed
the previous evening. In this investigation, the circumstance of the
stranger's having declined to give his name at parting was not of course
forgotten. The affair altogether was a singular one--a conclusion at
which all arrived; but it was one also, which their discussion could
throw no light on; and this being sensibly felt by all, the subject was
gradually dropped.
To what extent the doubts and indefinite suspicions with which the
mystery associated with their late guide had inspired the various
members of the party, were shared by Ellen, we do not know; but we
suspect that, in her bosom, they were mingled with feelings that had the
effect of giving them a totally different character from what they
assumed in the minds of her companions. In her case, these doubts or
suspicions were wholly unassociated with any idea unfavourable to the
character of him whose conduct excited them. She saw, indeed, that there
was a degree of concealment on the part of that person; but she never,
for a moment, dreamt that it proceeded from any reasons involving
anything disgraceful. In the fondness of her love, she conceived it
impossible that a being of so kind and generous a heart, of so
prepossessing appearance and manners, and of so noble a form, could ever
have been guilty of anything which should subject him to the debasing
feelings of either shame or fear. She felt there was mystery, but she
was satisfied it was not the mystery of crime; and, under this
conviction, she continued to cherish the love which had thus so suddenly
sprung up in her own guiltless and guileless bosom. The party, in the
meantime, were rapidly approaching the place of their respective
residences, and a very short time after saw that consummation attained.
If we now allow somewhere about the space of a month to elapse, and if
we then look, in the dusk of a certain evening, into a certain retired
green lane or avenue, at the distance of somewhat less than a quarter of
a mile from the residence of Ellen Martin's father, in the vicinity of
the town of Banff, and which, being on the property of the latter, was
secluded from all intrusion, we shall then and there find two persons
walking together, in earnest and secret conversation. If we approach
them nearer, we shall discover that they are lovers; for there is the
gentle accent and the endearing concourse of fond hearts. They are Ellen
Martin and her mysterious lover; and this is the fifth or sixth night on
which they have so met since they parted at the time and in the manner
before described.
"But why this mystery, James?"--for this much of his name had she
obtained--Ellen might have been overheard, by an eavesdropper, saying to
her lover on this occasion, as she leant on his arm, and gazed fondly in
his face. "Why all this mystery?--why is it that you come and go only
under the shade of night?--and why is it that you shun the face of man
with such sedulous anxiety?--and why, above all, are you always so
carefully armed? Oh, do confide in me, James, and tell me all. Relieve
my mind. Tell me the reason of these things. You wrong me by this
mystery; for it implies a suspicion of my sincerity--it implies that you
think me unworthy of being trusted."
"Doubt your sincerity, Ellen!--think you unworthy of being trusted!"
said the person whom she addressed, emphatically but tenderly. "Sooner
would I doubt the return of yonder moon--sooner would I doubt that the
sea would flow again after it has ebbed--than doubt your sincerity,
love; but I cannot, I will not, I dare not give you the information you
ask; for, with that information I would loose you for ever; and what,
think you, would induce me to inflict such misery as that on myself? Be
content, Ellen, in the meantime at least, with an assurance of my
love--yes, unworthy as I am," he exclaimed, with increased fervour, "of
a love as strong, as sincere, as pure as ever existed in a human bosom."
"I never doubted it, James--I never doubted it," said Ellen, bursting
into tears, and leaning her head fondly on the shoulder of her lover;
"and I will not press you further for that information which you seem so
reluctant to give. I will, in the meantime, as you say, confide in your
fidelity, and leave the rest to some future and happier hour."
"Happier hour, Ellen!" said her companion, with a bitter smile. "Alas?
there is no happier hour than this in store for me. But it is happiness
enough." And he chanted in a low, but mellifluous voice--
"There's glory for the brave, Ellen,
And honour for the true;
There's woman's love for both, Ellen--
Such love's I find in you.
"There's wealth into the Indies, Ellen,
There's riches in the sea--
But I would not give for these, Ellen,
One little hour with thee."
"A poor bargain, James," said Ellen, smiling and blushing at the same
time. "You are a fair poet, but very indifferent chapman, if that be a
specimen of your bargain-making."
"It may be so, Ellen," replied her companion, also smiling; "yet I am
willing to abide by the terms."
At this instant, a rustling noise was heard amongst the bushes close by
where the lovers stood. The mysterious stranger started, hurriedly freed
his sword hilt from the folds of his plaids, muttering, as he did so--
"Ha! have they dogged me? They shall rue it. By heaven, they shall rue
it!--I shall not be taken cheaply!" And he half unsheathed his weapon,
as he stood listening for a repetition of the sounds which had alarmed
him; but they were not repeated; and the uneasiness of the lovers
gradually subsiding, they resumed their conversation. At the expiry of
another "little hour," the lovers parted, and parted to meet no more--a
misfortune which they but little anticipated; for a solemn promise was
given by both to meet in the same place and at the same hour on that day
se'ennight.
As it may lead to the gratification of some curiosity on the part of the
reader regarding the mysterious lover of Ellen Martin, we shall follow
his footsteps after leaving her in the manner just described. We may as
well, first, however, make the reader aware that these visits of the
person alluded to were by no means of very easy accomplishment. They
cost him a journey, over mountain and moor, of upwards of a score of
miles; but he was light of foot, nimble as one of the deer of his native
mountains, and such a feat to him was not one which he deemed much to
boast of. If we follow him, then, as proposed, on the night in question,
we shall find him performing such a journey as we have alluded to, and
finally arriving at a deep but narrow glen, or ravine, far up amongst
the hills, and accessible only at one extremity, and even here of such
difficult entrance that none but those intimately acquainted with it
could effect it. This knowledge, however, the person whom we are now
accompanying possessed. He ascended the natural barrier by which the
ravine was closed with a sure but rapid step; when, having gained its
utmost height, and ere he descended on the opposite side, he extricated
a small bone or ivory whistle from the folds of his plaid, and drew from
it a short, low, but piercing sound. Had he omitted this precaution, his
life would have been the forfeit; for, concealed amongst the copsewood,
at a little height inside of the glen, lay a sentinel with loaded rifle,
whose duty it was instantly to fire on any one entering without such
intimation previously given of his being a friend. Having sounded the
whistle, the person of whom we were speaking, without waiting for any
response--for none was required--plunged down into the ravine below,
bounding from crag to crag like a hunted chamois, and trusting for
security on each airy footing to a handful of the lichen which grew from
the precipitous wall of rock down which he was descending.
Having gained the bottom of the ravine, he pushed on towards its centre,
when he again ascended, and now made for a clump of copsewood, which
grew at a considerable height on the side of the glen. This gained, he
dashed the branches aside, and, in the next instant, plunged into a
cavern whose dark mouth they concealed. Accompanying him thus far also,
we shall find the companion of our travels reaching a large and lofty
chamber, in the centre of which burnt a huge fire of peats, built on a
circular piece of rude masonry, and around which are seated eight or ten
men. Here and there may be seen resting against the walls of the chamber
the large steel basket-hilts of broadswords, and, in different corners,
accumulations of plaids and bonnets. Another object also will strike
us. This is several immense sides of beef, and several carcases of
mutton, hung up in various parts of the cave, all ready for the
operations of the cook. Neither the character of the place, nor of those
by whom it is occupied, can be mistaken. It is a den of Highland
katherans.
The reception by the latter of the person whom we have just intruded
upon them, was very markedly cold and distant; and it was rendered more
so by the contrast between his manner to them on his entrance, and
theirs to him. The former was cheerful and conciliatory, the latter
sullen and repulsive.
"The eagle's eyry is not now in the cleft of the rock," said one. "It is
in the barn-yard."
"Ay, the deer has left the mountain, and gone to herd with the swine,"
said another.