Mr. Lumsden, of Portoran, was seated in his study. The March wind was
blustering boisterous and rude without, driving its precious dust, so
valuable, as the proverb says, to farmer and seedsman, upon the window.
The study of the Portoran Manse was by no means a luxurious place--there
were no reclining library chairs in it: the formidable volumes that
clothed its walls were such as no _dilettanti_ student would venture to
engage withal. Its furniture was of the plainest. One large respectable
looking glazed bookcase, and a multitude of auxiliary shelves, were
piled to overflowing with books--books worth one's while to look at,
though Russian leather and gilding were marvellously scant among them.
That glorious row of tall vellum-covered folios--Miss Lumsden tells a
story of them--how they were presented to her studious brother John, the
day he was licensed, by a wealthy elder (to whom be all honor and laud,
and many followers;) and how John, in the mightiness of his glee,
forgetful of the new dignity of his Reverend, fairly danced round the
ponderous volumes in overbrimming pride and exultation. Miss Lumsden's
studious brother John, sits listening the while, with his own peculiar
smile upon his face--a smile which gives to that dark, penetrating,
intellectual countenance a singular fascination--there is something in
the simplicity of its glee, which at once suits so well and contrasts so
strangely with his strong and noble character.
For Mr. Lumsden, of Portoran, was altogether a peculiar man; we are
sorry that we cannot venture to call him a type of the clergymen of
Scotland; he was not a type of any body or profession. You will find
rare individuals of his class here and there, but nowhere many. That
there were such things as fatigue and weariness, Mr. Lumsden knew--he
had heard of them, with the hearing of the ear, and believed in their
existence as on good testimony we believe that there are mountains in
the moon; but Mr. Lumsden regarded people who complained much of these
with a smile, half-pitying, half-incredulous, and met the idea of
himself suffering from them with a no less amused burst of open wonder
than if it had been suggested to him that he should hold a diet of
examination, on some chill hillside of the pale planet over us. The
laborious duties of a brave and faithful minister were very life and
breath to Mr. Lumsden, of Portoran--obstacles that discouraged every
other man did only pleasantly excite and stimulate his patient might of
labor. Weary work, from which all beside him turned disconsolate and
afraid, Mr. Lumsden swept down upon, his face radiant with all its frank
simplicity of glee. Nothing daunted the mighty, vigorous, healthful soul
within him--nothing cast down that great, broad, expansive power of
Hope, which was with him no fair beguiling fairy, but an athletic
spirit, greedy of labor as the elfin serving-man of Michael Scot. In
labors manifold the minister of Portoran spent his manly days; foremost
in every good work, valiantly at the head of every Christian enterprise,
and full of that high religious chivalry which dares all things in the
service of the Church and of the Church's Head.
The widow and the fatherless knew well the firm footstep of their
faithful friend and comforter; the poor of his parish claimed his kindly
service as a public property; no man seeking counsel or help, comfort or
assistance, went doubtingly to the Manse of Portoran. The minister--his
wisdom, his influence, his genial large heart, belonged to the people;
he was the first person sought in misfortune, the first to whom sorrow
was unfolded. In a great joy the people of Portoran might forget
him--they never forgot to warn him of the coming of grief.
Mr. Lumsden was seated in his study--a great quarto of ponderous Latin
divinity, the produce of that busy time after the Reformation, when
divines _did_ write in quarto and folio volumes, terrible to look upon
in these degenerate days, lay on the table before him. He was not
reading it, however; he was pulling on his boot, and looking at an open
note which lay upon the book.
One boot was already on--he was tugging at the other indignantly. Mr.
Lumsden was particularly extravagant in that article of boots--so much
so, as entirely to shock his prudent sister Martha. This one, which
would not be drawn on, had been out during the night, upon its master's
foot, trudging through all manner of wet by-ways to a sick-bed--it had
not yet recovered the drenching. So Mr. Lumsden pulled, and between the
pulls looked at the note, and muttered to himself words which his
correspondent would not have cared to hear.
Miss Lumsden entered the study. Miss Lumsden had seen out her fortieth
winter; for the last ten of these, she had worn one constant dress of
black silk, and pronounced herself an old woman; and as it was very much
for the benefit of her married sisters and unmarried brothers that she
should think so, no one contradicted her. It happened at this time, to
be John's turn to have the noted housekeeper of the Lumsden family
resident with him. The Manse of Gowdenleas in the rich plains of Mid
Lothian, and the Manse of Kilfleurs in the West Highlands, the
respective residences of her brothers, Robert and Andrew, were under an
interregnum. Mrs. Edie nee Lumsden, in her Fife Manse, had no
expectation of a new baby; Mrs. Gilmour the Edinburgh physician's wife,
had no sickness among her seven children; Mrs. Morton, the great
invalid, whose husband held an office in the Register House was much
better than could be expected; so the universally useful sister Martha
had time to bestow her care and attention upon the domestic comfort of
her brother John.
The boot suddenly relaxed as Miss Lumsden entered, and the shock brought
out her brother's muttering in a louder tone than he intended: "A pretty
fellow!"
"Who is that?" asked his sister.
Mr. Lumsden looked up, flushed with exertion. "This lord at Strathoran.
Take his note--a seemly thing indeed to write so to me; Marjory Falconer
is right after all--the man thinks himself a Highland chieftain."
Miss Lumsden read the note, wonderingly.
"Sir.
"My people inform me that you are in the habit of visiting my
tenants at Oranmore, and inciting them to a course of action quite
subversive of my plans. I am informed that the glen is in the
parish of Strathoran, and consequently under the charge of another
clergyman--the Rev. Mr. Bairnsfather--whose own good sense and
proper feeling have withheld him from any interference between
myself and my dependants. I am not inclined to submit to any
clerical meddling, and therefore beg to remind you, that as
Oranmore is not under your charge, any interference on your part is
perfectly uncalled for and officious. I do not choose to have any
conventicles in the glen, and trust that you will at once refrain
from visits, which may injure the people but can do them no good.
"I am, &c.
"GILLRAVIDGE."
"Did ever any mortal hear such impertinence?" exclaimed the amazed Miss
Lumsden.
"_His_ people!" said the minister: "they have been his a long time to be
so summarily dealt with as goods and chattels. The man must have got his
ideas of Scotland from 'Waverley,' and thinks he is a Glennaquoich and
at the head of a clan--what absurd folly it is!"
"And just, 'Sir!'" said Miss Lumsden, indignantly; "he might have had
the good breeding to call you 'Reverend' at least."
Mr. Lumsden laughed. He rose and changed the long black garment, once a
great-coat, now his study-coat and morning-undress, for habiliments
better suiting the long ride he was about to commence, twisted his plaid
round his neck, and shut his quarto.
"What do you intend to do, John?" asked Miss Lumsden. "Are you going
out?"
"I intend to do just what I should have done, had I not received this
polite note," said Mr. Lumsden. "I am going to Oranmore, Martha. This
lordling threatens to eject these hapless Macalpines, and poor Kenneth,
the widow's son, is on the very verge of the grave. I must see him
to-day. If they attempt to remove him, it will kill the lad."
"Remove them, John? what are you thinking of?" said Miss Lumsden: "it is
nearly three months yet to the term."
The minister shook his head.
"They were warned to quit at Martinmas, Martha. This man, Lord
Gillravidge, has his eyes open to his own advantage. He has been
advised, I hear, to make one great sheep-farm of these exposed
hill-lands. The poor little clachan of Oranmore could not believe that
those fearful notices were anything but threats to secure the payment of
their rent; but now they promise to turn very sad earnest. I do not know
what to do."
"Eject them?" said Miss Lumsden, "bring one of those terrible Irish
scenes to our very door--in our peaceable country? John, it's not
possible!"
Mr. Lumsden looked still more serious.
"I fear it is nearly certain, Martha. I met Big Duncan Macalpine on the
road last night. He says Lord Gillravidge's agent and that fellow with
the moustache, have been in the glen several times of late; and the
ejectment must be accomplished before their seed is sown. At least if
they are permitted to remain till after seed-time, the man will not
surely have the heart to remove them then. I do not know--it is a very
sad business altogether; but we must try to do something better for them
than sending them, friendless and penniless, to Canada. We get a trial
of all businesses, we ministers, Martha--this is a new piece of work for
me."
The minister's man stood at the door, holding the minister's stout,
gray pony. Mr. Lumsden left the room. "And a great comfort it is, John
my man," soliloquized his sister, "that your Master has made you able
for them all."
Oranmore was not in Mr. Lumsden's parish. Mr. Lumsden was, what in those
days was called a "Highflyer," that is, a purely and earnestly
evangelical minister--a man who dedicated his whole energies, not to any
abstraction of merely beautiful morality--not to amiable respectability,
nor temporal beneficence; but in the fullest sense of these solemn
words, to the cause and service of Christ. In consequence, Mr. Lumsden
was assailed with all the names peculiarly assigned to his class by
common consent of the world: sour Presbyterian, gloomy Calvinist,
narrow-minded bigot, illiberal Pharisee. The minister of Portoran, like
his brethren in all ages, escaped thus the woe denounced by his Master
against those of whom all men speak well.
He was a thorough Presbyterian, a sound Calvinist. Men who know, and may
rationally judge of these two stately systems of discipline and
doctrine, can decide best whether the frank and open pleasantness of Mr.
Lumsden's face belied his faith or no. He was a man of one idea--we
confess to that; but the mightiness that filled his mind was great
enough to overbrim a universe. It was the Gospel--the Gospel in its
infinite breadth of lovingness--the Gospel no less in its restrictions
and penalties. His hand did not willingly extend itself in fellowship to
any man who dishonored the name of his Divine leader and King. His soul
was not sufficiently indifferent to prophesy final blessedness to those
who contemned and set at nought the everlasting love of God--so far he
was narrow-minded and illiberal, a bigot and a Pharisee.
But it happened that Mr. Lumsden's co-presbyters on every side were men
called, in the emphatic ecclesiastical phraseology of Scotland,
"Moderates;" men who wrote sermons and preached them because it was a
necessity of their office, not because they had a definite message to
deliver from a Lord and Master known and beloved; men who tolerated
profanity, and hushed uncomfortable fears, and were themselves so very
moderately religious, as to give no manner of offence to that most
narrow-minded and illiberal of all bigots, the irreligious world. We
mention this, in explanation of a foible of Mr. Lumsden's, particularly
alluded to in the letter of Lord Gillravidge, and the cause of much
skirmishing in the Presbytery of Strathoran. Mr. Lumsden had an especial
knack of preaching in other people's parishes.
Not to the neglect of his own--of all kinds of dishonor or ill-fame, Mr.
Lumsden held none so grievous as the neglecting or slight performance of
any part of that honorable and lofty work of his. Dearly as he loved
extraneous labor, the minutest of his own especial parochial duties were
looked to first. But all his round of toil gone through; his sermons
prepared; his examinations held; himself, heart and mind, at the
constant service of his people, Mr. Lumsden thought it no longer
necessary to confine his marvellous appetite for work within the limits
of Portoran.--There was a heathenish village yonder, growing up in all
the rude brutality of rural vice, untaught and uncared for. What matter
that the privilege of instructing it belonged to the Reverend Michael
Drowsihed? The Reverend Michael awoke out of his afternoon sleep one day
in wrath and consternation. Mr. Lumsden, of Portoran, had established a
fortnightly sermon, and threatened to set down a daily school, in his
own neglected village. What matter, that the half-Gaelic colony of
Oranmore, belonged of right to Mr. Bairnsfather? The warm heart of the
Minister of Portoran was laboring in the cause of the Macalpines, while
Mr. Bairnsfather was "sheughing kail and laying leeks," in his own Manse
garden.
In consequence of which propensity, Mr. Lumsden made a mighty commotion
in that ecclesiastical district. Gratefully to his ears, as he wended
homeward, came the voice of psalms from peasant-households, whom his
faithful service had brought back to the devout and godly habits of
their forefathers. Pleasantly before him stood, in rustic bashfulness,
the ruddy village children, for whom his care and labors had procured an
education of comparative purity; but by no means either grateful or
pleasant were those endless battles convulsing his presbytery, shaking
study chairs in drowsy Manses, and sweeping in a perfect whirlwind of
complaint and reprimand through the Presbytery House of Portoran.
Mr. Lumsden had his failings--we do not deny it. He had no especial
shrinking from a skirmish in the Presbytery. He walked to the bar of
that reverend court with so very little awe, that the Moderator was
well-nigh shocked out of his propriety. He had even been heard
irreverently to suggest to the newly-placed Minister of Middlebury, a
young brother, who seemed rather inclined to abet him in his rebelion,
that it would be better for him to take his place permanently at the
bar, than to be called to it at every meeting. He had been reprimanded
by the Presbytery, till the Presbytery were tired of reprimanding. Mr.
Bairnsfather had carried the case to the Synod, by appeal. The Synod had
denounced his irregularities in its voice of thunder. Mr. Lumsden only
smiled his peculiar smile of gleeful simplicity, and went on with his
labor.
He was going now to Oranmore. The glen of Oranmore lay among the lower
heights of the Grampians, a solitary, secluded valley. A small colony of
Highlanders, attached to the Strathoran branch of the house of
Sutherland, in feudal times, and bearing the ancient name of Macalpine,
had settled there, nearly a century before. The patriarchs of the little
community still spoke their original Gaelic; but the younger
generations, parents and children, approached much more closely to their
Lowland neighbors, whose idiom they had adopted. The glen was entirely
in their hands, and its fields, reclaimed by their pains-taking
husbandry, produced their entire subsistence. Some flocks of sheep
grazed on the hillside. There was good pasture land for their cattle,
and the various patches of oats and barley, turnips and potatoes, were
enough to keep these sturdy cottar families in independent poverty.
Whether in other circumstances they might have displayed the inherent
indolence which belongs, as men say, to that much belied Celtic race, we
cannot tell. But having only ordinary obstacles to strive against--an
indulgent landlord, and a kindly factor--the Macalpines had maintained
themselves as sturdily as any Saxon tribe of their numbers could
possibly have done; and had, what Saxon hamlets in the richer South are
not wont to have, a couple of lads from their little clachan at
college--one preparing himself for the work of the ministry, and another
aspiring to the dignity of an M. D.
In summer time, these peaceful cot-houses, lying on either side of the
infant Oran, within the shadow of the hills, with the fair low country
visible from the end of the glen, and the stern Grampians rising to the
sky above, were very fair to look upon; and the miniature clan at its
husbandry, working in humble brotherhood--the link of kindred that
joined its dozen families, all inheriting one name and one blood--the
purer atmosphere of morality and faith among them--made the small
commonwealth of Oranmore a pleasant thing for the mind to rest upon, no
less than for the eye.
Mr. Ferguson had never dealt hardly with these honest Macalpines, in
regard to the rent of their small holdings. He knew they would pay it
when they could, and, in just confidence, he gave them latitude.
Unhappily for the Macalpines, one whole half-year's rent remained
unpaid, when the new landlord took the management out of Mr. Ferguson's
kindly hands. The year was a backward year: their crops had been
indifferent, and the Macalpines were not ready with their rent at
Martinmas.
The consequence was, that these fearful notices to quit were served upon
them. Big Duncan Macalpine, a man of very decided character and deep
piety--one of that class, who, further north, are called "the
men,"--perceived the alien Laird's intention of removing them at once.
The remainder of the humble people, looked upon the notices only as
threats, and set to with all industry to make up the rents, and prevent
the dread alternative of leaving their homes. They had come there in the
time of Laird Fergus, the great-grandfather of Archibald Sutherland.
Their ninety-nine year's lease had expired in the previous year, and had
not (for it was Archibald's dark hour) been renewed, so that now they
were the merest tenants at will. Mr. Foreman warned Big Duncan that they
might be ejected at any time.
The small community became alarmed. The big wheel was busy in every
cottage. Sheep and poultry were being sold; every family was ready to
make sacrifices for the one great object of keeping their lands and
homes. The sharp, keen, unscrupulous writer whom Lord Gillravidge had
employed in Edinburgh, where his over-acuteness had lost him caste and
character, had been seen in the glen for three successive days. The
Macalpines were smitten with dread. Rumors floated up into their hilly
solitude of a great sheep-farmer from the south, who was in treaty for
these hill-lands of Strathoran. A shadow fell upon the humble
households. The calamity that approached began to shape itself before
them. To leave their homes--the glen to which they clung with all the
characteristic tenacity of their race--the country for which the
imaginative Celtic spirit burned with deep and patriotic love--the
national faith, still dearer, and more precious--for a cold, unknown,
and strange land, far from their northern birth-place, and their
preached Gospel!
Mr. Lumsden's strong, gray pony was used to all manner of rough roads,
and so could climb along the craggy way that led to Oranmore. The
minister rode briskly into the glen. His keen and anxious look became
suddenly changed as he entered it into one of grief and indignation. He
quickened his pace, leaped from the saddle, fastened his pony to a
withered thorn, and hastened forward.
The crisis had come. Mr. Whittret the lawyer, and Mr. Fitzherbert, stood
in the middle of a knot of Macalpines; a party of sheriff's-officers
hung in the rear, and the youthful Giles Sympelton stood apart, looking
on. The high head of Duncan Macalpine towered over the rest. In his
moral chieftainship he was the spokesman of his neighbors. He was
speaking when Mr. Lumsden approached.
"Your rent is ready, Sir--the maist of us are ready with your rent; but
oh! if there is a heart of flesh within ye, spare us our hames!
Gentlemen, we have a' been born here. Yon auld man," and Duncan pointed
to the venerable white head of a trembling old man, wrapped in a plaid,
who leaned against the lintel of the nearest cottage--"and he's past a
century--is the only ane amang us that was a living soul at the
flitting. For pity's sake, Sir, think o't! Gie us time to make up the
siller. We'll pay the next half-year in advance, if better mayna be; but
do not bid us leave the glen."
"That's all very well," said Fitzherbert, "very pretty. A set of Scotch
cheats, who only want to deceive Lord Gillravidge."
"I want to deceive no man," said the humble chief of Oranmore,
indignantly. "I wouldna set my face to a lee for a' his revenues. I am a
head of a family, and a decent man, in God's providence, Sir; and I gie
ye my word, that if ye'll just give us time, we'll make up the next
half-year's rent in advance. His Lordship is a stranger, and maybe,
doesna ken whether he can trust us or no. Mr. Ferguson will bear us
witness, Sir--the Laird himsel will bear us witness. Mr. Lumsden--Guid
be thankit he is here himsel!--the minister will bear us witness!"
Mr. Lumsden entered the circle, hailed by various salutations.
"Blessings on him! He never fails when he's needed." "He'll bear witness
to us that we're honest folk." And one indignant outcry from Duncan's
sister: "Ye'll believe the minister!"
"What is the matter, Duncan?" said Mr. Lumsden.
"The gentlemen have come for our rent, Sir; we're ahin' hand. I make nae
wonder that folk new to the countryside mayna trust us; but oh! if they
would but pit us on trial. I promise, in the name of all in the
glen--ye're a' hearing me?--that, though it should take our haill
substance, we'll pay the siller just and faithfully, as we have aye
dune, if we only can bide upon our ain land."
"You own land!" echoed Fitzherbert. "Fellow! the land is Lord
Gillravidge's."
Big Duncan Macalpine's honest face flushed deeply.
"I am nae fellow, Sir; and the land belangs to us by an aulder tenure
than can give it to ony foreign lord. We are clansmen of the Laird's.
Langsyne our chief sold our land further north--instead of it we got
this glen. I say, Sir, that the land is ours.--We were born and bred in
it; our fathers fought for it langsyne. We hold it on an auld
tenure--aulder than ony lordship in thae pairts. Our forebears were
content to follow their chief when he threw his ain hills into the hands
of strangers. We got this instead of our auld inheritance. I say, Sir,
that the land is ours--that no man has a right to take it from us. Mr.
Whittret, ye're a lawyer--am I no speaking true?"
"Bah! You're a cheat!" exclaimed Fitzherbert.
Big Duncan's muscular arm shook nervously. He restrained himself with an
effort. Not so his vehement sister Jean.
"Wha daurs say sic a name to Duncan Macalpine? Wha daurs disbelieve his
word, standing in Oranmore? A feckless, ill-favored fuil, wi' as muckle
hair about the filthy face o' him as wad hang him up in a tree, as the
prodigal Absalom hung langsyne.--A cheat! If Big Duncan Macalpine wasna
caring mair for his folk and name than for himsel, ye wad hae been
spinning through the air afore now, in your road to the low country, ye
ill-tongued loon!"
"Whisht, Jean!--whisht!" said her brother. "What needs we heed ill word?
We're langer kent it in Oranside than the gentleman."
Duncan drew himself up in proud dignity. The puny "gentleman"--a thing
of yesterday--was insignificant in the presence of the cottar of
Oranmore--a true heritor of the soil.
"You do not mean, gentleman," said Mr. Lumsden,--"I trust you do not
mean to take any extreme proceedings. I rejoice to be able to give my
testimony to the sterling honor and integrity of Duncan Macalpine and
his kinsmen of Oranmore. Lord Gillravidge cannot have better, or more
honorable tenants. I entreat--I beg that time may be given them to make
a representation of their case to his Lordship. He is new to the
country, and may not know that these men are not ordinary tenants--that
they have, as they truly say, a right to the soil. Mr. Whittret, you
cannot refuse them your influence with Lord Gillravidge--you know their
peculiar claim?"
"They might have a claim upon Mr. Sutherland," said the agent, gloomily.
"They can have none upon Lord Gillravidge."
"Lord Gillravidge is bound to preserve ancient rights," exclaimed Mr.
Lumsden. "It is not possible he can know the circumstances. These men
are not ordinary cottars, Mr. Whittret--you understand their position.
For pity's sake do not drive them to extremity!"
"It cannot be helped," said Mr. Whittret, bending his dark brows, and
shunning the clear eye of the minister: "I must adhere to my
instructions, Sir. These hill-lands are already let to a stock-farmer. I
must proceed."
"There can be no need for haste, at least," said Mr. Lumsden. "The new
tenant cannot enter till Whit-Sunday. Let the Macalpines stay--let them
remain until the term."
Mr. Whittret lifted his eyes in furtive malice, with a glance of that
suspicious cunning which perpetually fancies it is finding others out.
"And have Lord Gillravidge called a tyrant and oppressor for removing
the people after their seed is sown? You are very good, Mr. Lumsden--we
know how clerical gentlemen can speak. We shall take our own plan.
Simpson, begin your work."
A detached cottage, the furthest out of the group, stood close upon the
Oran--the narrow streamlet, a mere mountain burn so near its source, was
spanned there by white stepping-stones. A woman in a widow's cap stood
at the cottage-door, looking out with a silent want of wonder, which
told plainly enough that some mightier interest prevented her from
sharing in the excitement of her neighbors. The men approached the
house, and after summoning her to leave it instantly, a summons which
the poor woman heard in vacant astonishment, immediately prepared to
unroof her humble habitation. The crowd of Macalpines had been looking
on in breathless silence. Now there was a wild shriek of excitement and
fury--men and women precipitated themselves at once upon the minions of
that ruthless law which was not justice.--The ladder was thrown down;
the hapless officer who had been the first to mount it, struggled in the
hands of two strong young men; and Jean Macalpine, a tall athletic
woman, stood before the terrified widow in the doorway, another officer
prostrate at her feet. Mr. Fitzherbert and Whittret rushed
forward--their satellites formed themselves together for resistance--the
Macalpines furiously surrounded the cottage--there promised to be a
general melee. But loud above the noise and tumult sounded the united
voices of Big Duncan, and his minister.
"Jean Macalpine," shouted the chief of Oranmore, "come out from among
this senseless fray. Dugald Macalpine, quit the man: why will ye pollute
your hands striving with him? Donald Roy, let go your hold. Gentlemen,
gentlemen, haud your hands, and hear me."
There was a momentary truce.
"Beware!" said Mr. Lumsden. "Within that house lies an invalid--if you
expose that sinking lad, you will have a death to answer for. I tell
you, beware!"
"Gentlemen," said Big Duncan Macalpine, "yon house is mine. I protest,
in the name of my people, that ye are doing an unrighteous and unlawful
thing. I beg ye, as ye are Christian men, that ken what hames are, to
let us bide in our ain glen and country.--In honor, and honesty, and
leal service we will pay ye for your mercy; but if ye are determined to
carry on this work, unrighteous as it is in the sight of God and man,
begin yonder--take my house. I was born in it--I thocht to die in
it--begin with my house; but if ye would escape a curse and desolation,
leave the hame of the widow."
There was a pause--the invading party were in a dilemma.--The very
officials were moved by the manly disinterestedness of Big Duncan
Macalpine. He himself strode to the side of the lads who had pulled the
man from the ladder, and freed him from their grasp: then he gathered
the Macalpines together, spoke a word of comfort to the widow, and
placing himself by the door of her cottage, looked calmly towards his
own house and waited.
Mr. Whittret stood undecided. Fitzherbert was furious. He had already
issued his orders to the men to proceed, when his arm was grasped from
behind. He turned round--the Honorable Giles Sympelton was at his elbow,
his simple youthful face quivering with emotion.
"Fitz, Fitz," cried the lad, "stop this--I cannot bear it. I wll' not
see it; if you destroy that noble fellow's house I will never enter
Gillravidge's again. Take care what you do--they are better men than
we."
Mr. Whittret looked up. Mr. Lumsden had his note-book in his hand, and
was writing. The mean soul of the agent writhed within him. That Mr.
Lumsden was writing an exposure of his conduct he never doubted; he
would be covered with infamy and shame; at least it should not be
without cause. "Simpson," he cried, "take the fellow at his
word--proceed with your work."
Vain evil-thinking of the evil-doer! Mr. Lumsden, in fear of the
compulsory removal of the invalid, was writing to his sister to send up
a chase immediately from Portoran, and in a moment after, had despatched
the most ungovernable of the lads to carry his note to the Manse.
Duncan Macalpine stood looking calmly at his cottage. His sister Jean,
following his heroic example, had hurried into it, and now returned,
leading a feeble woman of seventy--their mother. Duncan's wife stood
beside her husband; two of his little boys lingered in childish wonder
by the cottage door. The men began their odious work--the straw bands
were cut, the heather thatch thrown in pieces on the ground. The
children looked on at first in half-amused astonishment. They saw their
home laid open to the sky with all its homely accommodations--their own
little bed, their grandmother's chair by the fire, the basket of
oatcakes on the table from which their "eleven-hours piece" had been
supplied. The eldest of them suddenly rushed forward in childish rage
and vehemence, and springing upon the ladder, dealt a fruitless blow at
one of the devastators. He was thrown off--a piece of the thatch struck
upon his head--the child uttered a sharp cry and fell. His mother flew
out from among the crowd. The Macalpines were shaken as with a wind, and
with various cries of rage and grief were pressing forward again. Again
Big Duncan stayed them. "Fuils that ye are, would ye lose your guid fame
with your hames? would ye throw everything away? Be still I tell you.
Can I no guard my ain bairn mysel?"
The wave fell back: muttering in painful anger, the Macalpines obeyed
the king-man among them, and restrained themselves. Big Duncan in his
stern patience went forward. Before him, however, was a slight boyish
figure, with uncovered head and long fair hair--the child was lifted in
the youth's arms, "I will carry him--good woman, come with me--come away
from this place. It is not right you should see it--come away."
"I thank ye, young gentleman," said Big Duncan: "it becomes a young
heart to shrink from the like of this, but we maun stay. Neither my wife
nor me can leave the glen till we leave it with our haill people."
Giles Sympelton hurried on to the widow's cottage with the boy. The
child was not much hurt--he was only stunned; and attended by his mother
and aunt, he was taken into the house. Sympelton placed himself in front
of the Macalpines by Mr. Lumsden's side.
The destruction went on--you could trace its progress by the agonized
looks of these watching people. Now a sharp, sudden cry from some
distressed mother, that bore witness the destroyers were throwing down
the roof under which her little ones had been born. Now a long, low
groan told the father's agony. The young men were shutting out the sight
with their hands--they could not school themselves to patience; the
little children, clinging about their feet, kept up a plaintive cry of
shrill dismay and wonder, the chorus of that heart-breaking scene. House
after house, un-windowed, roofless, and doorless, stood in mute
desolation behind the hirelings of the unjust law, as their work went
on. At last it was completed, and they approached the widow's cottage
again. There was an instant forgetfulness of individual suffering.
Closely, side by side, the Macalpines surrounded the house of the widow.
These strong men were dangerous opponents--even these excited women
might be formidable to meet at such a time. The officers held back.
"I implore--I beseech!" cried Mr. Lumsden, "spare this house! Leave the
sick youth within to die in peace. Leave us this one asylum for the aged
and the feeble. If ye are men, spare the widow--spare the boy!"
"Fitz!" cried Giles Sympelton, in a tone of indignant appeal.
Mr. Whittret was enraged and furious.
"Lose no time, Simpson!" he cried. "It is three o'clock already. Make
haste and finish!"
Big Duncan Macalpine stood undecided.
"It's a life!" he muttered. "It's lawful to defend a life, at any risk
or hazard! Sir--Mr. Lumsden--what will we do?"
Mr. Lumsden made another appeal. It was useless. More peremptorily still
the agent ordered the men to proceed.
"Duncan," said Mr. Lumsden, "for the sake of the Gospel you profess, and
for your own sake, let there be no resistance! Lift the boy out--protect
him as you best can; we must leave the issue in God's hands. Brethren,
give way to the officers. You can only bring further evil on yourselves.
You cannot deliver the widow. Sirs, stand back till we are ready--we
will give you space for your work then. The consequences be upon your
own heads!"
The minister entered the cottage, and passed through among the
patriarchs of the sorrowful community, who were sheltering from the
chill March wind, under the only remaining roof in the glen. In a moment
after he reappeared, bearing the sick lad, a helpless burden, in his
strong arms. A cry rose from the women--the men clenched their fingers,
and gnashed their teeth. The sharp, pale face raised itself above Mr.
Lumsden's arm--the feeble invalid was strong with excitement.
"Be quiet, oh! be quiet--dinna do ill for my sake!"
"And now," cried Big Duncan, "I bid ye to my house--all of ye that are
Macalpines. Leave the birds of prey to their work--come with me!"
The people obeyed. They formed themselves into a solemn procession: the
tremulous old man, whose years outnumbered a century, leaning upon two
stalwart grandsons; the aged woman, Duncan Macalpine's mother, supported
on her son's arm; strong men restraining by force which shook their
vigorous frames the natural impulse to resistance; mothers, with
compressed lips, shutting in the agony of their hearts--the train of
weeping, bewildered children! The March wind swept keen and biting over
them as they passed by their own desolate houses in stern silence, and
assembled again, further up the glen. The work was accomplished. The
last cottage in Oranmore was dismantled and roofless. The Macalpines
were without a home!