There is probably no music in the world more spirit-stirring--when heard
amongst the native hills--than that of the Highland bagpipe. How often
it has led our Scottish troops to victory, and cheered their drooping
hearts in times of trouble, let history tell. In the London streets the
sound of the pipes may be something vastly different, and then the
pipers get undue blame.
The little party who left the Castle of Arrandoon to go in search of
Ralph and Rory did well to have Peter and his bagpipes included in their
number, for, so long as they were within hearing distance of the castle,
the music would give hope to those left behind; and when beyond that, it
would not only serve to while away the time of the searchers, but even
in the darkness it might perchance be heard by the sought.
The road they had taken led upwards through the pine forest for more
than a mile, and even when it left the wood it still ascended, until it
at last joined the old highway to Inverness. This was quite high up
among the mountains--so high, indeed, that even the most distant peaks
were visible on the other side of the lake.
"Surely," said McBain, "we shall meet your friends ere long."
"I fear the very worst," said Allan, gloomily, "for, had they not left
the road for some purpose or another, they would have reached the glen
long before this time. Rory would have his sketch-book, and both of
them are fond of wild scenery."
"Wild scenery indeed!" said McBain; "they needn't leave the road to
search for that."
His words were surely true, for a grander scene than that around them it
would be difficult to imagine.
It was a toilsome road they had to trace though, for the untrodden snow
lay a good foot deep on the path, and, albeit they cast many a longing
look ahead, they had but little time and little heart to look around to
admire the scenery. And the snow was dry and treacherous. It lay
lightly on the brae-sides, and on the bending heather stems, apparently
awaiting only the breath of the storm to raise it into clouds of
whirling drift, and drive it into deep and impassable wreaths.
For more than an hour they trudged onwards without catching sight or
hearing sound of life, whether of man, or bird, or beast. The wind,
too, was beginning to rise, a few flakes of snow had begun to fall, and
night and darkness were already settling down in the hollows and glens,
and only on the hilltops did daylight remain.
At last they came to a shepherd's hut, and McBain knocked loudly at the
door.
"Are you in, Donald? Are you in?" he cried.
"To be surely I'm in," said a tall, plaided Highlander, opening the
little door; "to be surely I'm in, Mr McBain, and where else is it I'd
be, I wonder, in such a night as it soon will be?"
"Have you been abroad to-day, Donald?" asked Allan.
"Abroad? Yes, looking after the sheepies, to be surely."
"Have you seen or met any one?"
"Yes, yes; two English bodies, to be surely. One would be sitting on a
stone, making a picture, and the other would be looking over his
shoulder, as it were. Och! Yes, to be surely."
"Would you go with us, Donald?" asked Allan, "and show us the spot where
you saw them."
"Would I go with you? Is it that you are asking me?" cried Donald; "and
what for do you ask me? Why didn't you tell us to go? Didn't my poor
brother go with your father? ay, and die by his side. Yes, Donald will
go with you to the end of the world if you'll want him. Wait till I get
my crook; to be surely I'll go."
Donald disappeared as he spoke, but after about a minute he joined our
friends, and they journeyed on together.
"It will be an awful night, to be surely," said Donald, "and troth, it
is more than likely the two English bodies are dead, or drowned, or
frozen by this time. An' och! it's a blessing they are only English
bodies."
Such a speech as this did not tend to reassure young Allan. In very
truth it almost quenched the hopes that were beginning to rise in his
heart.
Donald was now their guide, and they were not surprised to observe that
before very long he deserted the main road entirely, for a steep and
craggy path that led downwards towards the distant lake. Along this
narrow footway Donald bounded along with almost the speed of a red deer.
Nor were Allan and his trusty companions slow to follow, for all felt
how precious were the few minutes of daylight that were left to them.
And now the shepherd stops, removes his cap, and, passing his fingers
through his hair in a puzzled kind of manner, stares around him in some
surprise.
"Yes, yes," he says at last; "this is the place, to be surely, but I
don't see a sign of the English bodies whatsomever."
But if _he_ does not, Allan McGregor, quicker of eye, does. He springs
lightly forward, and picks something up that lies half-buried among the
snow.
"It is Rory's sketch-book," he says, "Alas! poor Rory."
But what is that mournful wail that now rises up towards them,
apparently from the very bosom of the dark lake itself?
"It's the boddach of Drontheim," falters the shepherd, trembling like an
aspen leaf. "It's the boddach, to be surely, och! and och! What will
become of us whatsomever?"
"Silence, Donald, silence?" cries McBain, as the strange sound falls
once more on their listening ears. "Where is Oscar? Not here? Why, it
is he! Come, men! Come, Allan, for, dead or alive, your friends are
down yonder."
They follow the footprints of the noble dog, although they are hardly
visible, but Kooran, the collie, takes up the scent and does excellent
service. So down the steep and craggy hill they rush, often stumbling,
sometimes falling, but still going bravely on, and cheering Oscar with
their voices as they run. At the foot at last, and on level ground,
they hasten forward, welcomed by the Saint Bernard to a spot where lie
two inanimate human forms, partly hidden by the lightly drifting snow.
Dead? No, thank Heaven! they are not dead, and what joy for Allan
McGregor, when stalwart Ralph sits up, rubs his eyes, and gazes vacantly
and wildly around him.
"Drink," says McBain, holding a flask to his lips. The young Englishman
swallows a mouthful almost mechanically, then staggers to his feet Allan
and McBain steady him by the arms till he comes a little more to
himself.
"Ralph, old fellow," says Allan, "don't you know me?"
"Yes, yes," he mutters, hardly yet sensible of his surroundings, "I
remember all now. Rory--the cliff--I could not raise him--sleep stole
my senses away. But we are saved, are we not, and by you, good Allan,
and by you strangers? But see to Rory, see to Rory."
McBain was chafing Rory's hands, and rubbing his half-frozen limbs.
"No," he said, "not saved by us. You have Providence to thank, and
yonder brave dog. Had he not found you, the sleep that had overcome you
would have been your last."
It was a long time, and it seemed doubly long to Allan and Ralph, ere
Rory showed the slightest signs of returning life. At length, however,
the blood began to trickle slowly from a wound he had received in the
forehead in his fall over the cliff, and next moment he sighed deeply,
then opened his eyes.
"God be praised?" said McBain, fervently; "and now, my friends, let us
carry him."
This was very easily done, for Rory was a light weight. So with Donald
in front, and the dogs capering and barking all around them, the party
commenced the ascent, and half-an-hour afterwards they were safe at the
shepherd's hut. And none too soon, for night was now over all the land,
and the snow fell thick and fast.
Rory was laid upon the shepherd's dais, and Allan and Donald proposed
moving it close to the fire. But McBain knew better.
"No, no, no!" he cried, "leave him where he is. Never take a frozen man
near the fire. I learned that at Spitzbergen. He has young blood in
his veins, and will soon come round."
But Rory, for a time, lay quiet enough. He was very white too, and but
for his regular and uninterrupted breathing, and the tinge of red in his
lips, one might have thought him dead.
"Poor little Rory!" said Allan, smoothing his dark hair from off his
brow. "How cold his forehead is!"
Very simple words these were, yet there was something in the very tone
in which they were uttered that would have convinced even a stranger,
that Allan McGregor bore for the youth before him quite a brother's
love.
And who was Rory, and who was Ralph? These questions are very soon
answered. Roderick Elphinston and Ralph Leigh were, or had been,
students at the University of Cambridge. They had been "inseparables"
all through the curriculum, and firm friends from the very first day
they had met together. And yet in appearance, and indeed in character,
they were entirely different. Ralph was a great broad-shouldered,
pleasant-faced young Saxon Rory was small as to stature, but lithe and
wiry in the extreme; his face was always somewhat pale, but his eyes had
all the glitter and fire of a wild cat in them. Well, then, if you do
not like the "wild cat," I shall say "poet"--the glitter and fire of a
poet. And a poet he was, though he seldom wrote verses. Oh! it is not
always the verses one writes that prove him to be a poet. Very often it
is just the reverse. I know a young man who has written more verses
than would stretch from Reading to Hyde Park, and there is just as much
poetry in that young man's soul as there is in the flagstaff on my lawn
yonder. But Rory's soul was filled with life and imagination, a
gladsome glowing life that could not be restrained, but that burst
upwards like a fountain in the sunlight, giving joy to all around.
Everything in nature was understood and loved by Rory, and everything in
nature seemed to love him in return; the birds and beasts made a
confidant of him, and the very trees and the tenderest flowerets in
garden or field seemed to whisper to him and tell him all their secrets.
And just because he was so full of life he was also full of fun.
When silent and thinking, this young Irishman's face was placid, and
even somewhat melancholy in expression, but it lighted up when he spoke,
and it was wonderfully quick in its changes from grave to gay, or gay to
grave. It was like a rippling summer sea with cloud-shadows chasing
each other all over it. Like most of his countrymen, Rory was brave
even to a fault. Well, then, there you have his description in a few
words, and if you will not let me call him poet, I really do not know
what else to call him.
Ralph Leigh I must dismiss with a word. But, in a word, he was in my
opinion everything that a young English gentleman should be; he was
straightforward, bold and manly, and though very far from being as
clever as Rory, he loved Rory for possessing the qualities he himself
was deficient in. Thoroughly guileless was honest Ralph, and indeed, if
the truth must be told, he was not a little proud of his companion, and
he was never better pleased than when, along with Rory in the company of
others, the Irishman was what Ralph called "in fine form."
At such times Ralph would not have interrupted the flow of Rory's wit
for the world, but the quiet and happy glance he would give round the
room occasionally, to see if other people were listening to and fully
appreciating his adopted brother, spoke volumes.
McBain was right. The young blood in Rory's veins soon reasserted
itself, and after half-an-hour's rest he seemed as well as ever. His
first action on awaking was to put his hand to his brow, and his first
words were,--
"What is it at all, and where am I? Have I been in any trouble?"
"Trouble, Rory?" said Allan, pressing his hand. "Well, you and Ralph
went tumbling over a cliff."
"Only fifty feet of a fall, Rory," said Ralph.
Rory sat bolt upright now, and opened his eyes in astonishment.
"Och! now I remember," he said, "that we had a bit of a fall--But fifty
feet! do you tell me so? Indeed then it's a wonder there is one single
whole bone between the two of us. But where is my sketch-book?"
"Here you are," said Allan.
"Oh!" said Rory, opening the book, "this is worse than all; the
prettiest sketch ever I made in my life all spoiled with the snow."
"Now, boys," continued Rory, after a pause, "I grant you this is a very
romantic situation--everything is romantic bar the smoke; but what are
we waiting for? and is this your Castle of Arrandoon, my friend?"
"Not quite," replied Allan, laughing. "We are waiting for you to
recover, and--"
"Well, sure enough," cried Rory, "I have recovered."
He jumped up as he spoke, kicked out his legs, and stretched out his
arms.
"No; never a broken bone," he said.
Now it had been arranged between Allan and McBain that Rory should ride
in the cart, while they and Ralph should walk.
But Rory was aghast at such a proposal.
"What," he cried; "is it a procession you'd make of me? Would you put
me on straw in the bottom of a cart, like an old wife coming from a
fair?"
"But," persisted Allan, "you must be weak from the loss of blood."
"Loss of blood," laughed Rory, "don't be chaffing a poor boy. If you'd
seen the blood I lost at the last election, and all in the cause of
peace and honour, too! No, indeed; I'll walk."
The storm was at its very worst when they once more emerged from the
pine-wood, but every now and then they could see the light glimmering
from one of the castle turrets, to guide them through the darkness.
They sent the dogs on before to give notice of their approach; then
Peter tuned up, and high above the roaring of the snow rose the scream
of the great Highland bagpipe.
A few hours afterwards, the three friends had all but forgotten their
perilous adventure among the snow, or remembered it only to make merry
over it. It is needless to say that Allan's mother and sister welcomed
his friends, or that Ralph and Rory were charmed with the reception they
received.
"Well," said Rory, after the ladies had retired for the night, "I fully
understand now what your poet Burns meant when he said--
"`In heaven itself I'll ask nae mair Than just a Highland welcome.'"
And now they gathered round the cosy hearth, on which great logs were
blazing. McBain was relegated to an armchair in a corner, being the
oldest Rory, who still felt the effects of his fall, reclined on a couch
in front, with Ralph seated on one side and Allan on the other. Bran,
the deer-hound, thought this too good a chance to be thrown away, so he
got upon the sofa and lay with his great, honest head on Rory's knees,
while Kooran curled himself up on the hearthrug, and Oscar watched the
door.
"Well," said Ralph, "I call this delightful; and the idea of doing the
Highlands in mid-winter is decidedly a new one, and that is saying a
great deal."
"Yes," said Rory, laughing; "and a beautiful taste we've had of it to
begin with. I fall over a cliff in the snow and Ralph comes tumbling
after, just like Jack and Jill, and then we go to sleep like lambs, and
waken with a taste of spirits in our mouths. Indeed yes, boys, it is
romantic entirely."
"Everything now-a-days," said Ralph, with half a yawn, "is so hackneyed,
as it were. You go up the Rhine--that is hackneyed. You go down the
Mediterranean--that is hackneyed. You go here, there, and everywhere,
and you find here, there, and everywhere hackneyed. And if you go into
a drawing-room and begin to speak of where you've been and what you've
done, you soon find that every other fellow has been to the same places,
and done precisely the same things."
"Sure, you're right, Ralph," said Rory; "and I do believe if you were to
go to the moon and come back, some fellow would meet you on your return
and lisp out, `Oh, been to the moon, have you! awfly funny old place the
moon. Did you call on the Looneys when you were there? Jolly family
the Looneys.'"
"There is a kind of metaphorical truth in what you say, Rory," Ralph
replied; "but I say, Allan, wouldn't it be nice to go somewhere where no
one--no white man--had ever been before, or do something never before
accomplished?"
"It would indeed," said Allan; "and I for one always looked upon
Livingstone, and Stanley, and Gordon Cumming, and Cameron, and men like
them, as the luckiest fellows in the world."
"Now," said Ralph, "I'm just nineteen. I've only two years more of what
I call roving life, and if I don't ride across some continent before I'm
twenty-one, or embark at one end of some unknown river and come out into
the sea at the other, I'll never have a chance again."
"Why, how is that?" said McBain.
"Well," replied Ralph, "Sir Walter Leigh, my father, told me straight
that we were as poor as Church mice, and that in order to retrieve our
fortunes, as soon as I came of age I must marry my grandmother."
"Marry your grandmother!" exclaimed McBain, half rising in his chair.
"Well, my cousin, then," said Ralph, smiling; "she is five-and-forty, so
it is all the same. But she has oceans of money, and my old father,
bless him! is very, very good and kind. He doesn't limit me in money
now; though, of course, I don't take advantage of all his generosity.
`Go and travel, my boy,' he said, `and enjoy yourself till you come of
age. Just see all you can and thus have your fling. I know I can trust
you.'"
"Have your fling?" cried Rory; "troth now that is exactly what my Irish
tenants told me to do. `The sorra a morsel av rint have we got to give
you,' says they, `so go and have your fling, but 'deed and indeed, if we
see you here again until times are mended, we'll shoot ye as dead as a
Ballyshannon rabbit.'"
"Well, young gentlemen," said McBain, after a pause in the conversation,
during which nothing was heard except the crackling of the blazing logs
and the mournful moaning of the wind without, "you want to do something
quite new. Well, I've got an idea."
"Oh, do tell us what it is?" cried Ralph and Rory, both in one breath.
"No, no; not to-night," said McBain, laughing; "besides, it wants
working out a bit, so I'm off to bed to dream about it. Good night."
"Depend upon it," said Allan McGregor, as he parted with his friends at
their chamber door, "that whatever it is, McBain's idea is a good one,
and he'll tell us all about it to-morrow. You'll see."