"O! the auld hoose, the auld hoose,
Deserted though you be,
There ne'er can be a new hoose
Seem half sae dear to me."
Lady Nairne.
"Beside a weird-like Arctic bay,
Where wild and angry billows play,
And seldom meet the night and day."
Symington.
Scene One: A cottage not far from St. Abb's Head, a garden before the
door, and a porch, around which summer roses and honeysuckle are
entwined. The occupants are three. They are out of doors now, seated
on the lawn which stretches down to the shingly beach on which the waves
are lisping and rippling.
Captain Lyle (_speaks_). "Well, Ethel dear, and you, Effie, you are
both very silent. Are you breaking your hearts because we have had to
give up Grayling House for a time, and come to live in this tiny cottage
by the sea?"
_Mrs Lyle_, looking up from her sewing, and smiling kindly but somewhat
sadly: "No, Arnold, I was thinking about our dear boy."
_Effie_, dropping her book in her lap. "So was I, mother. I was
thinking of Leonard and--and poor Douglas. It is now the second summer
since they went away. It is wearing through, too. See how the roses
fall and scatter their petals when you touch them. Oh! do you think,
papa, they will ever, ever come again?"
_Captain Lyle_, smiling. "Yes, love, I do. Here, come and sit by me.
That is right. Now you know the country they went away to is a very,
very strange one."
_Effie_. "A very, very terrible one."
_Captain Lyle_. "No, I think not, dear, else those who have been there
would not always wish to return to it. It is wild and lonely, and
silent and cold, Effie, and there are no letter-carriers about, you
know, not even a pigeon-post, so Leonard can't very well write. The
fact is, they've got frozen in, and it may be even another summer yet
before we see them."
_Effie_. "Another summer? Oh, papa!"
_Captain Lyle_. "Yes, dear, because he and honest Douglas are in the
regions of thick-ribbed ice, you know; and once it embraces a ship, it
is difficult to get clear. But cheer up, lass; I _won't_ have you
fretting, there! Now, promise me you--ha! here comes dear old Fitzroy,
swinging away on his wooden leg. Good-afternoon, my friend; there is
need of you here. My wife and daughter are doing nothing but fretting."
_Captain Fitzroy_. "Oh! come, Effie, come, Mrs Lyle. Look at me; _I_
don't fret. The boys will return as sure as the sun will rise
to-morrow."
_Effie_, smiling through her tears. "Thank you, Captain; you always
give us hope."
_Captain Fitzroy_. "And I suppose you mourn because you've had to leave
bonnie Glen Lyle--eh!"
_Mrs Lyle_. "Oh yes. We dearly love the old house."
_Captain Fitzroy_. "Well, then, let me prophesy. First, the boys will
return safe and sound, red and rosy; secondly, you'll get over your
difficulties, and return to Glen Lyle; thirdly, we'll live together
happy ever afterwards."
Effie laughs now in spite of herself, for the old Captain always looks
so cheery and so comical.
_Captain Lyle_. "Hear that, darling! Now, bustle about, Effie, and get
us some nice brown tea and brown toast, while we sit here and chat."
_Captain Fitzroy_, looking seaward. The ocean is a sheet of blue, with
patches of green here and there, where cloud shadows fall, and sails
like sea-birds far away towards the horizon.
"What a heavenly day, to be sure! Why, there is health in every breath
one inhales on this delightful coast. Don't you feel cosy now and happy
in this sweet little cottage? Nothing to do. Nothing to think about
except the absent ones. No care, no worry except that of making war
upon the weeds in your little garden. I declare to you, Lyle, my lad, I
consider such a life as you now lead in a manner quite idyllic."
_Lyle_, looking thoughtfully for a moment or two on the ground, then up
at his friend's cheerful face.
"One of the chief pleasures of my present existence, dear Fitzroy, lies
in the fact that I have you for a neighbour. But to tell you the truth,
I do feel happier since I let the lauds of Glen Lyle and got rid of an
incubus. I feel, and know now, I am retrenching, and that in a few
years I shall recover myself."
_Fitzroy_. "And don't you think you ought to have let the house as
well?"
_Lyle_. "No, no, no; I could not bear to think of a footstep crossing
my father's hall. Old Peter will see to the gardens with the help of a
lad, and the ancient cook, who is indeed one of the family, and whom I
could not have dismissed, will keep on peat fires enough to defy the
damp."
_Fitzroy_. "And how does your little gipsy lass Zella suit as a
housekeeper?"
_Lyle_. "Excellently well. There she comes with the tea; judge for
yourself."
Zella, tall, handsome, and neatly attired, comes upon the scene to place
a little table near the two friends and lay the tea. What a change from
the wild waif! We last saw her springing up at the end of the Gothic
bridge, and startling the horse of Bland's emissary. She is still a
gipsy, but a very civilised one.
_Captain Lyle_. "I am expecting old Peter every minute."
_Fitzroy_. "Talk of angels, and they appear. Lo! yonder comes your
Peter, or your Peter's ghost."
Old Peter opens the gate at the sea-beach as he speaks, and comes slowly
up the walk.
_Lyle_. "Come away, Peter. Why, you pant. Sit down and have a cup of
tea. How goes all at the dear old house?"
_Peter_, smoothing the head of Ossian the old deerhound, who has arisen
from his corner to bid him welcome. "Bravely, sir, bravely and well.
But would you believe it, though it's no a month since you left, they
will have it that the hoose is haunted? Heard you ever the like?"
_Lyle_. "No, Peter, it is strange."
_Peter_. "And they will have it, sir, that the pike wasna canny, and
they say that, dead though he be, his ghost still haunts the auld loch."
_Fitzroy_, laughing. "The ghost of a pike, Peter? Well, well, well; we
live to learn."
_Peter_. "And what for no, sir?"
_Fitzroy_. "Did you bury him, Peter?"
_Peter_. "No, sir, no, on land. I put him cannily back into the loch
again. He lay on his side for a whole day, then sank to the bottom
afore ma ain een. Dead as a door nail."
_Fitzroy_. "I doubt it, Peter."
_Peter_. "Sir?"
_Fitzroy_. "Nothing, Peter, nothing. By the way, Lyle, how came this
uncanny fish, that seems so strangely connected with the fortunes of
Glen Lyle, into your possession."
_Lyle_. "Peter can tell you better than I. He is old, and remembers."
_Peter_. "When the auld laird lived, nane kenned o' the whereabouts o'
that bonnie fish except himsel' and me and the gipsy Faas. They
gipsies, sir, were part and parcel o' the estate; they would have died
for the auld laird, or for ony o' his folk or kin. Goodness only kens
how auld the fish was himsel'. He was, they say, as big as a grilse
when first ta'en in the Tweed and brought up to the river that runs
through bonnie Glen Lyle. And woe is me, they tell me that was an awfu'
day, for bonnie Prince Charlie was in full retreat from England. He
stayed and slept a night at Glen Lyle, and next week but one the
foremost o' Cumberland's rievers were there. The old Lyles were out.
They were wi' Charlie, but not a thing living, my father told me, did
they leave about the place, and they would have fired the hoose itself
had they not been obleeged to hurry on, for Charlie's men were ahead.
But things settled down after that; Cumberland's rievers were quieter
coming back. The beasts they were killed or gone, so they left the auld
hoose of Glen Lyle alone. The laird was pardoned, and peace and plenty
reigned ance mair in the land.
"Time flew on, sirs. The auld laird was fond o' fishing. There were
poachers in plenty in those days, and the laird was kind to them. Let
them only leave his '45 pike alane, and they might take a' the trouts in
the stream. But in later times, when the auld laird got aulder still,
cockneys came, and they were no sae particular, and one day an English
body hooked and brought the pike on shore. He had the gaff raised to
hit him on the head, when all of a sudden the gaff was knocked out of
his hand, and he found himsel' just where the pike had come frae,
wallowin' in the middle o' the pot. [A large pool in a river is so
called in Scotland.]
"That same nicht, lang past, the shortest hour o't, when everybody was
fast asleep but mysel', two o' the Faas came to the auld hoose. They
had the half-dead fish, with the bonnie gowden band around his tail, in
a pot. And together we went to the loch and ploupit him in. The owlets
were cryin' and the branches o' the pine trees creakin' in the wind, and
if I live to be as auld as Methuselah, I'm no likely to forget that
eerie-some nicht. But, heigho! Joe is dead and awa', and the hoose o'
Glen Lyle is tottering near its fall. Wae's me that I should hae lived
to see the like!"
_Captain Fitzroy_. "Drink that China tea, Peter, and things will look
far more cheerful."
Long before the major's departure things do look more cheerful.
Ethel, hope in her heart now, has brought out her harp, and is bending
over it while she sings a plaintive old Scotch ballad, while the rest
sit listening round. The setting sun is throwing tall rock shadows over
the blue sea. The waves seem to form a drowsy accompaniment to the
harp's wild notes, and the sea-birds are shrieking their good-night
song. Let us leave them, and hie us away to the far north and west.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scene Two: Summer in the Arctic seas. A little Indian village to the
north of Cumberland Gulf. Yet not all Indian, for then; are houses here
now as well as Eskimo huts, and white men are moving about busy at work,
in company with the little brown-skinned, skin-clad natives.
Had the shipwrecked crew of the _Fairy Queen_ landed on the south side
of the Cumberland Gulf or Sound, it is probable they would have made an
attempt to find their way through Labrador to some English or other
foreign settlement. But this gulf is a sea in itself, and they had no
boats, while the kayaks of the natives were far too frail, even if they
had been numerous enough, to be of much use.
They had to be content, therefore, to remain prisoners where they were
until the long night of winter set in.
They were not idle. Indeed, the life they now led was far from
unpleasant while summer lasted. It was a very wild one. There were
deer and game on the hills, and every stream teemed with fish, to say
nothing of the strange creations that inhabited the sea-shore.
Among other things saved from the wreck of the _Fairy Queen_, and safely
landed by Captain Blunt's party, were guns and a goodly store of
ammunition, which they had managed to keep dry.
What with fishing and hunting, manufacturing sledges and training the
dogs, the time fled very quickly indeed.
The days flew quickly by, and autumn came; then they got shorter and
shorter, till at length the sun showed his face for the last time, and
after this all was night.
In a month more everything was ready for the journey south.
So memorable a march, too, has seldom been made. Some of my readers may
ask why they chose the winter season for their departure. For this
reason: they could go straight along the coast, winding only round the
mountains. In summer the gulfs and streams would have formed an
insurmountable barrier, but now these were hard as adamant.
All being ready, and the friendly Indians accompanying them to the
number of twenty or more, to act as guides and see to the care of the
dogs, they left the Esquimo village about the end of October, and were
soon far away on the silent, lonely midst of the Cumberland Gulf.
Luckily Captain Blunt had saved his compass, else even the almost
unerring instinct of the natives would have failed to steer them across
the ice. Had it been clear weather all the time the stars would have
been sufficient to keep them right, but storms came on long before they
had got over the gulf. And such storms! Nothing in this country could
ever equal them in fury and confusion. Not the wildest winter's day
that ever raged among the lone Grampian Hills could be compared to them.
The winds seem to meet and unite in and from all directions. The snow
filled the air. It did not only fall; it rose, and the darkness was
intense. To proceed in the face of such terrible weather was of course
impossible. Dogs and men huddled together in the lee of an iceberg; it
was found at times almost impossible to breathe.
They encountered more than one of these fearful storms; but at last the
sky cleared, the stars and the radiant aurora-bow danced and flickered
in the air above them, and after a week of toil they had crossed the
gulf, and stood on _terra firma_ on the shores of Labrador.
But their trials were only beginning. They found they could not make so
straight a way as they had at first imagined, owing to the mountains and
rough state of the country.
These men, however, were British--their hearts were hearts of oak--so
they struggled on and on, happy, when each day was over, to think they
were a step nearer their native land. The dogs were staunch and true,
and the natives simple, honest, and kind.
To recount all the hardships of this journey, which occupied in all four
long months, would take a volume in itself. Let me give a brief sketch
of just _One Day's March_.
They are well down in the middle of Labrador. Hardened as Leonard and
Douglas now are, and almost as much inured to the cold as the Indian
guides themselves, the bitterness of the night just gone has almost
killed them.
All the camp, however, is astir hours before the stars have given place
to the glaring light of a short, crisp winter's day. Dogs are barking
and howling for their breakfast, and the men are busy preparing their
own and that of their officers. It is indeed a meagre one--sun-dried
fish and meat, with snow to eat instead of tea or coffee, that is all.
But they have appetites; it is enough, and they are thankful.
Then sledges are got ready, and the dogs having been fed and harnessed,
Captain Blunt and his young friends put on their snowshoes, and all in
camp follow his example.
Then the start is made. The pace is slow, though the dogs would go more
quickly if allowed. Their path winds through a rough and broken glen at
first, and at sunrise scouts are sent on ahead to spy out the land from
a mountain top. They can see but little, however; only hill piled o'er
hill and crag o'er crag.
They cross a wild frozen stream, and at sunrise rejoice to find
themselves on the borders of a broad lake. It will be all plain sailing
now for some hours to come.
But, alas! the wind gets up, and there is no shelter of any kind here.
On a calm day one can walk and keep warm with the thermometer far below
zero. But with a cutting wind the cold and the suffering are a terrible
punishment.
The wind blows higher and higher. It tears across the frozen lake--a
bitter, biting, cutting blast; there is hardly any facing it. Even dogs
and Indians bend their heads downwards, and present their shoulders to
the wind.
The skin garments of the Esquimos, the coats of the dogs, and beards and
hair of the sailors are massed and lumped with frozen snow, and cheeks
and ears are coated with ice as if they had been glazed.
Struggling on thus for hours, they cross the lake at last, and gain the
shelter of a pine wood. Here wood is gathered, and after much ado a
fire is lighted. They dare only look at it at first, for well they know
the danger that would accrue from going too near it. But this in itself
is something, so they begin to talk, and even to laugh, though the laugh
hangs fire on their frozen lips, and sounds half idiotic.
On again, keeping more into shelter; and so on and on all the day, till,
despite all dangers and difficulties, they have put fifteen miles
betwixt them and the camp-fire of the previous evening.
They find themselves in the shelter of some ice-clad rocks at last, with
ice-clad pine trees nodding over them, and here determine to bivouac for
the night.
The wind has gone down. The sun is setting--a glorious sunset it is--
amidst clouds of crimson, gold, and copper.
How delightful is this supper of dried fish and broiled deer now! They
almost feel as if they had dined off roast beef and plum pudding. So
beds are prepared with boughs and blankets and skins, a prayer is said,
a hymn is sung, and soon our heroes forget the weary day's journey,
their aching, blistered feet, and stiff and painful joints.
Ah! but the cold--the cold! No, they cannot forget that. They are
conscious of it all the night, and awake in the morning stiffer almost
than when they lay down.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
During all their long and toilsome march our heroes never saw a single
bear nor met a hostile Indian. But the country now, I am told, is
peopled by nomadic tribes.
Civilisation at long, long last. Only a little fisher village, but men
dwell there who speak the English tongue, and a right hearty welcome do
they accord to the wanderers.
Book 2--CHAPTER SEVEN.