A TERRIBLE RIDE.
I have but to gaze from the window of the tower in which I am writing to
see a whole fieldful of the daftest-looking long-tailed, long-maned ponies
imaginable. These are the celebrated Castle Coila ponies, as full of
mischief, fun, and fire as any British boy could wish, most difficult to
catch, more difficult still to saddle, and requiring all the skill of a
trained equestrian to manage after mounting. As these ponies are to-day,
so they were when I was a boy. The very boys whom I mentioned in the last
chapter would have gone anywhere and done anything rather than attempt to
ride a Coila pony. Not that they ever refused, they were too courageous
for that. But when Gilmore led a pony round, I know it needed all the
pluck they could muster to put foot in stirrup. Flora's advice to them was
not bad.
'There is plenty of room on the moors, boys,' she would say, laughing; and
Flora always brought out the word 'boys' with an air of patronage and
self-superiority that was quite refreshing. 'Plenty of room on the moors,
so you keep the ponies hard at the gallop, till they are quite tired.
Mind, don't let them trot. If you do, they will lie down and tumble.'
Poor Archie Bateman! I shall never forget his first wild scamper over the
moorland. He would persist in riding in his best London clothes, spotless
broad white collar, shining silk hat, gloves, and all. Before mounting he
even bent down to flick a little tiny bit of dust off his boots.
The ponies were fresh that morning. In fact, the word 'fresh' hardly
describes the feeling of buoyancy they gave proof of. For a time it was as
difficult to mount one as it would be for a fly to alight on a top at full
spin. We took them to the paddock, where the grass and moss were soft.
Donald, Dugald, and I held Flora's fiery steed _vi et armis_ till she got
into the saddle.
'Mind to keep them at it, boys,' were her last words, as she flew out and
away through the open gateway. Then we prepared to follow. Donald, Dugald,
and I were used to tumbles, and for five minutes or more we amused
ourselves by getting up only to get off again. But we were not hurt.
Finally we mounted Archie. His brother was not going out that morning, and
I do believe to this day that Archie hoped to curry favour with Flora by a
little display of horsemanship, for he had been talking a deal to her the
evening before of the delights of riding in London.
At all events, if he had meant to create a sensation he succeeded
admirably, though at the expense of a portion of his dignity.
No sooner was he mounted than off he rode. Stay, though, I should rather
say that no sooner did we mount him than off he was carried. That is a way
of putting it which is more in accordance with facts, for we--Donald,
Dugald, and I--mounted him, and the pony did the rest, he, Archie, being
legally speaking _nolens volens_. When my brothers and I emerged at last,
we could just distinguish Flora waiting on the horizon of a braeland, her
figure well thrown out against the sky, her pony curveting round and
round, which was Flora's pet pony's way of keeping still. Away at a
tangent from the proper line of march, Archie on his steed was being
rapidly whirled. As soon as we came within sight of our sister, we
observed her making signs in Archie's direction and concluded to follow.
Having duly signalled her wishes, Flora disappeared over the brow of the
hill. Her intention was, we afterwards found out, to take a cross-cut and
intercept, if possible, the mad career of Archie's Coila steed.
'Hurry up, Donald,' I shouted to my nearest brother; 'that pony is mad. It
is making straight for the cliffs of Craigiemore.'
On we went at furious speed. It was in reality, or appeared to be, a race
for life; but should we win? The terrible cliffs for which Archie's pony
was heading away were perpendicular bluffs that rose from a dark slimy
morass near the lake. Fifty feet high they were at the lowest, and pointed
unmistakably to some terrible convulsion of Nature in ages long gone by.
They looked like hills that had been sawn in half--one half taken, the
other left.
Our ponies were gaining on Archie's. The boy had given his its head, but
it was evident he was now aware of his danger and was trying to rein in.
Trying, but trying in vain. The pony was in command of the situation.
On--on--on they rush. I can feel my heart beating wildly against my ribs
as we all come nigher and nigher to the cliffs. Donald's pony and Dugald's
both overtake me. Their saddles are empty. My brothers have both been
unhorsed. I think not of that, all my attention is bent on the rider
ahead. If he could but turn his pony's head even now, he would be saved.
But no, it is impossible. They are on the cliff. There! they are over it,
and a wild scream of terror seems to rend the skies and turn my blood to
water.
[Illustration: 'Look! He is Over!']
But lo! I, too, am now in danger. My pony has the bit fast between his
teeth. He means to play at an awful game--follow my leader! I feel dizzy;
I have forgotten that I might fling myself off even at the risk of broken
bones. I am close to the cliff--I--hurrah! I am saved! Saved at the very
moment when it seemed nothing could save me, for dear Flora has dashed in
front of me--has cut across my bows, as sailors would say, striking my
pony with all the strength of her arm as she is borne along. Saved, yes,
but both on the ground. I extricate myself and get up. Our ponies are all
panting; they appear now to realize the fearfulness of the danger, and
stand together cowed and quiet. Poor Flora is very pale, and blood is
trickling from a wound in her temple, while her habit is torn and soiled.
We have little time to notice this; we must ride round and look for the
body of poor Archie.
It was a ride of a good mile to reach the cliff foot, but it took us but a
very short time to get round, albeit the road was rough and dangerous. We
had taken our bearings aright, but for a time we could see no signs of
those we had come to seek. But presently with her riding-whip Flora
pointed to a deep black hole in the slimy bog.
'They are there!' she cried; then burst into a flood of tears.
We did the best we could to comfort our little sister, and were all
returning slowly, leading our steeds along the cliff foot, when I stumbled
against something lying behind a tussock of grass.
The something moved and spoke when I bent down. It was poor Archie, who
had escaped from the morass as if by a miracle.
A little stream was near; it trickled in a half-cataract down the cliffs.
Donald and Dugald hurried away to this and brought back Highland
bonnetfuls of water. Then we washed Archie's face and made him drink. How
we rejoiced to see him smile again! I believe the London accent of his
voice was at that moment the sweetest music to Flora she had ever heard in
her life.
'What a pwepostewous tumble I've had! How vewy, _vewy_ stoopid of me to be
wun away with!'
Poor Flora laughed one moment at her cousin and cried the next, so full
was her heart. But presently she proved herself quite a little woman.
'I'll ride on to the castle,' she said, 'and get dry things ready. You'd
better go to bed, Archie, when you come home; you are not like a Highland
boy, you know. Oh, I'm so glad you're alive! But--ha, ha, ha! excuse
me--but you do look _so_ funny!' and away she rode.
We mounted Archie on Dugald's nag and rode straight away to the lake. Here
we tied our ponies to the birch-trees, and, undressing, plunged in for a
swim. When we came out we arranged matters thus: Dugald gave Archie his
shirt, Donald gave him a pair of stockings, and I gave him a cap and my
jacket, which was long enough to reach his knees. We tied the wet things,
after washing the slime off, all in a bundle, and away the procession went
to Coila. Everybody turned out to witness our home-coming. Well, we did
look rather motley, but--Archie was saved.
My own adventures, however, had not ended yet. Neither my brothers nor
Flora cared to go out again that day, so in the afternoon I shouldered my
fishing rod and went off to enjoy a quiet hour's sport.
What took my footsteps towards the stream that made its exit from the
loch, and went meandering down the glen, I never could tell. It was no
favourite stream of mine, for though it contained plenty of trout, it
passed through many woods and dark, gloomy defiles, with here and there a
waterfall, and was on the whole so overhung with branches that there was
difficulty in making a cast. I was far more successful than I expected to
be, however, and the day wore so quickly away that on looking up I was
surprised to find that the sun had set, and I must be quite seven miles
from home. What did that matter? there would be a moon! I had Highland
legs and a Highland heart, and knew all the cross-cuts in the country
side. I would try for that big trout that had just leapt up to catch a
moth. It took me half an hour to hook it. But I did, and after some pretty
play I had the satisfaction of landing a lovely three-pounder. I now
reeled up, put my rod in its canvas case, and prepared to make the best of
my way to the castle.
It was nearly an hour since the sun had gone down like a huge crimson
ball in the west, and now slowly over the hills a veritable facsimile of
it was rising, and soon the stars came out as gloaming gave place to
night, and moonlight flooded all the woods and glen.
The scene around me was lovely, but lonesome in the extreme, for there was
not a house anywhere near, nor a sound to break the stillness except now
and then the eerisome cry of the brown owl that flitted silently past
overhead. Had I been very timid I could have imagined that figures were
creeping here and there in the flickering shadows of the trees, or that
ghosts and bogles had come out to keep me company. My nearest way home
would be to cross a bit of heathery moor and pass by the neglected
graveyard and ruined Catholic chapel; and, worse than all, the ancient
manse where lived old Mawsie.
I never believed that Mawsie was a witch, though others did. She was said
to creep about on moonlight nights like a dry aisk,[1] so people said,
'mooling' among heaps of rubbish and the mounds over the graves as she
gathered herbs to concoct strange mixtures withal. Certainly Mawsie was no
beauty; she walked 'two-fold,' leaning on a crutch; she was gray-bearded,
wrinkled beyond conception; her head was swathed winter and summer in
wraps of flannel, and altogether she looked uncanny. Nevertheless, the
peasant people never hesitated to visit her to beg for herb-tea and oil to
rub their joints. But they always chose the daylight in which to make
their calls.
'Perhaps,' I thought, 'I'd better go round.' Then something whispered to
me, 'What! you a M'Crimman, and confessing to fear!'
That decided me, and I went boldly on. For the life of me, however, I
could not keep from mentally repeating those weird and awful lines in
Burns' 'Tam o' Shanter,' descriptive of the hero's journey homewards on
that unhallowed and awful night when he forgathered with the witches:
'By this time he was 'cross the ford
Whare in the snaw the chapman smo'red;[2]
And past the birks[3] and meikle stane
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And through the furze and by the cairn
Where hunters found the murdered bairn,
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel',
When glimmering through the groaning trees,
Kirk Alloway seemed in a bleeze.'
I almost shuddered as I said to myself, 'What if there be lights
glimmering from the frameless windows of the ruined chapel? or what if old
Mawsie's windows be "in a bleeze"?'
Tall, ghostly-looking elder-trees grew round the old manse, which people
had told me always kept moving, even when no breath of wind was blowing.
If I had shuddered before, my heart stood still now with a nameless dread,
for sure enough, from both the 'butt' and the 'ben' of the so-called
witch's cottage lights were glancing.
What could it mean? She was too old to have company, almost an invalid,
with age alone and its attendant infirmities--so, at least, people said.
But it had also been rumoured lately that Mawsie was up to doings which
were far from canny, that lights had been seen flitting about the old
churchyard and ruin, and that something was sure to happen. Nobody in the
parish could have been found hardy enough to cross the glen-foot where
Mawsie lived long after dark. Well, had I thought of all this before, it
is possible that I might have given her house a wide berth. It was now too
late. I felt like one in a dream, impelled forward towards the cottage. I
seemed to be walking on the air as I advanced.
To get to the windows, however, I must cross the graveyard yard and the
ruin. This last was partly covered with tall rank ivy, and, hearing sounds
inside, and seeing the glimmer of lanterns, I hid in the old porch, quite
shaded by the greenery.
From my concealment I could notice that men were at work in a vault or pit
on the floor of the old chapel, from which earth and rubbish were being
dislodged, while another figure--not that of a workman--was bending over
and addressing them in English. It was evident, therefore, those people
below were not Highlanders, for in the face of the man who spoke I was
able at a glance to distinguish the hard-set lineaments of the villain
Duncan M'Rae. This man had been everything in his time--soldier,
school-teacher, poacher, thief. He was abhorred by his own clan, and
feared by every one. Even the school children, if they met him on the
road, would run back to avoid him.
Duncan had only recently come back to the glen after an absence of years,
and every one said his presence boded no good. I shuddered as I gazed,
almost spellbound, on his evil countenance, rendered doubly ugly in the
uncertain light of the lantern. Suppose he should find me! I crept closer
into my corner now, and tried to draw the ivy round me. I dared not run,
for fear of being seen, for the moonlight was very bright indeed, and
M'Rae held a gun in his hand.
After a time, which appeared to be interminable, I heard Duncan invite the
men into supper, and slowly they clambered up out of the pit, and the
three prepared to leave together.
All might have been well now, for they passed me without even a glance in
my direction; but presently I heard one of the men stumble.
'Hullo!' he said; 'is this basket of fish yours, Mr. Mac?'
'No,' was the answer, with an imprecation that made me quake. 'We are
watched!'
In another moment I was dragged from my place of concealment, and the
light was held up to my face.
'A M'Crimman of Coila, by all that is furious! And so, youngster, you've
come to watch? You know the family feud, don't you? Well, prepare to meet
your doom. You'll never leave here alive.'
He pointed his gun at me as he spoke.
'Hold!' cried one of the men. 'We came from town to do a bit of honest
work, but we will not witness murder.'
'I only wanted to frighten him,' said M'Rae, lowering his gun. 'Look you,
sir,' he continued, addressing me once more, 'I don't want revenge, even
on a M'Crimman of Coila. I'm a poacher; perhaps I'm a distiller in a quiet
way. No matter, you know what an oath is. You'll swear ere you leave here,
not to breathe a word of what you've seen. You hear?'
'I promise I won't,' I faltered.
He handled his fowling-piece threateningly once again. Verily, he had just
then a terribly evil look.
'I swear,' I said, with trembling lips.
His gun was again lowered. He seemed to breathe more freely--less
fiercely.
'Go, now,' he said, pointing across the moor. 'If a poor man like myself
wants to hide either his game or his private still, what odds is it to a
M'Crimman of Coila?'
How I got home I never knew. I remember that evening being in our front
drawing-room with what seemed a sea of anxious faces round me, some of
which were bathed in tears. Then all was a long blank, interspersed with
fearful dreams.
It was weeks before I recovered consciousness. I was then lying in bed. In
at the open window was wafted the odour of flowers, for it was a summer's
evening, and outside were the green whispering trees. Townley sat beside
the bed, book in hand, and almost started when I spoke.
[Illustration: He pointed his Gun at me]
'Mr. Townley!'
'Yes, dear boy.'
'Have I been long ill?'
'For weeks--four, I think. How glad I am you are better! But you must keep
very, _very_ quiet. I shall go and bring your mother now, and Flora.'
I put out my thin hand and detained him.
'Tell me, Mr. Townley,' I said, 'have I spoken much in my sleep, for I
have been dreaming such foolish dreams?'
Townley looked at me long and earnestly. He seemed to look me through and
through. Then he replied slowly, almost solemnly,
'Yes, dear boy, you have spoken _much_.'
I closed my eyes languidly. For now I knew that Townley was aware of more
than ever I should have dared to reveal.
-----
[1] Triton.
[2] Smothered.
[3] Birch-trees.