extremely tight and uncomfortable--not allowing his limbs that freedom
of motion which they enjoyed in such perfection beneath the airy
envelopes of the kilt; but he in time got used to them, and even allowed
latterly that they were a very good contrivance.
Previous to this, however--that is, previous to striking the
kilt--Duncan had made several excursions around the town, his master
having left him in the hands of the tailor, and gone to see some
friends in Glasgow, where he meant to spend a day or two before
embarking. One of these excursions included a visit to that paradise of
a place that had caught his eye in coming up the Clyde. It was only
three or four miles distant; and he found it, on a nearer inspection,
all that his fancy had conceived it from a more distant view. But
Duncan's curiosity prompting him to venture farther into the enclosed
grounds than was permitted to strangers, he was seen by one of the
guardians of the place; and his kilt not increasing the man's notions of
his respectability, or of the innocency of his intentions, he gave him
chase, with a loud whoop and holloa. Duncan saw the enemy approaching,
and took to his heels, and finally succeeded in clearing the outermost
fence, just in time to save himself from a good drubbing.
This incident, on which he had by no means calculated, disturbed his
ideas of his Elysium a little, and convinced him that the beauties he so
much admired were not at all intended for the enjoyment of such poor
little ragged rascals as himself--that they were reserved for the great
and the wealthy alone.
Some days after this, Duncan embarked, with his master, for Jamaica,
where they arrived safely, at the end of about the usual period consumed
in that voyage. And with this event the first act of our little drama
closes. The curtain is dropped, and a distinct division in the story is
marked. A brief interval, and the curtain is again raised; but by no
means so brief is the time that elapses in the progress of our tale--for
this is no less than thirty years.
It was, then, on a fine summer day, precisely thirty years after Duncan
M'Arthur had embarked with his master for Jamaica, that a splendid
carriage, with servants in livery, was seen rolling along the Gourock
road. On coming opposite a certain gate, which led to a handsome house
on the face of a low hill (it was the same house which had so much taken
the fancy of the little barelegged Highland boy thirty years before),
the carriage stopped, and the gentleman who occupied it, seemingly
attracted by a large board suspended from a tree, stepped out and read
on the latter--"This house and adjoining property on sale."
Having obtained this piece of information, he opened the gate, and
walked leisurely up towards the house, carefully examining the grounds
as he went along. On arriving in front of the mansion, he was accosted
by a feeble old man, who approached him with the most profound respect;
and, bowing low, inquired if he wished to inspect the premises. The
stranger looked hard for some seconds at the querist, without making any
reply; but at length answered, "Yes, my honest man, I do wish to look at
the premises. The house and grounds are on sale, I see."
"They are, sir," replied the old man--"and a bonny spot it is."
"The place certainly looks very well," replied the gentleman. "Is the
house in good repair?"
"Excellent, sir. The factor, Mr M'Ausline, keeps a' in guid order, baith
without and within; kennin it's the only way to bring a customer."
"Ah! he's right there."
The stranger, conducted by the old man, now went through every room in
the house, and examined them with a care and minuteness that showed he
entertained serious intentions regarding the property. The house
inspected, he proceeded to the garden, looked into all the outhouses,
and made a general survey of the grounds in the immediate neighbourhood
of the house. This done, he slipped a crown-piece into the old man's
hand, and returned to his carriage, which was waiting him where he had
left it.
On the next day, the very same carriage of which we have spoken drew up
before Mr M'Ausline's door; and the lackey having rung the bell, and
ascertained that that person was within, the same gentleman who had
occupied it on the preceding day jumped out, and entered the house.
On being ushered into the apartment in which Mr M'Ausline was--
"You have, sir, I believe," he said, "the management of the sale of
Bellevue House and grounds?"
"I have, sir."
"Well, Mr M'Ausline, I have been looking at them; and if you and I can
come to terms, it is not unlikely that I may become the purchaser."
Mr M'Ausline bowed.
"What is the upset price, sir?"
"Twenty-five thousand pounds, sir."
"A long price."
"Why, sir, it's well worth the money," said the factor.
"Perhaps it may, sir; but let me look at the plans, &c., if you please."
They were immediately produced, and, in a few minutes, the stranger and
Mr M'Ausline were up to the elbows in papers; the former examining every
document connected with the property, and the latter explaining and
enlarging on each as it came under investigation.
At the conclusion of this scrutiny, the stranger rose to depart, saying,
at the same time, to Mr M'Ausline, that he would hear from him in a day
or two.
Just as he was going away, the latter asked, with some hesitation of
manner, as if he feared the question might be thought rude, if he would
have the goodness to favour him with his name.
"Dear me," replied the stranger, "how stupid that I did not think of
mentioning that of my own accord! It is one of the first things I should
have communicated to you. My name, sir, is M'Arthur--Duncan M'Arthur,
late of the Island of Jamaica."
Mr M'Ausline bowed low at the name; for, although he did not know Mr
M'Arthur personally, it was one with which he was familiar, and which he
knew was that of one of the wealthiest men in the West Indies. Need we
add, that this Mr M'Arthur was no other than the little kilted,
barelegged Highland boy whom we introduced to the reader at the outset
of our story.
How he arrived at the high degree of prosperity which he now enjoyed, we
shall make known before we have done; but, in the meantime, we shall
conduct his transaction with M'Ausline to a close.
Agreeably to his promise, Mr M'Arthur again called on that gentleman, at
the expiry of about a week, and having previously satisfied himself of
the value of the property in dependence, concluded the purchase, and
paid down the money.
On the very same day, he went down again to Bellevue, which was now his,
the identical house which had so much struck his fancy when a boy.
On this occasion, he was again attended by the old man of whom we have
already spoken.
"Well," said Mr M'Arthur, on the latter approaching him, "I have
concluded the purchase for this place. The money is paid, and it is now
mine."
"I'm glad to hear it, sir, and long may you live to enjoy it!" replied
the old man.
"Thank you, my friend--thank you. What's your name?"
"James Moffat, sir."
"Ay, well, James," continued Mr M'Arthur, "do you recollect of chasing a
little barelegged Highland boy out of these grounds one day, about--let
me see--ay, I daresay it will be about thirty years since? See, there,"
he added, pointing to a particular piece of ground--"there is the very
spot on which he stood when you discovered him; and there" (pointing to
a particular part of the fence which enclosed the grounds) "is precisely
the place where he escaped you. Do you recollect of this, James?"
The old man thought for a moment; then looking in Mr M'Arthur's face,
and smiling, "Yes, sir, now that you remind me of it, I do recollect the
circumstance, and very distinctly. The little fellow had come, I
thought, to carry off some of our hens and chickens, as we were then,
and are yet, very much annoyed by young depredators of that description.
But may I ask your honour how your honour happens to know so well about
that affair?"
"Troth, James," replied Mr M'Arthur, laughing, "I have good cause to
know well about it; for that boy was no other than myself, James."
James looked unutterable things on this announcement being made to him,
and could only come out with the words--"Impossible, sir! It canna be."
"Nothing at all impossible in it, my honest friend," replied Mr
M'Arthur, again laughing. "It was indeed I, James; but I deny having had
any felonious intentions on your hens and chickens, or anything whatever
belonging to you. It was curiosity alone that prompted me. I was struck,
boy as I was, with the beauties of the place, and had just taken the
liberty of coming in to enjoy them a little."
"Aweel, sir, the like o' this I never heard o', or met wi', or onybody
else, I daresay. Wha wad ever hae thocht or dreamt o' such a thing?"
"It is certainty rather odd, my friend," said Mr M'Arthur; "but you know
it has been often said, and truly, that more strange things have
happened in real life than ever were invented by story-tellers."
"I've often heard that, sir," replied the old man; "and I consider this
a very remarkable proof o't."
"Yes, James," continued Mr M'Arthur, "at the moment when you discovered
me, a barefooted and barelegged boy, trespassing on your premises, I had
just formed the resolution which I have this day, at the distance of
thirty years, carried into effect. I had then determined that I should
purchase this property, if ever I became rich enough to do so. But,"
added Mr M'Arthur, smiling, "every dog has his day, James. You turned me
off the grounds when you had the power, and you will not think it
unreasonable, now that I have it, if I turn you off--eh?"
The poor old man looked a little disconcerted at this speech; not being
quite sure whether it was spoken in jest or earnest.
"I canna say, sir," he said, looking at the querist doubtingly, and with
a forced smile, "but what it wad be but fair."
Mr M'Arthur saw the uneasiness which his joke had created, and hastened
to relieve the old man's fears, by assuring him that he was welcome to
remain on the property, rent free, as long as he chose; and not only
that, but that he should have every indulgence and accommodation which
he might require.
Having brought our story to this point, we now return to trace the
course of those events which raised Mr M'Arthur from the humble station
in which he began life, to be one of the wealthiest of our colonial
merchants.
Some time after his arrival in the West Indies, the junior clerk in Mr
M'Donald's counting-house died; and the latter, having found Duncan an
active, smart, and scrupulously honest lad, and, moreover, possessing
the qualification of writing a fair hand, together with that of a pretty
competent knowledge of figures, he at once proposed to him to take the
place of the deceased clerk.
Duncan readily closed with the proposal, threw off his livery, laid down
his towel, and mounted the stool, quill in hand. In this situation, he
remained for three years, discharging his duties greatly to the
satisfaction of his employer. At the end of the period above named, the
clerk immediately above him also died, and Duncan, as a matter of
course, stepped into his place, in which he continued to distinguish
himself by his steadiness and abilities, and by the general excellence
of his moral character--virtues which eventually raised him, step by
step, to the responsible situation of head clerk of the firm.
Two or three years after he had attained this promotion, however, an
event occurred that gave him a much more rapid lift than was likely to
proceed from the ordinary course of events.
Having, about the end of the period alluded to, gone into the interior
of the island on some business of his employer, an insurrection of the
negroes had in the meantime occurred, and involved the whole country in
terror and alarm. When Mr M'Arthur left home, all was quiet, and nothing
of the kind suspected; nor indeed did he know anything of it, until some
ruinous sugar-mills and deserted plantations, which he passed on his way
homewards, informed him of the fearful event. As yet, he had seen none
of the insurgents themselves--a fortunate circumstance for him; for, if
they had fallen in with him, they would, to a certainty, have murdered
him. Aware of this, and also guessing at the general state of the
country, Mr M'Arthur hastened homewards with all speed; but his journey
was considerably lengthened by the necessity he was under of taking
by-paths and circuitous routes, to avoid any straggling parties of the
insurgents who might be wandering about. Notwithstanding all the haste
he could make, therefore, and though well mounted, night overtook him
long before he could reach Kingston, the place of his destination; and,
to make matters worse, he was benighted in a wild and remote woody
strath, at the base of the Blue Mountains, which had long been famous as
the haunt of runaway negroes, and where, from the inaccessible nature of
the surrounding heights, they were enabled to defy all the force that
could be brought against them.
It was now pitch dark, and Mr M'Arthur, not well knowing his way, was
guiding his horse slowly and cautiously through the intricacies of the
place, when a wild whooping and yelling, which he knew to proceed from
an assemblage of negroes, suddenly struck on his ear, and filled him
with apprehensions for his safety, as he was totally unarmed--although
this was, perhaps, a matter of no great importance, for resistance would
have been vain against such odds as he had no doubt the number of the
negroes presented.
On hearing the cries alluded to, and which seemed to proceed from
persons at no great distance, Mr M'Arthur reined in his horse, and
advanced still more warily than before. His progress, however, slow as
it was, brought him round the base of the high projecting rock that
covered the entrance to an extensive green hollow, from the upper end of
which again rose a precipitous wall of rock, on whose summit, a kind of
natural platform, were assembled the negroes whose cries he had heard.
They had kindled a large fire, and around this they were capering and
dancing with a wildness of glee, to which--as Mr M'Arthur judged, from
the outrageous and unsteady manner of most of them--rum had largely
contributed.
The sight was an alarming one to a person in Mr M'Arthur's situation;
but he was a man of strong nerve and singular resolution, and he
therefore determined to ascertain precisely what the negroes were about,
and, if possible, whose they were. That they were a party of the
insurrectionists he had no doubt; and he therefore thought it not
unlikely that, if he could approach them without being perceived, he
might gather some information regarding their intended future
proceedings, or regarding what they had already done, that might be
turned to good account.
Having come to this resolution, he dismounted, secured his horse to a
tree, and advanced cautiously on foot to the bottom of the rocks on the
summit of which the negroes were assembled. On reaching the position, he
looked upward, and saw that the ascent was both a difficult and a
dangerous one; but not having yet forgot the practice he had had in such
feats in the Highlands, he determined on attempting it; and this he did
with such success, that he, in a very short time, found himself--his
head, at any rate--on a level with the ground occupied by the negroes,
and within a very few yards of them. On obtaining a view over the edge
of the cliff, the first thing that attracted Mr M'Arthur's attention was
a naked cutlass lying on the grass, and fully within his reach. Of this
weapon he determined to possess himself; and, by watching a fitting
opportunity, he succeeded in getting hold of it unobserved, when he drew
it gently towards him, and found his confidence greatly increased by the
timeous acquisition. The most remarkable object that presented itself to
the daring adventurer's notice, was a slender female figure, wrapped up
in a large, light-coloured cashmere shawl, and who was wildly but vainly
struggling to free herself from the grasp of a stout, ferocious-looking
negro, who had thrown his arms around her, and was evidently forcing
himself on her as a lover, grinning hideously in her face, as he
sputtered away at the gibberish which he intended for the language of
love.
Mr M'Arthur saw at once that the lady--for such she had every appearance
of being--was a captive in the hands of the ruffians; probably, he
thought, the daughter of some of their masters, whose property they had
laid waste; and his blood boiled within him at witnessing the
indignities to which the unfortunate girl was exposed; and he determined
on making a desperate effort to save her.
Grasping his cutlass firmly in his hand, he leaped, with one spring, on
the level ground occupied by the negroes; and waving on high his weapon,
which flashed in the ruddy light of the fire, shouted out, as if he were
supported by others--"Here they are!--down with the villains! Shoot
them! shoot them!" And he dashed into the middle of the band, and with
one blow of his cutlass struck the ruffian whose arm was round the
female to the earth, a dead man.
The ruse of M'Arthur, in the meantime, took completely. The negroes,
believing that a large force was coming on them, fled with the utmost
precipitation in all directions, leaving the gallant adventurer, with
the captive lady, sole possessors of the field. But the former, judging
that they would soon return on finding that he was alone, ran up to the
terrified girl, and taking her hurriedly by the hand, without waiting to
put any questions to her, or even to look at her, urged her to fly with
him instantly.
Aware of the propriety of this measure, the latter instantly obeyed; and
taking her deliverer by the arm, both hastened away from the spot. But
M'Arthur, being wholly unacquainted with the locality of the place, knew
no other way of escaping but that by which he had come; and by this way
it was impossible the fragile, timorous creature he supported could go.
But M'Arthur was a stout, as well as courageous man; and in this dilemma
he did not hesitate an instant in adopting the only course which
presented itself.
He suddenly flung his left arm around the slender waist of his fair
companion, and, raising her from the ground, proceeded to descend the
rocks with her; holding on, from time to time, with his right hand, as
he passed from one stepping place to another.
Steady of step, stout of heart, and quick of eye, M'Arthur descended in
safety with his precious burden; when, having placed her on her feet,
he, with one single word, urged her further flight till they arrived at
the spot where his horse was secured.
Nor had the flight of the fugitives been a whit more expeditious than
was necessary; for ere they had gained the bottom of the descent, the
negroes, as M'Arthur conjectured they would do, had returned; and
seemingly now assured that they had been deceived, began to search
around, whooping and yelling in the most frightful manner, for their
deceiver and his companion.
Indeed, they appeared at one time to have discovered them, or at least
to have conjectured which route they had taken; for several shots were
fired in the direction in which they were--a fact which the fugitives
ascertained by two or three bullets striking within a few yards of them.
On reaching his horse, M'Arthur unloosed him, sprung on his back, and
quick as thought, lifted the lady behind him; and having secured her to
himself, by passing a silk neck-cloth around both, continued his
flight--at first cautiously, till he cleared the loose stones and
brushwood with which the place was encumbered; and then at full speed
for the distance of eight or ten miles, when, being aware of his near
approach to Kingston, and, consequently, to a situation of comparative
safety, he reined in the exhausted animal; and it was now that an
extraordinary denouement connected with the fate and fortunes of the
fugitives took place. It was now, and not till now--for circumstances
had hitherto permitted no conversation between them--that M'Arthur
learned who the lady was whom he had so gallantly rescued from the
brutality of the rebel negroes.
Having checked the speed of his horse, M'Arthur turned round to his fair
companion, and said, "May I now ask, madam, to whom I have had the
honour of doing this little piece of service to-night?"
"Don't you know me, Mr M'Arthur?" was the reply, in a soft and gentle
tone, not unmingled with surprise that, as the speaker had recognised
her deliverer, she had not been recognised by him.
"No, indeed, madam," said M'Arthur, turning again round, but now with a
look of intense curiosity; for, although his answer had been in the
negative, the tones of the voice were familiar to him.
"Don't you know Miss M'Donald--Flora M'Donald--Mr M'Arthur?" rejoined
the lady, smiling.
"Gracious heaven! is it possible?" exclaimed Mr M'Arthur, now aware that
she who spoke to him was no other than the daughter of his employer,
between whom and himself there had long been a secret and unavowed
attachment--an attachment which they had never breathed to each other,
but which did not the less certainly exist.
The exclamation of surprise and delight--for this feeling was also
strongly expressed in it--which we have just recorded, Mr M'Arthur
followed up, by inquiring how she had come into the dreadful situation
in which he had found her.
This Miss M'Donald briefly explained, by stating that a party of
insurgent negroes had attacked her father's premises, burned his mills
to the ground, plundered his house, and, on their retreat, had carried
her along with them.
Much more than this passed between the lovers, thus strangely brought
together; but we do not think it necessary to record it; and, therefore,
not to interrupt the progress of our story, we proceed to land them
safely at Mr M'Donald's residence, a short distance from Kingston, where
Mr M'Arthur left his fair charge, and proceeded himself to the town just
named--Mr M'Donald being there at the moment, on some matters connected
with the insurrection. On his finding the latter--
"Oh, Mr M'Arthur!" he exclaimed, in great agitation and distress of
mind, "isn't this a dreadful business! I'm ruined--ruined for ever! I
can no longer hold up my head--I can no longer be good for anything in
this world!"
"Dear me, sir," said M'Arthur, "has the destruction of your property
been so great?"
"Destruction of my property!" reiterated Mr M'Donald; "no--no; that is
nothing--nothing at all. A few thousands will repair that. It's the loss
of my daughter I bewail--my poor, dear Flora!" And he burst into tears.
"You have doubtless heard, Mr M'Arthur," he continued, after a short
while, "that the ruffians have carried her off, God knows whither; and
her death--worse than her death--is, I fear, certain."
"Mr M'Donald," said Mr M'Arthur, "be no longer under any uneasiness
regarding your daughter. She is safe, and at this moment under her
father's roof, unscathed, unharmed."
"How, Mr M'Arthur?" exclaimed the distracted father, in wild excitement;
"my daughter safe--my daughter at home! Surely you do not dare to
deceive me? Swear to the truth of it--swear to the truth of it,
M'Arthur, and half my fortune is yours!"
"I will, without hesitation, swear to the truth of it, sir, if you
desire it, certainly, and on much easier terms than you propose. But let
me first tell you what has happened."
And he proceeded to detail the whole circumstances of his adventure with
the insurgent negroes, as has been already related.
When he had done, Mr M'Donald, whose feelings had been wrought to the
highest pitch by the narrative, flew towards him, folded him in his
arms, and said--
"God bless and prosper you, Mr M'Arthur, for what you have this day done
to me and mine!"
It was all he could say. His emotion prevented further utterance.
Impatient to see his daughter, the happy father, accompanied by
M'Arthur, now hastened home; and the interview between parent and child,
which instantly followed, was most affecting. Flora rushed into her
father's arms, exclaiming--
"My dear father!"
She could say no more, and buried her head in his bosom.