THE CLOSING SCENE.
The health and strength of Rob Roy decayed rapidly after this, and
the winter of 1734, with its unusual severity, sorely affected his
shattered form. Helpless as a child, he was confined to bed at last
by extreme old age rather than illness, at his house of
Inverlochluvig.
On an evening towards the end of December he sunk rapidly. Helen,
then an aged woman, was his constant attendant, and he requested her
to throw open the windows that he might take a last farewell of the
sun, then setting in his ruddy splendour, and casting the purple
shadows of Ben More far across the snowclad braes of Balquhidder.
In the clear, frosty atmosphere of the winter eve he could hear the
cattle lowing in the fold, and the laughter of the children ringing
merrily from the adjacent clachan, and both were music to the old
man's ear.
"Death is at hand, Helen--close--close!" said he, sadly, to his wife;
"I may at times have been harsh--sharp with you."
"Oh, never--never to me, Rob," said she, sobbing heavily.
"If ever so, forgive me!"
"Forgive you, my poor old Rob!" she exclaimed, and threw her arms
around him.
"I have never asked forgiveness save from those I loved, and most of
them have gone before us, Helen. The hands of my forefathers beckon
me; I can see their dim forms amid the blue mist on the hill! Has
the sun set, Helen?"
"No--why?"
"It is growing so dark--so very dark--open the window!"
"It _is_ open," said Helen, in a broken voice.
"Oh that I could but have again the sweet perfume of the yellow broom
and purple heather-bell; or hear the hum of the mountain-bee and the
voice of the cushat-dove! But who comes?" he added, as a step
approached softly.
'Twas old Alpine, who entered to say that MacLaren of Invernentie had
called to inquire for him.
Then there came over Rob Roy something of the same impulse which,
according to the English legend, animated the brave freebooter Robin
Hood, when he was propped up on his death-bed, to shoot a last
clothyard shaft with his trusty yew.
"MacLaren!" he exclaimed, rallying all his failing powers, while his
sunken eyes flashed with light; "raise me up, Helen! Coll! Hamish!
Robin Oig! bring me my bonnet and plaid, my pistols, dirk, and
claymore, and _then_ admit him; for never shall it be said that a
foeman saw Rob Roy defenceless and unarmed!"
His commands were immediately obeyed. MacLaren entered and paid his
compliments by inquiring after the health of his formidable
neighbour, who maintained a cold and haughty civility during their
brief conference.
After MacLaren's departure Rob still sat up in bed, with his plaid
about him, and his sword in his hand, and he muttered scraps of
Ossian with his prayers.
"The winds shall whistle in my grey hair and not awake me. The sons
of future years shall pass away--another race shall rise, for the
people are like the waves of ocean: like the leaves of woody Morven,
they pass away in the rustling blast, and _other_ leaves lift their
green heads on high.* Now, Helen--wife," he added, "all is over!
Strike up, Alpine, _Ha til mi tulidh!_ (We return no more!)"
* Berrathon.
Old and blind almost, like his dying leader, Alpine, while the hot
tears streamed over his withered cheeks, played that solemn dirge,
and ere it was over Rob Roy had passed away, and Helen MacGregor and
her five sons were on their knees around a breathless corpse.
He expired on the 28th of December, 1734, in about the eightieth year
of his age, and his demise is recorded thus simply in the _Caledonian
Mercury_ newspaper of 9th January following:--
"_On Sunday se'nnight died at Balquhidder, in Perthshire, the famous
Highland partizan, ROB ROY._"
* * * * *
His funeral was the last in Perthshire at which a piper was employed,
according to General Stewart.
Helen did not survive him long.
The future of their sons--that future which had filled the soul of
poor Rob Roy with so many fears and anxieties--was varied, and the
fate of two was dark and tragic.
History tells us that Hamish commanded the MacGregors in the army of
Prince Charles, and that he had his leg broken by a cannon-ball at
the battle of Gladsmuir. He escaped from the Castle of Edinburgh
with characteristic daring, and fled to France, where a free pardon
was offered him if he would betray another fugitive, named Allan
Breac Stewart; but he declined, saying,--
"I was born a Highland gentleman, and can never accept that which
would make me the disgrace of my family and the scoff of my country."
Shortly afterwards he died of _starvation_ in the streets of Paris,
when George III. was king.
In his thirteenth year Robin Oig shot MacLaren of Invernentie dead
between the stilts of his plough, for insulting his mother; and the
gun with which he perpetrated this terrible act is now at Abbotsford.
He fled, became a soldier in the 42nd Regiment, and fought gallantly
at Fontenoy, where he was wounded and taken prisoner by the French;
but five years after the battle, by an overstrained power of the
officers of the Crown, he died on the scaffold at Edinburgh. For the
others, I must refer my readers to Burke's "Landed Gentry."
"Happily, now-a-days," says a recent writer, "the Celt and the
Sassenach--Scotsman and Englishman--fight side by side, under one
standard. _How_ the brave soldiers of the Highlands fight has been
shown in many a glorious struggle--at Talavera, Salamanca, and
Waterloo; nor will history forget _the thin red line_ of Balaclava,
or the shrill pibroch of Havelock's small but gallant force, which
came like home-music to the ears and hearts of those who defended
Lucknow!"
* * * * *
At the east end of the old church of Balquhidder, within an enclosure
formed by the foundations of the more ancient Catholic place of
worship, lies the grave of Rob Roy.
It is covered by a rough stone of hard mica, on which a number of
emblems are rudely sculptured. Among these the figure of a
Highlander and a large broadsword can be distinctly traced.
Under this stone, in February, 1754, were also interred the remains
of his son, Robin Oig.
Such is the story of ROB ROY the Outlaw.
THE END.
WYMAN AND SONS, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON.