In one of the most picturesque parts of the western Highlands of
Scotland stands an inn, which is much frequented by travellers. This inn
itself adds considerably to the beauty of the landscape. It was formerly
a manor-house; and the sedate grandeur of its appearance is in such good
keeping with the scenes in its neighbourhood, and so little in
accordance with its present appropriation, that travellers more commonly
stop at the gate to inquire the way to the inn, than drive up at once
through the green field which is spread before its windows, and its fine
flight of stone steps. Very few dwellings are to be seen from it; and
those few are mere cottages, chiefly inhabited by the fishermen of the
loch. One of these cottages is my dwelling. It stands so near to the
inn, that I can observe all that goes forward there; but it is so
over-shadowed and hidden by trees, that I doubt not the greater
proportion of the visiters to the inn are quite unaware that such a
cottage is in existence; and of the thousand sketches which artists and
amateurs have carried away with them, perhaps not one bears any trace of
the lowly chimneys, or the humble porch of my dwelling.
On one fine evening in the month of August, seven years ago, I was
depositing my watering-pot in the tool-house, when I observed a gig
drive up to the inn; it contained a young lady and a gentleman.
According to my usual habit of conjecture, I settled in my own mind that
they were husband and wife: bride and bridegroom they could not be, as
they were in deep mourning. They seated themselves by an open window
till it grew dark, and I saw no more of them that night. In my early
watch the next morning, I passed them twice, and changed my opinion
respecting them. They were evidently brother and sister: there was a
strong resemblance between them, and a slight difference in years--the
young man appearing to be about eighteen, his sister one or two and
twenty. She was not handsome; but the expression of melancholy on her
countenance, and an undefinable air of superiority about her, engaged my
attention. The brother _was_ handsome--very handsome. His features
were fine, but their expression was finer still. He had taken off his
hat, and I had a full view of him. What an intellect did that forehead
bespeak! what soul was in those eyes! "Why," thought I, "does she look
so melancholy, while leaning on the arm of such a brother?" But a glance
at her dress let me into the cause of her sorrow. A father or a mother,
or perhaps such another brother, has been taken from her. Whatever the
cause of their common grief might be, it seemed only to knit them more
closely together; for never did I see a brother and sister so attached.
They were inseparable: and during the many days which they spent at the
inn, the interest of their conversations never seemed to flag. They were
always talking; and always, apparently, with animation and sympathy.
On the fourth day after their arrival, I was sitting at work, at a
window which commands a view of the head of the loch, and of the
mountains on the opposite side. It was then between four and five in the
afternoon; the sun was bright, and the weather as fine as possible. The
tide was out, and, as usual, many groups of children were busied in
collecting shells and sea-weed. Among them were my two friends (for so I
must call them.) They seemed in gayer spirits than I had yet seen them;
they picked up a basket-full of shells; they set up a mark by which to
watch the receding waters; they entered into conversation with a
boatman, and strolled on till they came to the little bridge which spans
a rivulet at the head of the loch. I saw them lean over the parapet, to
watch the gurgling brook beneath. Then they turned, to survey the high
mountains above them; and after awhile, they directed their steps to the
base of one of them. I saw them gradually mount the green slope, turning
every now and then to gaze at the scene below, until I could but
indistinctly discern their figures, amidst the shadows which were
beginning to spread over the valley and the lower parts of the mountain.
I knew that the mountain which they were ascending was not often tried
either by natives or by strangers, for it was boggy and pathless; though
tempting to the eye by its verdure, and by a fine pile of rocks, which
stood like a crown on the brow of the first grand ascent.
The richest glow of the evening sun was upon the mountain's brow; light
crimson clouds were floating, as it seemed to me, just over the head of
the youth, as he mounted higher and higher--springing from one point to
another. I saw his slight form on the very ridge, though lessened almost
to a point by the distance, yet conspicuous by its motion, and by the
relief of the glowing sky behind. He disappeared. I looked for his
sister: she was still sitting on her sunny seat, while all below was
wrapped in a deep grey shadow. I laid down my glass, and resumed my work
for awhile. I looked again; she was still there, and alone--but the
sun-light was gone! I thought she looked forlorn; and I wished her
brother would return to her. Again the sun burst forth on the
mountain-top--it had only been obscured by a cloud. I saw the lady start
from her seat, and turn round. An eagle had sprung from among the rocks:
she was watching its flight--it ascended into the blue sky, and was lost
to sight. She sauntered a few steps on one side of her seat, then on the
other, and looked around her. "I wish her brother would return to her,"
thought I again. She shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked up: but
vainly! The shadows had crept apace up the mountain side: her seat was
no longer sunny, but she sat down again.
I had by this time become, I knew not why, rather nervous: my hand shook
so, that I could not fix the glass. I laid it down, and went to take a
turn in my garden. I came back presently to the window, and once more
turned my glass in the direction of the mountain. The seat was vacant.
"They are coming down together, I hope," thought I. "It is high time
they should; it is becoming dark and chilly!" But I could not trace
them. At length I saw something white fluttering in the breeze. It was
so small that I should not have discerned it, if my very power of sight
had not been sharpened by the anxiety I began to feel for these young
people. By intently gazing--by straining my sight to the uttermost, I
made out that the young lady was standing on a point of rock, lower
down, and more conspicuous than that on which she had been seated. She
had tied her handkerchief to her parasol, and was waving it, no doubt,
as a signal to her brother. My heart turned sick, and I could see no
more. I looked at my watch, and found that it was nearly three hours
since they had begun their ascent. The next consideration was, what I
ought to do. If I had been certain that the brother had lost his way, it
was, no doubt, my duty to send persons from the inn, to find him. But
how did I know that any peril existed, excepting in my own imagination?
He might have ascended before, and be perfectly acquainted with the
descent; he might be gone in search of some particular view, and have
prepared his sister for the length of his absence, as she was too much
fatigued to accompany him. In this case, any interference of mine would
be impertinent. What should I do? I leaned out of my window, as if in
the hope of seeing some object, which should help me to a decision. Such
an object was just before me, in the person of an old fisherman, a
next-door neighbour, and very honest friend of mine. "Come hither,
John," said I; and I stated the case to him. He thought we need not fear
any danger. The mountain was not very high; he knew of no dangerous
places on it; and was of opinion that there would be light enough to
guide their steps half an hour longer. He advised me to leave them
alone, for that time at least. I determined to do so, and sat down to my
tea-table, on which I had not yet bestowed a thought. I drew it close to
the window, and looked as earnestly as ever; but it was now too dark to
see anything but the indistinct outlines of the mountains, and the loch
gleaming in the twilight. The half-hour passed, and I had not seen them
return; they might have returned without my having seen them; but I
could not bear uncertainty any longer. I sent my servant to the inn, to
inquire if they had arrived, and whether they had ordered tea, or given
any expectation as to the time of their retain.
She brought word, that though tea had been ready for an hour past, the
lady and gentleman had not returned; and that the landlady would be glad
to know whether I could give her any intelligence of them.
"Let me pass!" said I, hastily opening the gate.
"Your bonnet, ma'am! shall I fetch your bonnet?" said my maid.
At that moment some one rushed past me. It was the young lady--running,
or attempting to run, but with faltering and unequal steps. I followed
her. At the first of the flight of steps before the inn, she stumbled
and fell. She was trembling and sobbing violently; whether from
breathlessness or agony, I could not tell. I raised her, and assisted
her to mount the steps. "My brother! my brother!" she exclaimed
incessantly. I could get no words but these from her. No time was to be
lost. I sat down beside her, and took both her hands; and speaking as
calmly as I could, said, "Compose yourself, and tell us what we must do.
Have you missed your brother, or has any accident befallen him before
your eyes?"
"He is on the mountain there! He left me, and did not come back. He said
he should not be gone twenty minutes."
"Now I know all," replied I. "I will take some people from the inn with
lights, and we will find him. You must stay and compose yourself, and be
patient; he has only missed his way."
She insisted upon going too; and declared that this was necessary, in
order to point out the track which her brother had taken. I explained to
her how I had watched their progress, and was therefore able to direct
their search. But she was resolute in her determination to go; and
finding her to be so, I gave up my intention of accompanying the party,
believing that I should only retard their progress.
I arranged with the landlady, that in case of any fatal accident having
happened, the young lady should be brought to my house, where she would
be in greater quiet and retirement than amid the bustle of an inn.
Hour after hour did we wait, listening to every sound, trembling at
every breath; and so shaken and weakened by intolerable suspense, that
we were ill-fitted to think and to act as occasion might require. It was
a dark, cloudy, and windy night. We often looked out, but could see
nothing, scarcely even the outline of the mountain. We listened, and our
hearts beat thick, when there was no sound but the rising gust! I dwell
on these circumstances too long, because I recoil from relating the
catastrophe, as if it were but recent--as if my thoughts had not been
familiarized with it for years.
It was as we feared; he was found lying at the bottom of a rock, no more
than ten feet high--but lifeless. His neck had been dislocated by the
fall. There were no external bruises--no signs of any struggle--nothing
painful in his appearance. I cannot relate every circumstance of that
dreadful night. I thought _she_ was gone too; she was brought in,
insensible, and remained so for hours. She was taken immediately to my
house, and put to bed. The body of her brother was also carried there,
for I knew she would not be separated from it. I sat beside her,
watching her faint breathing, anxious for some sign of returning
consciousness, but dreading the agony which must attend it. If she had
died, I could hardly have grieved for her; but there might be parents,
brothers, and sisters! Oh, that I knew, that I could bring them to her!
Alone, among strangers! how was she to bear her solitary grief?--how was
she to sustain the struggle which awaited her in the first hour of her
awakening? I could not banish the remembrance of them as I had seen them
in the afternoon; happy in each other, and thinking not of separation;
then, as he was when I last saw him, full of life and acuity, and
apparently unboundedly happy, in the contemplation of scenes which a
soul like his was fitted to enjoy.
Day dawned, and no change was perceivable; but in two hours afterwards
she opened her eyes. I crossed the room, to see whether she observed my
motion. She did; and I therefore opened the curtain, and spoke to her.
She gazed, but did not reply. Presently she seized my arm, muttering
some words, of which "my mother!" was all I could understand. I took the
opportunity of saying, that I was going to write to her family, and
asked how I should address them.
"My family!" said she, "I have none. They are all gone now!"
I thought her mind was wandering. "Your father and mother," said I,
"where are they?" My heart smote me as I uttered the words, but the
question was necessary.
"I have no father and mother!"
"Nor brothers and sisters? Pardon me, but I must ask."
"You need not ask, because I will tell you. There were many of us once,
but I am the last!"