In my legend of yesternight, gentlemen, I think I told you, that one
of Ballindalloch's yespecial reasons for selecking the site he did
for his peel tower was the commanding view which he thence enjoyed
all over the lands of Tullochcarron, lying above the fork of the Aven
and the Spey, and which then belonged to another family of Grants,
with whom he was liable to be frequently at daggers drawn. It is of
the last laird of Tullochcarron, that I am now going to tell you.
In the earlier part of his life, this laird of Tullochcarron lost a
younger brother, who was killed while fighting bravely by his side in a
feudal skirmish with a former laird of Ballindalloch. Tullochcarron had
a strong affection for this brother, and would have been inconsolable
for his death, had he not left an only son behind him, called Lachlan
Dhu. Tullochcarron was then unmarried, and he therefore instantly
transferred all that which had been his fraternal affection to his
orphan nephew. Accordingly, he set himself to nurture the boy with all
the care and solicitude he could bestow, and with the full intention
of making him his heir. But you are well enough aware, gentlemen,
that yeddication in those days must have been a mere farce. Indeed,
judging from the worthy Dame Julian Berner's Boke of St. Alban's,
the which, I take it for granted, was the gentleman's vade mecum in
its day, it was worse than a farce, nothing being taught there but
hawking and hunting, and the mysteries thereof; as, for example, how
to physic a sick falcon, and such like follies, with all the foolish
vanities of coat armour, and the frivolities of fishing. Eh! I beg
your pardon, Mr. Clifford! I see you are not just altogether pleased
with that observe of mine. But I meant no offence,--as sure as death I
did not. Where was I? Well, as the lad, Lachlan Dhu, grew up, certain
indications of ane evil disposition began to manifest themselves, and
these unpromising buds did so bourgeon through time, that after trying
to prune away the wicked shoots that sprang from them, and finding,
as is often the case, that they only sprouted forth the thicker and
the stronger for the lopping, like the poisonous heads of the hydra,
the good Tullochcarron found himself compelled to abandon his kind
intentions towards the young man, so far as regarded the heirship. But
he still continued to make his house his home, and likewise to show
him all such kindness as an uncle might be expected to use towards
a nephew.
Being thus disappointed in his views of a successor, the worthy
man set himself to the serious consideration of another plan, and
having cast his eyes about him, they fell upon a fair leddy, whom
he resolved, with her consent, to make his wife, and accordingly,
after a reasonable courtship, they were married. No couple could have
been happier than they were, and his joy was, in due time, rendered
complete by the birth of a son and heir, who was called Duncan. But,
alas! what is yearthly felicity? Fleeting as the wintry sunbeam on a
wall. His beloved wife died soon after the birth of her infant boy,
whom she left as the only remaining hope of his family.
Lachlan Dhu had nearly reached manhood before his uncle's marriage,
but Tullochcarron had taken especial care, from the very first,
never to allow his nephew to know that he ever had any intention
of leaving him the succession of his estate. There was therefore no
ostensible cause for disappointment or jealousy in Lachlan. But the
youth was sharp enough to have seen the position in which he had so
long stood, and to have drawn his own conclusions; and certain it was,
that jealousy and disappointment did follow his uncle's marriage and
the birth of his cousin Duncan. But young though he might be, he was
already so profound a master of the art of dissimulation, that he
not only most perfectly concealed them, but he actually contrived to
produce so great a seeming change for the better in his own character,
that he gradually succeeded in vurra much effacing the recollection
of his former errors and iniquities from the memory of his kind and
forgiving uncle.
Duncan Bane, as the young Tullochcarron was called from his fair
complexion, was, in every respect, a contrast to Lachlan Dhu, or Black
Lachlan. Tullochcarron had committed his infant boy to be nursed and
fostered by a respectable lady, a distant relation of the family, who,
though low in circumstances, was high in piety and virtue. To this lady
the infant Duncan opportunely came to supply the place of a child she
had just then lost, and as the little fellow drew his nourishment from
her bosom, all the strength of a mother's attachment fell in tender
sorrow upon him; and he who never knew any other mother, repaid it
with corresponding affection. Tullochcarron was too conscious of the
failure in his attempt at yeddication, in the instance of his nephew,
to risk a repetition of it in the still more interesting case of his
son. He therefore gladly left the tutoring of the boy to the care
of his excellent nurse, who appears to have been as intellectually
gifted as any woman of those barbarous times could have been. It is
true that she must, in all probability, have been tinctured with some
portion of the learning of Dame Julian. For, although nothing remains
to establish that the young man had studied hawking and hunting,
the legend certainly informs us, that he had a complete knowledge
of, and an ardent love for,--hum--ha--I would say for that art of
which it would ill become me to speak dispraisingly, seeing that
we have had this evening so much reason to thank Mr. Clifford for
having so ably and successfully exerceesed it. But--what was much
better--under her godly care the boy's heart was filled with all the
best feelings of religion and humanity. He was amiable, generous,
and kind-hearted, and ever ready on all occasions to sacrifice his
own little interests to those of others; and he was so utterly devoid
of guile himself, that he felt it almost impossible to imagine its
existence in others. It was not wonderful, therefore, that he grew up
with the warmest attachment to his cousin, Lachlan Dhu, who was the
very prince of deceivers, and who well knew how to put on the mask
of kindness. He allowed no opportunity of gaining his young cousin's
affections to pass unprofitably, and so unremitting was his attention
to the young Duncan, that he even succeeded in throwing sand into the
eyes of old Tullochcarron himself, who began to thank Heaven for the
happy change that had taken place on his nephew, and to trust that
he might yet look to him as the future protector of his son's youth
and inexperience, in the very probable event of his being called from
this world before his boy had grown to the years of manhood.
But the old man was still a hale and hearty carle when his boy's
seventeenth birthday came round. He had indeed been a marvellously
stout and healthy man all his life. The only disease, indeed, with
which he had ever been afflicted was an almost insatiable appetite
for food, which no endeavours of his own could restrain. It was a
never-ending ravenous hunger, for which the poor man was by no means
morally responsible, and from the gnawing effects of which he must
have died, if it had not been frequently and largely administered
to. Nor did he ask for dainties, although there certainly was one
species of food which he preferred to all others when he could get
it in its season, and that was--salmon. Tullochcarron's complaint,
as you may very naturally conceive, grew with his growth, which was
immense, and increased with every additional year that he lived. But,
old as he was, and enormous as he became in bulk, his great strength
remained unimpaired, and he was still able to move about with wonderful
activity in the superintendence of his concerns.
I have already told you, that although he and Ballindalloch were not
at absolute war, yet there did exist between them that ancient grudge
and jealousy, left by the ill-salved, though apparently bandaged up
wounds of a peace, patched together when both parties had suffered too
much to continue the war. And although the then existing Ballindalloch
was not the man in whose reign and under whose attack Tullochcarron's
much-loved brother had fallen, yet those were times in which the
son was made answerable for his father's sins. The then laird of
Ballindalloch, therefore, succeeded to all that secret animosity
which his father had so industriously laboured to earn. Thus, as one
might say, the military precaution, as well as the civil management of
Tullochcarron's little kingdom, required ane active superintendence and
administration. But although he now scrupled not to employ his nephew
in all duties where he thought his services might be useful to him,
and although he had even begun of late to give occasional occupation
to his son, yet, as they used to say in those days, he was aye upon
the head of his own affairs himself, watched everything with his own
eye, and gave every order of importance from his own mouth.
Lachlan Dhu, then, having but little else in which to employ himself,
spent most of his time in the chase, and the venison which he slew
was always sure to procure him a blessing from his hungry uncle. As
for Duncan Bane, his whole attention was directed to fishing, and the
salmon which he caught were always sure to be more highly prized than
the best buck that his cousin ever brought from the forest. In strict
attention to the fack, as well as in justice to the character of the
youth himself, I must tell you, that the desire of procuring savoury
dishes for his father, to whom his devoted attachment was excessive,
was one great reason, as well as in some measure an apology,--that
is, I mean, a-a to say, Mr. Clifford, if fishing ever required any
apology at all, which I must confess your excellent salmon of this
day hath led me vurra much to doot; I say it was a good reason for
his following out that quieter sort of sport, instead of that of the
chase, which some of your wild Nimrods would look upon as by much
the more active and manly. But I must likewise inform you, that there
was also a secondary cause that contributed to make him prefer this
occupation to all others. This cause, you will doubtless consider of
inferior strength to the other; but still it is a cause which is in
itself supposed by many to be very powerful in some of its effecks;
the cause I mean was--love.
Anna Gordon was the eldest of three orphans who were left to the
care of their aunt, who was the vurra lady whom I have already
introduced to you as the nurse and female preceptor of the youth
Duncan Bane. Anna was but a year younger than the young laird of
Tullochcarron. They had grown up together, and had loved one another
like companions, until their attachment insensibly assumed a warmer
character. The penury to which the Gordons and their aunt had been
reduced by circumstances, had hitherto induced Duncan to keep the
mutual passion that subsisted between him and Anna a secret from his
father, who never ceased to talk of some splendid alliance for his son
as one of his most favourite schemes. But as this love of the young
man for the lady waxed stronger, his fondness for fishing was most
strangely and marvellously augmented in a similar proportion. Were I
to attempt to guess at the cause of this whimsical combination of two
predilections apparently so inconsistent with one another, I should
say, that he began daily more and more to take to fishing, because it
furnished him with an apology for more frequently visiting his nurse's
cottage, that was situated on a beautifully wooded knoll rising on the
north bank of the river Aven. It was, moreover, an amusement which
he could pursue without losing the society of her he loved. For as
he loitered along the river's bank with his angle-rod in his hand,
Anna Gordon was ever at his side; and I am doubting much that they
wasted many a good hour in idle talk rather than in fishing. But I am
no more than the simple historian of their tale, therefore it is no
business of mine to defend either him or her from the charge which you
will of necessity bring against both of them for such a mis-spending
of their precious time. However, I'm thinking, gentlemen, that they
must have had some peculiar pleasure in one another's conversation,
or they never would have stolen secretly away thus by them two selves,
as they were continually wont to do, even escaping from Anna's little
sister and brother. The boy, poor little fellow, had been born deaf
and dumb, and could have understood no other language but that of the
eyes; and let me tell you, gentlemen, that learned as I am in tongues,
both ancient and modern, that is one of which I must confess myself to
have no knowledge, though they do say that there is much eloquence in
it when it is rightly comprehended. It was not always an easy matter
to jink these two children, for Duncan Bane had been so kind to both
of them, especially to the poor dumb boy, that wherever he went,
they ran after him like two penny doggies; and as he had too much
good feeling in his composition to allow him to treat them harshly,
he was often obliged to steal their sister Anna away from them when
he wished to have a private saunter with her.
The lovers had one day escaped from them and all the world in this
manner, for Duncan was anxiously desirous to be alone with Anna,
that he might learn from her why it was that her fair brow wore an
unwonted cloud upon it, and why her large blue eyes seemed to have
been dimmed by recent tears. He was impatient till they reached a
grove by the river's side, which was their ordinary place of retreat
when they wished to be free from all vulgar or prying eyes.
"Anna," said the youth, the moment they had got within its shade,
"something unpleasant has befallen thee; though thy face cannot be
robbed of its loveliness, yet it wants to-day that smile which is
wont to be the sunshine of my heart."
"I must try to call it up, then," said she, with an effort to be
playful that could not be mistaken. "I would not have thy heart chill
if I can help it."
"Nay, but I entreat thee to tell me what has vexed thee, my love!" said
he tenderly. "If I cannot relieve thy distress, let me at least share
it with thee!"
"I would fain tell thee, Duncan," replied she, "for I would fain shut
up no secrets from thee in that heart which is so entirely thine;
but"----
"But what, my dearest?" cried Duncan impatiently; "do not keep me
longer in suspense. There ought, indeed, to be no secrets with either
of us that are not shared between us."
"There never shall be any on my part," said Anna, throwing down her
eyes. "And yet--and yet I have much difficulty in uttering what I
would now tell thee."
"Keep me on the rack no longer, my love, I beseech thee!" said Duncan.
"I will take courage to tell thee, then," said she, "but thou must
first give me a solemn promise."
"What! of secrecy?" said Duncan. "Methinks thou mayest safely enough
trust to me in that respect."
"The promise I would exact of thee goes somewhat beyond that of mere
secrecy," said she gravely. "Thou must promise me that thou wilt not
act upon what I have to tell thee, but in such manner as prudence
may permit me to sanction."
"And dost thou think, my Anna," replied Duncan, "that I could ever do,
or desire to do, anything that thou couldst wish me not to do?"
"But promise me, solemnly promise me!" said Anna, persevering with
unwonted eagerness in her demand; "do promise me, I entreat thee!"
"Well, well, I do promise thee,--thus solemnly promise thee," replied
Duncan, kissing the hand which he held. "And now, come! relieve my
anxiety, what is this gloomy secret? This is the first time I have
seen traces of tears in thine eyes since the death of the poor thrush
I gave thee."
"The present matter is somewhat more serious," said Anna, with a
gravity and dignity of manner which he had never seen her assume
before. "Your cousin, Lachlan Dhu, dared this morning to address me in
odious terms, which he called love. I answered him with a scorn and
a reproof which I had hardly believed my young, weak, and untaught
tongue could have used to one of his manhood. But the Blessed Virgin
lent me language; and he stood so abashed before me, that I trust I
have reason to hope that he will not again dare to repeat his offence."
"My cousin Lachlan!" exclaimed Duncan, overwhelmed with
astonishment. "My cousin Lachlan, didst thou say? Did my ears hear
thee aright? Impossible!"
"I grieve to say it is too true," said Anna Gordon.
"O villain, villain!" cried Duncan. "Most deep and consummate
villain! Can so much apparent goodness be but the mask of deceit and
villainy? But--I must straightway question him! I will drag him from
the disguise which he wears, and--and then!"
"Remember that solemn promise which you have this moment made to
me," said Anna, calmly taking his hand. "You see how wise it was in
me to secure it. To be the innocent cause of awakening feud between
kinsmen of blood so near, would indeed be a heavy affliction to me;
and were any of that blood to be spilled--were thy blood to flow--but
thou must keep thy solemn engagement to me; and thou must now pledge
me thy word, that never till I give thee leave to do so wilt thou,
even by a look, discover to anyone what I have now told thee."
"Anna," said Duncan, after some little hesitation, "I will promise
you what you desire; but my promise is given on the faith of a
counter-pledge, which I now expect to have from thee. Promise me,
on thy part, that no such cause of offence shall be again offered to
thee that thou dost not instantly tell me of it."
"My present frankness should be my best pledge that I will do as thou
wouldst have me," said Anna. "But the promise thou hast given me must
then be held as consequently renewed."
"I am content," said Duncan. "I am content to trust that you will
not tie me down too rigidly."
Guileless as Duncan Bane naturally was, he felt it no easy task
to commence and to carry on a train of dissimulation with one with
whom he had been on terms of open and unreserved intercourse of mind
from his childhood, as I may say, save on the one subject of his love
alone. Duncan dreaded that the very next meeting he should have with
his cousin would throw him off his guard. He, therefore, proceeded
forthwith to school himself as to the face and manner he should wear,
and the words he should utter? and so successfully did he do so in
his own judgment, that, after the first interview with his cousin was
over, he congratulated himself that the deep dissatisfaction which
he secretly felt had been entirely shrouded from him who had excited
it. And certainly, whether it was so or not, the crafty Lachlan Dhu
gave him no reason to believe that it was discovered.
It was on the vurra night after this, however, that the Laird of
Ballindalloch was seated in the cap-house of the great round tower
of the castle he had so lately built, engaged in some confidential
talk with his faithful henchman, Ian Grant, when his favourite old
sleuth-hound, that lay beside his chair, raised up his long heavy
ears and growled; and soon afterwards a step was heard ascending the
narrow screw stair leading to the small apartment where they were.
"See who is there, Ian," said the laird, in answer to a gentle tap
at the door.
Ian obeyed, and on opening it one of the domestics appeared to announce
that a stranger, who refused to tell his name, had been brought, at
his own request, to the castle guard-room, having expressed a wish
to be admitted to a private conference with the laird.
"A stranger demands to have an interview with me after the
watch is set, and yet refuses to tell who or what he is!" cried
Ballindalloch. "By Saint Peter, but this smells of treachery,
methinks! Yet let him appear, we fear him not; let him appear, I say,"
repeated he, waving off the attendant. "Ian," continued he after the
man was gone, "look that your dirk be on your thigh."
"My dirk is here, sir, and sharp," readily replied the henchman, as he
moved towards the door, and planted himself beside it, to be prepared
to strike, if any sudden emergency should require him to do so.
Again steps were heard ascending the stair, the door opened, and the
doorway was filled by the bulky figure of a man, whose dark features
were almost entirely hid by a blue Kelso bonnet of more than ordinary
breadth, and the ample web of a large hill plaid, of the red Grant
tartan, put on as Highlanders know how to do when they would fain
conceal themselves, completely enveloped the whole of his figure,
as well as the lower part of his face, leaving little more visible
than the tip of his nose and his dark moustachios. For some moments
he stood silent before Ballindalloch.
"Speak!" said the laird at length. "Thy name and thine errand at this
untimeous hour!"
"Ballindalloch," replied the stranger, looking around him, and glancing
at Ian, "thou shalt have both incontinently, but it must be in thine
own particular ear alone."
"Leave us then, Ian," said Ballindalloch, waving him away, whilst
at the same time he stretched forth his hand to lift his claymore
within easier reach of the place where he sat. "Leave us, I say,
Ian! I would be private with this stranger."
"Uve! uve!" said Ian under his breath; then he moved, hesitated,
shrugged his shoulders, looked at the stranger as if he would have
penetrated him, plaid and all, to the very soul; then he shifted his
position--yet still he did not quit the chamber, but stood and threw
an imploring look of remonstrance towards the laird.
"Begone, Ian!" said Ballindalloch in a voice of impatience; and Ian
at last vanished at the word.
"Sir stranger!" said Ballindalloch, "I hope I may now ask thee to
rid me of all this mystery."
"I am most ready to do so, Ballindalloch," said the other, laying
aside his bonnet and plaid, and showing himself, to all appearance,
entirely unarmed.
"Lachlan Dhu Grant of Tullochcarron?" exclaimed the laird with
astonishment; "what stirring errand has moved thee hither at such
an hour?"
"I come to thee but on peaceful private conference," replied Lachlan
Dhu, with a respectful obeisance: "and I use this secrecy because
it is for the interest of both of us, that what I have to treat of
should reach no other ears but our own."
"Proceed," said Ballindalloch, "thou mayest speak safely here, for
in this place we are beyond all earshot."
"I need not tell thee, Ballindalloch," continued Lachlan Dhu, "I
need not tell thee, I say, that which is sufficiently notour to all,
that mine uncle, old Tullochcarron's patrimony, would have been mine
as a fair succession, had he not married on purpose to disappoint me."
"I know this much," said Ballindalloch, not altogether dissatisfied
to see something like discontent in what he naturally held to be
the enemy's camp. "Perhaps thou hast had but scrimp justice in this
matter."
"Justice!" exclaimed Lachlan Dhu, catching eagerly at his
words. "Justice! I have been deeply wronged. Bred up and cockered
by the old man for a time as his successor, as if it had been with
the very intent of throwing me the more cruelly off, and rendering
the blasting of my hopes the more bitter, from the very fairness of
those blossoms which his pretended warmth of affection had fostered!"
"'Twas not well done in the old man," said Ballindalloch; "but now,
methinks, 'tis past all cure."
"Nay," said Lachlan Dhu sternly, "I hope there is yet ample room
for remede."
"As how, I pr'ythee?" said Ballindalloch.
"Mark me, and thou shalt quickly learn," said Lachlan Dhu. "But first
of all I must tell thee, that I now come to offer myself to thee as
thy vassal on this simple condition, that thou wilt give me thine
aid and countenance against all questioners to help me to keep what
shall be mine own after I shall have fairly won it."
"And how dost thou propose to win it?" demanded Ballindalloch,
with a grave and serious air that seemed to argue a most attentive
consideration of a proposal in itself so inviting to him.
"By secretly ridding myself of mine uncle's sickly stripling boy,
whenever favouring fortune may yield me fitting opportunity,"
replied Lachlan Dhu, approaching his head nearer to Ballindalloch,
and sinking his voice to a low sepulchral tone, and with a coolness
that might have befitted a practised murderer.
"What!" exclaimed Ballindalloch, with an air of surprise. "What hath
the youth done to deserve so much of thy hatred?"
"Twice hath he crossed my path," continued Lachlan Dhu, his features
blackening, and his dark eyeballs rolling as he spoke. "He hath twice
crossed my path; first when he came into this world, and now a second
time by thwarting me in my love."
"And what have I to do with all this?" demanded Ballindalloch.
"Much," replied Lachlan Dhu earnestly. "I am now thy sworn vassal. The
feudal superiority of Tullochcarron will henceforth insure to thee
friendship and strength, where thou hast long had to deal with open
or secret foes, and"----
"Thou speakest as if thou wert already Laird of Tullochcarron,"
said Ballindalloch, interrupting him.
"That young foulmart once disposed of, I soon shall be," said
Lachlan Dhu, with fiend-like expression. "Mine uncle's time cannot
now be long, even were nature left to take its course; or,--it may
be shortened. Sudden death to a man of his gross form and purfled
habit could never seem strange; and then"----
"True," said Ballindalloch calmly; "but how can I aid thee in thy
scheme?"
"I lack no present aid while I have this arm," replied Lachlan Dhu;
"it is the support and defence of thy faithful vassal, Lachlan Dhu
Grant, Laird of Tullochcarron, that I require of thee, if unhappily
some unlucky circumstance should awaken idle suspicions against him."
"I trust I shall always know how to defend my vassals," said
Ballindalloch proudly.
"Then am I safe," said Lachlan Dhu; "but in the meanwhile secrecy is
essential to our purpose."
"I hope I have prudence enough to know how to conduct myself in all
cases of delicacy," replied Ballindalloch.
"'Tis well," said Lachlan Dhu, again folding his plaid around
him, and putting on his bonnet. "Now I must begone; for time
presses. Farewell! I shall trust to thee, and thou mayest trust to me."
"I shall not forget what is due to thee, when thou art my vassal,"
said the laird, "nor shall I ever forget what ought at all times to
be expected from Ballindalloch. Here, Ian Dhu, see this stranger safe
beyond the walls and outposts."
The night I speak of seemed to be quite pregnant with strange
visitations; for, at a still later hour, after old Tullochcarron
had himself seen that the guard at the barbican of his small place
of strength was on the alert, and had secured the iron doors of the
entrance of the peel-tower, and had finally retired to his apartment
to go to rest, he was surprised to see a packet lying on his table,
of which no one of his attendants could give him any account. It was
tied with a morsel of ribbon, the ends of which were secured with wax,
but without any impression. It was simply addressed:--
"To Tullochcarron."
And on cutting it open, he found that it contained the following
letter, with a broad seal at the end of it.
"Tullochcarron,--I write this private communication, to tell thee that
thou hast a traitor in thy house, that thou dost nourish a viper in
thy bosom that would sting thee. The life of thine only son is certain
to be taken, if thou dost not secure it by the instant seizure of
thy nephew, Lachlan Dhu. Thine own murder will speedily follow. The
cold-blooded villain came to me secretly under the cloud of this
night, and did unfold his devilish plans, offering to me the feudal
superiority of thy lands of Tullochcarron, provided I should protect
him as my vassal against all after question. I seemed to listen, and
yet I evited direct promise; and I now hasten to certiorate thee of
these facts through ane trusty messenger, who engages, by certain means
best known to himself, to have these placed upon thine own private
table before thou sleepest. This traitorie is as yet alone known to
thee, to me, to the foul faitour who planned, and to the devil who
prompted it. And that thou mayest have no doubt left in thee of the
truth of what I have here written, I do hereto affix my sign-manual,
as well as the seal, the which is attached to the last instrument of
pacification that passed between our houses.--Ballindalloch."
You may conceive, gentlemen, that this letter, read alone, at midnight
in his chamber, dreadfully alarmed old Tullochcarron. He started from
the large oaken chair in which he had seated himself to peruse it,
and snatching his lamp, he rushed to his son's apartment, where he
held up the light, and gazed with fear and trembling on his son's
couch, almost expecting to see his boy foully murdered, and weltering
in his blood. Stretched on his bed, he did indeed find him; but his
eyes were closed in the sweet slumbers that attend the pillow of pure
and spotless youth. He gazed on him in silent anxiety for some time,
till he was really certain that he breathed; and then the old man's
lip quivered, and his eyes were dimmed by the big drops that rapidly
distilled over his eyelids. Stooping gently down, he kissed Duncan's
cheek, and then quitting the room upon tiptoe, he called up an old
and tried domestic.
"Hamish," said he, "I had a strange and troubled dream, as I dozed
in mine arm-chair."
"Thou didst sup somewhat of the heaviest, Tullochcarron," replied
Hamish. "After so many pounds' weight of salmon, 'tis but little
wonder if the foul hag on her nightmare should have been riding over
and over thee."
"Psha!" said Tullochcarron in a vexed tone and manner that showed
he was too seriously affected to be trifled with. "My dream touched
the safety of thy young master. Hark ye! I bid thee watch his couch,
and let no one approach it with impunity."
"My young master!" said Hamish with energy. "These grey hairs shall
be trodden under foot ere the latch of his door shall be touched."
"I know thy fidelity," said Tullochcarron. "Be sure thou givest me
the alarm if aught extraordinary should occur."
Having taken this hasty precaution, the old Laird of Tullochcarron
again seated himself in his arm-chair to read over for the second
time the alarming communication he had received. Ballindalloch's
name and seal were the first things his eyes rested on after opening
it. Doubts and suspicions instantly flashed across his mind.
"What a silly fool am I after all," said he, "to let any information
from such a quarter so agitate me! What truth is to be expected from a
house so full of hereditary enmity against mine of Tullochcarron! And
is not Lachlan Dhu the son of that very brother of mine who worked
so much sore evil to the house of Ballindalloch? And is he not at
this moment the best, the stoutest, and the sharpest arrow I have in
my quiver? And are not these reasons enough to prompt such a secret
enemy to urge me to whet my knife against him? Dull old idiot that I
was! but now I see it all! I see it all! What a trap was I about to run
my head into! But stay, let me think what is best to be done. Prudent
precautions with regard to my son can do no harm. I shall put him
well on his guard; and that secured, the best thing I can do is to
bury the contents of this paper in mine own bosom."
With such determinations as these, Tullochcarron retired to rest;
but his repose was disturbed and put to flight by visions which were
not altogether to be laid to the account of the heavy meal he had
taken ere he retired to rest. He was early visited by his son Duncan.
"Father," said the young man, "how was it that old Hamish took post in
my chamber last night? I found him sitting by my bedside at daybreak
this morning, and all the explanation I could extract from him was
that he had the laird's orders for being there."
"He had my orders my dear boy," said Tullochcarron, pressing his son
to his bosom, and kissing his forehead. "A strange dream had come
over me, that alarmed my foolish old heart about thy safety."
"A dream about me!" said the young man smiling. "What harm couldst
thou dread for me, father?"
"I dreamed that thy life was threatened, boy," said his father;
"and therefore it was that I made Hamish watch thee."
"My life in danger, father!" exclaimed Duncan, "and from whose hand?"
"From the hand of thy cousin Lachlan Dhu," replied his father. "Hast
thou any cause to dread that my dream might have aught of reality
in it?"
"My cousin Lachlan Dhu!" exclaimed Duncan, with unfeigned
surprise. "Nay," continued he, after some little hesitation, during
which he remembered the promise he had given to Anna Gordon; "why
should I think that Lachlan should wish to injure me?"
"Why should we think it, indeed?" exclaimed the old man, with
considerable emotion. "Both I and mine should look for anything but
hostility from Lachlan Dhu, if there be any faith or gratitude left
in man. Let us then think no more about it."
"Trust me, I shall think no more of it," said Duncan.
"Aye!" said the old man again; "but yet I'd have thee to be cautious. I
would entreat thee to guard thyself as if there were danger. Thou
hast a dirk and a hand to use it, boy! Thou hast a claymore and an
arm that can wield it; and though thou art as yet but a stripling,
still thou art the son of old Tullochcarron! But let faithful Hamish
be thy constant henchman, and then my heart will be at ease."
"I will defend mine own head as a true Tullochcarron should do,
if dirk or steel can do it," said the youth energetically, and by
no means relishing the idea of his motions being watched, and his
person eternally haunted by an attendant. "But I have nothing to fear,
and Hamish might be better employed than in following me in all my
idle wanderings."
Duncan thought with himself that he had perhaps better grounds for
entertaining some suspicion of evil intentions against him on the
part of his kinsman, than any which a dream could have afforded to
his father; and yet we must not wonder, gentlemen, that, in such
superstitious times, old Tullochcarron's alleged vision had also
its own effect upon the young man, when taken in combination with
that strange new light that had recently opened on his cousin's
character. The gallant youth was above all fear, however; but he
had prudence enough to resolve to expose himself to no unnecessary
danger. As to old Hamish, Duncan thought it better to gratify his
father by allowing that faithful servant to be his companion at all
times, save and except only when he went to meet her, of his attachment
to whom he still thought it wise to keep Tullochcarron ignorant. Then,
indeed, the god of love inspired him with so much ingenuity in escaping
from his attendant, that he baffled every attempt at discovery.
It was upon one of these occasions, when he had an especial wish to
have an hour or two of private talk with Anna Gordon, that he, in the
first place, contrived to escape from old Hamish, and afterwards to
steal her from her dumb brother and little sister. Away tripped the
pair together laughing, and rejoicing in their own cleverness. Duncan
had his angle-rod in his hand, but he wandered with Anna through
the groves, by the margin of the Aven, without ever thinking of
casting a line into its waters. The subject of their conversation
was one of peculiar interest to both of them, for Duncan had sought
this interview for the purpose of informing her that, from certain
circumstances which had recently occurred, he was led to believe that
their secret attachment might now be safely divulged to the old laird
his father, in the hope that he might be brought to consent to the
speedy solemnisation of their marriage. The time they spent together
was by no means short, though to them it appeared as trifling. At
length they found out that it was time to part, and a more than usually
lingering parting took place between them on the top of that vurra
high and precipitous crag, where now rests the northern extremity of
the noble bridge that spans the river Aven above Ballindalloch. When
they did at last sever from each other, Anna took her way homeward
by a footpath leading up the river through the thick oak copsewood
that covered the ground behind it, and clustered to the very brink
of the precipice where she left Duncan.
The young man stood entranced with his own happy thoughts for a
moment after Anna had disappeared, and then bethinking him that
he must hasten to make the best use of the time that now remained,
if he would not return empty-handed to his father, he stood on the
verge of the cliff, eyeing the stream below, and thoroughly occupied
in preparing his tackle with all manner of expedition, previous to
descending by a circuitous way to the water's edge to commence his
sport. He was alone, as you may think, gentlemen; but there was an
evil eye that watched him with the tiger's lurid and unvarying gaze,
aye, with such a gaze as the tiger's fiery orbs assume when he has
slowly and silently tracked his unconscious prey through all the
mazes of the jungle, till he at last beholds it within his reach. As
the head of the traitor Lachlan Dhu appeared from the thicket within
three paces of the spot where young Tullochcarron stood, a fiendish
smile of eager triumph gave a hellish expression to its features. It
was but one desperate spring. One piercing shriek was uttered by
the unhappy Duncan Bane, and in one instant his lifeless corse was
floating, shattered and bleeding, on the crystal stream of the Aven.
That scream was heard by Anna Gordon, and from the moment it entered
into her ears, it never left her mind. As it reached her, she happened
to be passing round a turn of the river some little way above, whence
the fatal crag was still visible.
"Merciful saints!" she cried, as she turned quickly round, "that was
my Duncan's voice!"
She caught one instantaneous glimpse of the figure of Lachlan Dhu,
as he fled from the summit of the crag. A dreadful suspicion shot
across her mind. Winged by her agonising terrors, she flew back to
the spot where she had parted with Duncan. There she met the poor
dumb boy, her brother, pulling his little sister along by the arm. No
sooner did he behold Anna, than with a wild animation of countenance,
and with gesture so expressive, that no one but a creature deprived
of the power of language could have employed, he imitated the action
of one person pushing another over the face of the cliff, and then he
ran down the path that followed the course of the stream. Anna rushed
franticly after him; and when she had reached the margin of the Aven,
her eyes rested on the lifeless corse of her beloved, which had been
carried by the eddying current into a little quiet nook, where it
lay half-stranded on a grassy bank.
It happened that old Hamish, who as usual had been anxiously seeking
his young master, came a few moments afterwards accidentally to the
same spot; and what a spectacle did he behold! Seated on the bank by
the water's edge was the wretched Anna Gordon, with her lover's mangled
and bleeding head upon her knee. Her eyes were fixed upon its livid
and gory features, as if they had been gazing on vacancy. Not a tear
flowed, not a groan nor a sigh was uttered. A monumental group could
not have been more motionless or silent. Hamish was distracted. He
tried to make her speak; for altogether ignorant of the powerful
cause of interest which operated upon her, he viewed her but as an
idle spectator, an indifferent person, from whom he anxiously desired
to extract something that might enable him to guess as to how this
dreadful calamity had occurred. His questions were rapid, urgent,
and incessant; but still she minded him not, until he bent forward
as if to attempt to lift the body from her knee. Then it was, that
turning round with all the frenzied dignity of fixed insanity, she
fastened the severe gaze of her unsettled eyes upon him, and spoke
in a tone that froze his very heart.
"Begone, old man!" said she, "begone. What! wouldst thou rob me of my
love on our bridal day? He is mine! he is mine! But hush," said she,
suddenly lowering her voice and changing her expression, "hush! he
sleeps! He slumbers sweetly now. But he will awake anon with smiles,
and then our bridal revels will begin. Go, go, old man! go, bid the
guests! Bid all!--bid all, I tell thee!--bid all, but--but--the
murderer!" A shrill shriek, graduating into a violent hysterical
laugh, followed these wild wandering words; and a convulsion shook
her delicate frame till she fainted away, as if life itself had fled
from her.
I must leave this heart-rending scene, gentlemen, to tell you what
soon afterwards took place in the old peel-tower of Tullochcarron.
"What!" exclaimed the laird, as he was in the act of sitting down to
one of those many meals which the craving of his naturally enormous
appetite rendered so essentially necessary for him. "What!" said he,
"still no salmon? Hath Duncan not yet returned, then? Why, methinks
the boy must have tyned his luck altogether. But I trow that the fish
have lost the way into our waters, they are so rare to be seen. Ha! who
comes there with haste so impatient? Is it thou, Lachlan Dhu?"
"Alas, uncle!" cried the murderer, rushing in without his bonnet,
and with a frantic air, "alas, uncle! alas! alas! Duncan! Duncan!"
"What--what of Duncan?" exclaimed the anxious and alarmed father,
starting from the table.
"Duncan," cried the traitor, "my poor cousin Duncan is no more?"
"What! Duncan? Villain! accursed villain! you lie," cried the old
man half-distracted, and grappling his nephew by the throat with his
powerful gripe. "You lie, most accursed villain!"
"Alas! alas! I wish I did!" said Lachlan Dhu, with feigned sorrow. "But
I grieve to say that what I tell is, alas, too true. I was walking
accidentally by the banks of the Aven, about a bowshot above the high
craig, when, on looking towards it, I beheld him standing carelessly
on the very brink of the cliff; and whether it was that his foot
had tripped upon some of those roots that scramble for a sustenance
over the surface of the rock, or whether some sudden gust of wind
had caught him, I know not; but I saw him fall headlong thence; and
after being dashed horribly against the projecting points below,
I could perceive his inanimate body borne off by the stream. Wild
with despair, and scarcely knowing what I was doing, I ran directly
home hither to tell thee the doleful news; and"----
"Villain!" shouted the old man in a voice like thunder. "Villain! thou
art his murderer. Seize him, and drag him hence to the dungeon. He hath
reft me of my boy! my only hope on earth! the solace of my old age! O
fool! fool! Why did I not take the well-meant warning? Oh! I am now
indeed bereft! But his murderer must die ere the sun goes down. Where
is Hamish? He at least should have been at my poor Duncan's side!"
At that moment Hamish himself entered. He whose hypocritical acting I
have just described, had taken so long to prepare it for exhibition
that this old and faithful attendant had had full time to procure
help to carry his young master's remains, and had now come on before
the body, with the well-meant intention of breaking the afflicting
intelligence as easily as he could to the bereaved father. He had been
relieved of the task, as I have already told you; and the sad news
had spread so, that all the vassals and dependants within reach had
crowded to meet the body of their beloved Duncan Bane. The woeful
wail of the pipes was heard at a distance. The old laird became
dreadfully agitated. The sound drew nearer. Tullochcarron bit his
nether lip, clenched his hands, and wound himself up to go through
with the trying scene as he felt that Tullochcarron should do. He put
on his bonnet with energy, wrapped his plaid tight around him, and
descended with a resolute step into the court-yard. The clang of the
pipes became louder; and yet a louder crash of their rude music burst
forth, as they passed inwards from beneath the arched gateway. The
old man strode two or three steps forcibly forwards, with his eyes
fixed upon the spot where the rush of human figures came squeezing
in. At length his sight fell on the bloody corse of his murdered son,
his only earthly hope; and he became rooted to the ground he stood on.
And now a light airy figure appeared tripping fantastically beside the
bier with her hair fancifully wreathed up with worthless weeds. She
came dancing towards the old laird with gay smiles upon her face,
and threw herself upon her knee before him.
"Thy blessing, father! thy blessing!" said she, "we come to crave
thy blessing, father! and now," continued she, starting up, "let
the feast be prepared!--and the dance!--for Duncan, thine own dear
Duncan, has made me his bride, and I am the happiest maiden in all
Scotland! See, see! look here, how gaily my head is garlanded! Indeed,
indeed, as all the neighbours were wont to say, we were made for each
other. And now I am Duncan's bride! Aye, gentlefolks!" added she,
curtseying gracefully around, and then hiding her blushing face in
her hands for a moment, "and I shall soon be my Duncan's lady! So,
as the fair maid sings in the old ballad,--
'Oh! I shall henceforth be, my love,
As happy as a queen,
For such a youth as thee, my love,
Was never, never seen--never! no, never!'
Father! father! thou art my father now as well as Duncan's--hath not
Duncan told thee all, father? Methinks it was but to-day that we agreed
to break the secret of our love to thee; and Duncan, thine own Duncan
Bane, was to tell thee all! and thou wert to give us thy blessing;
and we were to be wedded--aye, wedded as man and wife, never again to
sunder--but my brain so burns with joy, and my foolish heart beats so,
that--but no matter--ha!--I forget--I must go bid the guests!--I must
away--I must go bid the bridal guests, they will take it all the kinder
that I bid them myself. Hush, then!" added she, sinking her voice, and
approaching the bier upon tiptoe, and gently stooping to kiss the cold
lips of the corse. "Hush, then, Duncan, my love, rest thee in sweet
slumber till I return. All good be with ye, good gentlefolks. Mark me,
I bid ye all to our bridal; but I have other guests to bid--I must
away!--I have many guests to bid--away, away!" and so she hurried
forth from the gateway, singing as she went,--
"And when that we shall wedded be,
All by the holy priest,
Full many a knight and lady bright
Shall grace our bridal feast."
The true interpretation of the cause of Anna's frenzy came palpably
to the mind of the old laird of Tullochcarron. Whatever he might have
thought of the attachment of the lovers under other circumstances,
he now felt that the discovery of it had only come like a gleam of
sunshine to enhance the brightness of those earthly prospects which
were henceforth darkened for ever. Yet still with iron nerve he strung
himself firmly up to bear it all. He gave one piteous glance of despair
towards the bier where lay the dead body of his son, his only child,
and then he suffered himself to be led passively up into the hall
of the peel-tower, whither the corpse was immediately carried and
laid out. Then it was that human courage could no longer support
him,--it yielded, and he gave way to all a father's grief. For
a time he indulged fully in this; and then, drying up his tears,
he summoned his vassals, ordered in the prisoner Lachlan Dhu, and
instantly proceeded to hold a court upon him.
The murderer would have fain denied his guilt, but little evidence
was necessary to convict in those days. In this case there was enough
to convince all present. An assize was set upon him--Ballindalloch's
letter was produced and read: at once his bold and resolute air of
innocence was shaken. The prisoner's own statement as to the point
where he stood when he had witnessed the alleged accident, was proved
to be false by old Hamish, who chanced to see him whilst running
along a path which led, not from that point, but directly from the
brow of the cliff whence Duncan Bane had met his death. The dumb boy
described and pointed out, with most intelligent action, how and by
whom the murder was perpetrated; and his little sister distinctly told,
that she and her brother had seen Lachlan Dhu push Duncan Bane over
the crag. Finally, the sheet was removed from the body of Duncan,
and then, they say, the wounds began to well forth afresh; and the
agitation of the murderer was so great, that he called for a priest,
confessed all, was shortly shriven; and as the sun of that day which
had witnessed his crime was preparing to disappear behind the western
mountains, its slanting rays were throwing a horrible splendour over
his powerful but now exanimate frame, as it swung to and fro in the
evening breeze from the fatal tree on the gallow hill.
The afflicted Anna Gordon wandered wildly about with maniac energy
during all that day, no one knew where. At last, her friends, who
went in search of her, found her on the mountain, and led her gently
homewards. It happened that the path they took passed by the gallow
hill. At some distance off she descried the figure of him who had so
recently paid the penalty of his crime.
"Yonder is a guest! I will bid yonder guest!" cried poor Anna,
with a frantic laugh, as she broke from her friends, and hurried
towards the spot where it hung, ere anyone could arrest her. She
stood for some moments with her eyes steadily fixed upon the
ghastly visage, and then bursting out in a sudden fit of frenzy,
"I heard my Duncan's cry!" she shrieked aloud, in a voice that
pierced the ears and the hearts of all who heard her. "'Twas his
last joyous cry to call me to our bridal! quick! quick!--let us
away!--hark!--hark!--again!--again!--again!"
She rushed rapidly forwards a few steps, as if she had been flying to
meet her lover. She tottered, and fell in a swoon, was borne home by
her friends in a state of stupor, and placed in bed. But it would seem
that some internal and vital failure had taken place, for the poor
thing ceased to breathe; and the gentle spirit of Anna Gordon fled
to unite itself with that of him she loved. Nor were their earthly
remains sundered, for the father of Duncan Bane saw them consigned
together to the same grave, and he wept over them both.
The old laird of Tullochcarron was but little seen beyond the
court-yard of his peel-tower for many weeks after his son's murder;
then, indeed, he did come abroad, as if to superintend his affairs as
he was wont to do, but it was more because he thought that it was right
for him so to do, than from any relish he had in the employment. It
was this conviction of what was expected of him, that likewise made him
force a false smile of cheerfulness over his good-humoured countenance,
which, alas! was with him but as the sunshine that gilded the sepulchre
of inextinguishable mourning within. One of the first visits that he
paid was to the castle of his ancient feudal enemy, Ballindalloch. He
was kindly received, for his severe recent affliction was sincerely
pitied by his generous neighbour.
"Ballindalloch," said he, "I am come to thank thee for the friendly
caution which thou gavest to a foolish old man, who, if he had taken
it as it was meant, would have had his roof-tree still fresh and
firm. But let that pass," continued he, with a sigh, and with the full
tear rising over his eyelid. "The obligation I owe to thee is not the
less, that I, blinded man, refused to give more heed to thy caution."
"Talk not of this, sir," said Ballindalloch. "I must e'en confess
to thee, Tullochcarron, that the advice came from so questionable
a quarter, that had I been in thy case I might have spurned it
myself. But say, sir, wilt thou not eat and drink with me?"
"Willingly," replied Tullochcarron.
"Wilt thou name aught that might, perchance, be most pleasing to thy
taste?" said Ballindalloch.
"I know I need not ask for salmon," said Tullochcarron, "for such
food is hardly now to be had."
"Though the fish have been somewhat rare with us of late," said
Ballindalloch, "I think I can promise thee that thou shalt have as
much of thy favourite dish as shall satisfy thee."
"Alas!" said Tullochcarron with a faltering voice, and with a tear
rolling down his cheek, "salmon have, indeed, been rare with me
since--since--but," added he, making a strong effort to overcome
the feelings excited by the recollection of his son, and perhaps
with the hope of hiding his agitation under a good-humoured jest,
"I hear that the salmon are so bewitched, that they hardly ever come
farther inland now than the Bog of Gight. In so great a scarcity,
then, I much doubt whether the stock of fresh fish within the Castle
of Ballindalloch will stand against my well-known voracity."
"Be assured that there is as much in the house, of mine own catching,
too, as will extinguish thine appetite, and leave something to spare,"
said Ballindalloch.
"Thou knowest not what a cormorant I am," said Tullochcarron.
"I have heard much of thy powers," said Ballindalloch.
"And I am as sharp set at this moment as ever I was in my life,"
said Tullochcarron.
"All that may be; yet I fear thee not," said Ballindalloch laughing.
"Art thou bold enough to lay a wager on the issue?" demanded
Tullochcarron.
"I am so bold," said Ballindalloch.
"Well, then," said Tullochcarron, "I will wager thee the succession
and heirship of my lands against thy grey gelding, that I shall not
leave thee a morsel to spare."
"Thou dost give me brave odds, indeed," said Ballindalloch; "thou
hadst best bethink thee again ere we strike thumbs on it."
"Nay, I require no more thought," said Tullochcarron; "and, moreover,
I grow hungrier every moment. Besides," said the old man with a sigh,
that showed that all this jocularity was only assumed to cover a
broken heart; "I am putting in peril that in which I can have no
interest, whilst, if I win thy gallant grey, I shall be sure of being
well mounted for the rest of my life. Art thou afraid of losing thy
steed? or wilt thou say done to the wager?"
"I do say done, then, since thou wilt have it so," said Ballindalloch,
and he accordingly gave the necessary orders for having the matter
put to the proof.
After a little time, a serving man entered with a covered trencher, in
which lay, smoking hot, one half of a small salmon. When Tullochcarron
lifted the cover, he eyed it with something like contempt, and
impelled as he was by his irresistible disease, he fell upon it, and
devoured it with an alacrity that astonished every beholder. A whole
salmon, but of moderate size, was then brought in, and was instantly
attacked by Tullochcarron with as much avidity as if he had not eaten
a morsel. Wonderfully and fearfully did he go on to clear his way
through it; but as he approached the conclusion of it, his jaws began
to go rather more languidly than before. Ballindalloch observed this.
"Ho there! bring more salmon!" cried he aloud.
"No," said Tullochcarron, shoving the trencher from him, and wiping
his knife and fork in his napkin, and sticking them into his dirk
sheath. "No, no; I have enough. Ballindalloch, my lands shall be
yours the moment the breath is out of my body."
"Nay, then," said Ballindalloch, "I must in truth and honesty confess
that I called for more salmon but as a bravado; for thou hast indeed
finished all the salmon that was in the house, and it is my grey
gelding that is thine, not thy lands that are mine."
"It matters not, Ballindalloch," replied the other. "The lands of
Tullochcarron are thine notwithstanding. See, there are the writings
which I had made out the week after my poor Duncan was so foully
murdered. Thou wilt find that thy name was then inserted therein. I
but seized on this of the wager as a whimsical means of breaking
the matter to thee; and now thou mayest make of Tullochcarron what
it may please thee. I shall not stand long in the way, poor decayed
sproutless stock as I am! and I have now known enough of thee to be
convinced that thou wilt not see me kicked over before my time; but
that thou wilt take care of me during the brief space that I may yet
cumber this earth, and see me laid decently beside Duncan when I die."
Such then, gentlemen, was the way in which the lands of Tullochcarron
came to be united to those of Ballindalloch,--ane union, the which
I am told, did vurra much impruv the value of both, and which still
subsists to the present day.