that night. The only companion that accompanied the messenger of peace
was the dog who had so strangely rescued Roderick from the maniacal
attempt of the old nurse. This escort was accidental, and was not
discovered until the traveller had crossed the lake in the boat, which
his own hand rowed; when, to his great surprise, as he jumped ashore,
the animal, who had quietly slipped aboard, made his appearance.
"Poor fellow," said Roderick, patting him on the head, "what has brought
you here? Your old limbs are more fitted for the fireside than for the
devious path I must tread. I fear you will regret exchanging the
comforts of the tower for the scanty food of the mountain glen."
The distance Roderick had to go was considerable; and, although a good
walker, and accustomed to traverse districts as wild, if not wilder, he
was unable to accomplish more than thirty miles of his journey; for, as
the dog gave evident tokens of fatigue, and was unable to keep up with
him, he slackened his pace, and proceeded with less rapidity. The night
was dark, and the traveller had wandered considerably from the right
path; he saw no traces of civilisation about him; he was apparently in
the midst of a large and boundless moor.
"Well, it is not the first time that the heath has been my bed--probably
it will not be the last; and, if it must be, I will roll myself up in my
plaid, and sleep till dawn. O Oscar, you old fool! why did you not
remain where you were? You have deprived me of at least ten miles of my
journey, and a comfortable bed to boot."
At this moment the horizon was illumined by a flash of what is termed
sheet-lightning, and Roderick observed what appeared to be a dwelling
about a quarter-of-a-mile distant. The discovery was certainly far from
displeasing; and although the place was much out of the way, Roderick
naturally enough conjectured it to be some little snug dwelling,
admirably adapted for the purpose of illicit distillation.
After the ordinary pleasure frequently enjoyed by those who wander in
unknown paths through Highland districts, of plunging knee-deep in
quagmires, and getting thoroughly drenched by the cooling mists from the
mountains, Roderick, with some difficulty, arrived at the wished-for
haven. It was a small and tolerable-looking bothy, containing, so far as
the wanderer could ascertain, a butt and ben. Peeping through a clink in
the small orifice intended for a window, it was with no ordinary delight
he beheld a capital peat-fire, burning with more than accustomed
briskness. As the door was fastened, he "tirled at the pin," as the old
ballads term it. A hoarse, but evidently female, voice exclaimed--
"Wha's that, to disturb an honest woman at this time o' nicht?"
"A stranger, who has lost his way."
"Awa wi' ye; we've nae room for strangers in this kintry; gang your
ways."
"But, my good woman, I really can do no such thing. Have you the
conscience--can you think of sending me back to the bleak moor through
which I have been passing, when you have such a capital fire blazing
away here? Come, now, have some compassion."
"Let him in, Christie," exclaimed another voice, proceeding evidently
from one of a different gender; "perhaps he may come from Macpherson."
The mandate was obeyed; and Roderick found himself in presence of two
men, dressed in military attire, and a middle-aged woman of somewhat
repulsive aspect. The warlike individuals were making themselves
comfortable over a bottle of mountain-dew; and the potency of the
"fire-water," as the Indians term it, was pretty evident, from the
flushed countenance and thick utterance of the drinkers.
"I am sorry to intrude on you, gentlemen," apologised Roderick; "but I
lost my way on the neighbouring moor, and my good stars guided me to
this habitation, where I hope----"
"No apologies--no apologies, sir. I have seen service, sir; I receive
his majesty's pay; and know how to treat a gentleman as he ought to be
treated, sir. Will you join us in a glass, sir?"
Roderick was by no means desirous of partaking of the offer thus so
ostentatiously offered; but, as it was his wish to conciliate rather
than offend, he pocketed his pride, and took his place at the deal
board, which, placed on the top of an old whisky cask, served for a
table.
"May I be bold enough, sir, to ask whom I have the honour of pledging?"
quoth the inviter, filling his glass. "My name, sir, is Serjeant
Patullo--Serjeant Patullo, of his Majesty's fifth troop of cavalry."
With some hesitation, the name of Campbell was uttered by Roderick.
"Campbell, sir? good name--loyal subjects to his gracious Majesty. Mr.
Campbell, allow me to introduce Private Kincaid. Your health, Mr.
Campbell. Are you in the army, Mr. Campbell? Pardon me for the question,
sir; but you have a fine military look."
"I am not presently employed, although, at one period, I saw a good
deal of service; but pray, sir--question for question--may I ask to what
accident I am to attribute the presence of two military gentlemen in
this out-of-the-way place in the Highlands?
"You may well call it out of the way, sir; but a soldier's duty, sir,
requires his presence where his country calls him, sir. I am sorry, sir,
that I cannot divulge to so polite a gentleman (more especially, sir,
as, with your leave, there is somewhat a scant of good breeding in this
petticoat country) the cause of our presence here; but state secrets,
sir, must not be divulged."
"Certainly," replied Roderick. "I cannot press you further. You will
forgive me for pleading fatigue; but, with your leave, I must take a
hurried nap, as I require to be early on my road to-morrow morning.
Good-night, gentlemen." So saying, he threw himself on a bed in a corner
of the room, wrapping himself up in his plaid. The dog took his place
beside him.
Roderick soon fell asleep. How long he slumbered he did not know; but he
was awakened at last by a confused Babel of voices. Opening his eyes, he
saw a third person present, and discovered a face which seemed familiar.
The discovery was anything but pleasant; and, he deemed it prudent to
remain quiet, and to counterfeit that repose which he certainly was far
from feeling.
The parties engaged in altercation had evidently been drinking deeply.
The serjeant had thrown by his precision, and was talking volubly.
"I'll tell you, ye Highland blackguard, the man's a gentleman, and you
shall not disturb him."
"But," replied the stranger, "I'm no going to be a fule, if ye are ane,
serjeant. If ony o' the band get an inkling o' what I'm about, ye'll
never put saut on their tails."
"Nonsense," quoth Private Kincaid; "the man's asleep, and never dreaming
of caterans, or the Glen of Benvorlich. I wish the Highland devils may
be as sound as he is when we get there."
"Just let him be quiet, Macpherson," said the serjeant. "I wish I was as
sure of fifty guineas as you are. Come, let's be jolly--fill your
tumbler and don't shirk."
Roderick, who, on other occasions, would have scorned to have become an
eavesdropper, was impelled by strong and urgent reasons to be a
listener; and he easily gathered, from the broken and disjointed
conversation of the parties, that Macpherson had been connected with the
band of caterans of whom the titular Inshannock was the leader; that,
from a quarrel, he had resolved to betray his companions; and induced by
a government reward and promise of pardon, had made the bothy a
trysting-place, from whence he was to be conducted to a village some few
miles distant, where a detachment of the king's troops was stationed,
from whence he was to guide them to the hiding-place of those who were
sought.
By this time the small hours were gradually becoming larger, and
daylight was beginning to creep through the crevices in the diminutive
window. The revellers were thoroughly inebriated; and Macpherson, no
longer awed by his commander-in-chief, again vowed his determination of
rousing the object of his curiosity. The serjeant hiccupped a negative,
to which no attention was paid; and Macpherson advanced, as steadily as
the effect of his libations would permit, to the side of the bed were
Roderick lay, apparently fast asleep. The man of curiosity tottered
onward towards the bed; but fate had willed that he should be baffled;
for Oscar, who had been watching his footsteps with jealous care, sprang
upon him, as he put forth his hand to remove the plaid from the head of
the supposed sleeper. The suddenness of the attack brought the intruder
to the ground; and the fall entirely removed any glimmerings of reason
which his previous inebriety had left him. There he lay all his length
in a state of hopeless intoxication.
"Served him right," mutually exclaimed the serjeant and the private;
"but what can you expect from a Mac?"
"The Macphersons, Macgregors, and all, are not much better than
savages," added the serjeant; who, being a Lowlander, felt that contempt
for the Highlanders so common amongst the more southern inhabitants of
Scotland.
It is a curious fact--perhaps affording better evidence of the
distinctiveness of the two races inhabiting North Britain than any
other--that the dislike of the Lowlanders, especially among the lower
orders, towards their brethren of the mountains, was extreme, both at
the period when the events here related occurred, and long previously:
even in these modern times, some portion of the leaven remains. This
feeling Serjeant Patullo, a native of Dalkeith, shared with his
compatriots.
Roderick rose from the bed not much refreshed, but infinitely delighted
by the unexpected manner in which the attempt of Macpherson had been
frustrated. Shaking hands with the two military personages, who were
just able to keep their feet, and giving his repulsive hostess a
gratuity for her night's lodgings, he proceeded on his journey,
accompanied by his faithful companion.
"Oscar, twice you have saved me; and your last service was greater than
your first. Henceforward we never part."
The rest of the journey was accomplished with speed and safety. The glen
of Benvorlich was reached. Two days afterwards the king's troops
arrived; but the nest was cold, and not one trace of the caterans could
be found. Little did the worthy serjeant imagine through whose timely
information the well-arranged scheme had proved abortive. On the
contrary, his suspicions rested on Macpherson, who was taken back in
custody, to the port of Monteith, and there dismissed with ignominy. A
week or two afterwards, he was found murdered, with a label on his
breast, bearing these words--"The proper reward of a traitor."
The day preceding that fixed for the nuptials, Roderick returned in
safety--Oscar following at his heel. He made no mention of his adventure
in the bothy, or his second obligation to his canine attendant; he
merely observed that his journey had been prosperous.
"Father, I have seen him; and in the leader of the caterans, the heir of
Inshannock was detected. He knew me not as your son. I told him your
sorrow and your proffer; and here is his answer."
Here he delivered a letter to Campbell, who, hastily unfolding it, read
as follows:--
"DONALD CAMPBELL,--In vain you seek, by offering back my own,
to extinguish my hatred. It is not by gifts that you could
deter me from my revenge. Repent; and if the remorse your
messenger so forcibly describes is genuine, it will do more to
procure my forgiveness than all the wealth you could heap upon
me. I shall watch over you; and if--as I shall learn--your
repentance is sincere, you may yet escape my vengeance."
"Strange--very strange!" exclaimed the old man. "Then he rejects my
offer. But how could I expect otherwise! The last scion of a noble race,
he will not compromise the name of Grahame by accepting even his own
from the hand of a Campbell. Well, Roderick, Inshannock shall be your
marriage-portion with Annette; and you shall hold these lands under the
condition that they shall be replaced by others whensoever William
Grahame shall demand them from you."
"Sir, I accept your gift: the lands of Inshannock are mine so long as
unclaimed by the lawful proprietor."
"Agreed. Thus one weight is off my mind; and, my dear Roderick, may I
hope that the burden will press less heavily on you than it has on me;
and that some day, I trust not very remote, shall witness the surrender
of your stewardship to the rightful owner?"
"That Inshannock may devolve on him who has best right to it, is as much
my wish as yours."
The ensuing day, the minister of Kilmun united Roderick Campbell to
Annette Gordon. The marriage was kept quite private, contrary to the
usual custom in the Highlands; but this was at the express desire of
Roderick, who told his father that it ill became one who had so recently
received a pardon for his transgressions to make any public display,
even on such an occasion.
Everything, therefore, was quietly managed--two or three friends only
being present, to whom the old laird introduced his son for the first
time.
In place of returning to the Tower of Gloom, the married couple and the
father proceeded to Dungyle, where the honeymoon was spent. Matrimony
acts differently upon different people; in some cases it sweetens, in
others it sours, the temper. With Roderick it operated in the former
manner; for our hero had entirely divested himself of that gloom and
melancholy which characterised his conduct upon his first return to the
house of his parent. With his father it was different. As his life drew
near a close, his despondency increased. It was in vain that Annette
soothed him, or that Roderick offered him comfort. No longer was he
hunted by the cateran chief--no more were his lands devastated, or his
cattle carried off. All was quiet, save the workings of his conscience.
He grew weaker and weaker, till at last he was compelled to keep his
bed. Medical advice was procured, but in vain. The skill of the
physician could not retard the approach of death.
One beautiful evening, as his son sat beside his bedside--
"Roderick," he feebly exclaimed, "my last hour is at hand. One thing I
could wish; but that, I fear, is impossible."
"What is it, sir?"
"That William Grahame could witness my sufferings--could satisfy himself
of my penitence, and ease my soul by his forgiveness."
"And could his forgiveness afford you relief?"
"It would."
"Then you are forgiven."
"What mean you?"
"I AM William Grahame; and I forgive you from the bottom of my heart."
"My son, what has come over you?"
"Farther concealment would add to my crime. Hear me. I am the son of
Reginald Grahame, and the intended avenger of his wrongs. It was I who
pursued you, and ravaged your lands. It was to satisfy my vengeance that
I stole into the Tower of Gloom. I represented myself as your long-lost
son, that I might make you drink the cup of bitterness even to the
dregs. I saw Annette: her gentle but affectionate manners, her kind
attentions, made a deep impression. When I retired to rest, my breast
was strangely perplexed, and the feeling of revenge predominated. Then
came the attempt by Moome upon my life, which was averted by the noble
animal I had once consigned to destruction, and whose reappearance in
the tower filled me with astonishment. The nurse, by some singular
instinct, to me inexplicable, had discovered me. Her death preserved my
secret.
"This incident again made my purpose waver. I continued in the Tower,
where the influence of Annette softened my vindictive feelings. Still I
could not bring myself to bear with patience your paternal kindness. I
left you, to join my followers, resolving to fly; still Annette drew me
back again. Then came the pardon, to me of inestimable value, as under
it I could shelter myself from all consequences, even had any one
recognised the cateran chief in the heir of the Laird of Dungyle and
Inshannock.
"I saw before me a happiness I could never, even in my most imaginative
moments, have previously contemplated. It was necessary to visit the
band, of which I was still nominally the leader. By a singular mean, I
became accidentally aware of a plan to surround and capture my brave
companions. A miscreant of the name of Macpherson, who had been with me
for some time, and had acquired a knowledge of all our places of
retreat, for the sake of lucre, betrayed his associates. I was very
nearly in his power; and, but for my faithful Oscar, would have been
recognised as the bandit chief, and delivered up to justice. I escaped
in time to warn my friends. They fled; and the military sent for the
capture were entirely baffled.
"I seized on this moment to devolve the command on the lieutenant, and
to resign my sceptre for ever. I parted from my old followers, with deep
regret; for they were, to a man, attached to me. Although I had strictly
forbidden the shedding of blood, except in self-defence, I afterwards
learned that they had avenged themselves on Macpherson, who was watched,
seized, reproached, and dirked.
"After I ceased to rule, the band ceased to prosper. Less cautious than
heretofore, the captain and the greater part were surprised and slain;
some few were taken prisoners, who were tried, convicted, and sent to
the plantations. Much as I regretted the loss of so many faithful
adherents, still my sorrow was tempered by the reflection that now my
secret was safe, and that I was a free agent. I could hardly bring
myself to forgive you, for revenge is dear to a Highlander. Time
gradually lessened my hatred; but it was not till subsequent events had
shown the deepness of your regret, and the reality of your
self-reproach, that my resentment finally gave way. I even began to
pity; and though, at one time, I should have rejoiced and gloried in my
imposture, now I regard it in a different light; and, so far from your
asking my forgiveness, it is I ought to be a suppliant to you."
"Roderick--for so I must still call you," ejaculated the old man--"it is
not for me to complain. Your presence and your pardon have eased the
mental torment I suffered. To me you have acted as a son; continue to do
so; let the secret die with us. No one is injured; and the rightful heir
resumes the lands of his ancestors without any one to oppose him; for
Annette, failing issue of my own body, is my next heir."
"Your will is mine: if such is your command, it shall be obeyed."
"Give me your hand. I shall now die content. It is needless to distress
Annette: let her never know that you are not her cousin."
The old laird lingered a few days, and then died in peace and charity
with all.
Some twenty-five years after the death of the old Laird of Dungyle, the
estates came into the possession of his grandson, Donald. Roderick had
gone the way of all flesh; Annette survived him; and in the education of
her daughter Isabella sought oblivion for her sorrows. Donald was a fine
young man; fond of his mother and sister; but by no means under
petticoat government. Whilst at Edinburgh College, he formed an intimacy
with the Master of Methven--the eldest son of Lord Methven, a peer of
ancient family--and to the friendship thus formed it is more than
probable that a love for the Honourable Emma Methven not a little
contributed.
As Donald was an excellent match for the daughter of a
by-no-means-opulent nobleman, the intimacy was cultivated by the
parents; and Roderick, whose great object was the happiness of his son,
gave a sanction, before his demise, to the projected union. After the
period of mourning had elapsed, preparations were made for the marriage,
and the lawyers were busy with the settlements.
One morning, about a fortnight before the day fixed for the nuptials,
Donald received a letter, the contents of which excited the most lively
astonishment. It was as follows:--
"SIR,--We are instructed by our client, Mr. Roderick Campbell,
of Dungyle, to take legal steps against you to recover the
estates wrongfully held by you, and which belong to him. We
have, therefore, to intimate to you, unless they are
surrendered in the course of a fortnight, legal steps will be
adopted.--We are, sir, your obedient servants,
"SHARPE & SWIFT, W.S.
"ST. JAMES' COURT,
"_20th March, 17--._"
"Sharp and Swift, with a vengeance!" exclaimed the bewildered youth.
"Sharp work, to insist upon my giving up my estate; and swift work to do
so in a fortnight. What title can this man set up to my grandfather's
estate? None that I can conceive; for the descent from him to my father,
and from him to me, is undoubted."
Donald, however, lost no time in communicating this unexpected
requisition to his intended father-in-law, to whom he handed the letter.
Lord Methven read the epistle carefully.
"Was not Roderick your father's name?"
"It was, my lord."
"He was implicated in the rebellion of 1745?"
"He was, but he got a remission from the late king of all crimes and
offences. He was never attainted."
"Then," rejoined his lordship, "I am quite at fault. It certainly did
occur to me that this claim might have been rested upon his supposed
attainture. With your permission I will place this document in the hands
of my family agents, Messrs. Slow & Sure, W.S., and direct them to enter
into a communication with the agents of your unknown adversary."
It would not be very interesting to our readers to detail the legal game
of chess played by these skilful men of law against each other; and it
may suffice to mention, that the claim, which extended to all the large
estates of the old Laird of Dungyle, was based upon the fact, that the
competitor was neither more nor less than the son, whose place had been
filled by Roderick.
As the imposture of Roderick Grahame had been carefully concealed, and
the secret had apparently died with him, his son and widow naturally
viewed the claim as purely fictitious, and characterised the demand as
an attempt to extort money; nevertheless, they were staggered by the
bold steps adopted by their opponent, who proceeded to get himself
served, before the bailies of the Canongate, as only lawful son of
Donald Campbell, of Dungyle and Inshannock. The proof was apparently
conclusive: the identification of the claimant was dependent upon the
testimony of two witnesses, who swore distinctly to the fact. It was
proved that young Campbell went to France, held a situation in the court
of Prince Charles, commonly called the Pretender, and that he left it
suddenly. This had occurred upwards of twenty years before; but no
evidence was given of where he had been after that period, although he
gave out that he had been captured at sea by a Barbary corsair, sold as
a slave, and had only recently escaped.
The jury--being composed in the manner usual with ordinary Canongate
juries--gave themselves little trouble in cross-examination; and, as
almost uniformly occurs, served the claimant in terms of his brief, and
thus invested him with the legal status of son and heir of the deceased
Laird of Dungyle.
Donald was dreadfully grieved by the success of this initiatory
proceeding, which was instantly followed up by a reduction of the
titles vesting the estates in the person of his father and himself.
Painful as the step was, he saw the necessity of breaking off the
marriage with his beloved Emma. He waited on Lord Methven, and explained
to him the measures adopted on the other side, and his apprehension that
there was more in the case of his adversary than he had previously
imagined; nay, he added his own impression that the event would turn out
adverse to him. "How this has happened, I know not; my father ever was
the reputed son and heir of old Dungyle; my mother recognised him as her
cousin; and yet this man has made out, to the satisfaction of a jury,
that he is the heir of Dungyle.
"But, my dear lord, the worst part of the communication is to come; I
dare not any longer aspire to the hand of your daughter, at least until
everything is cleared up; although the words nearly choke me, they shall
come out--this marriage must proceed no further."
Unable to retain his feelings, he burst into tears.
The peer was deeply moved by the evident sorrow of the young man.
"Donald," said he, "you have acted like a man of honour. I respect you
more at this moment than I ever did. Be not cast down; all is not lost;
and if the worst come to the worst, have patience, and Emma may yet be
yours."