as it threatened to render the attempt to unfit the soldiers for their
duty abortive, in so far as the object of doing so was concerned. This,
indeed, it fully effected as regarded Malcolm's escape, since he was to
be left behind; while it rendered Terence's much more precarious than if
the debauch had been allowed to proceed.
Terence, however, did not feel that all chance of escape was yet lost.
He hoped that what he had not had time to effect at Duntruskin, he
should be able to accomplish while they were on the march; and he
resolved to watch with the utmost vigilance for such an opportunity as
was necessary to success in his intended attempt.
In the meantime, preparations were made, in obedience to the order just
received, for the march of Terence's escort with their prisoner. An
affecting parting now took place between M'Gregor and Sullivan,
especially on the part of the former, who deemed it a last farewell--an
opinion, however, in which he was by no means joined by his friend, who,
with the natural buoyancy of his disposition, and cheerful and sanguine
temper, entertained strong hopes of being able to give his guards the
slip; and he bade Malcolm good-by with all the hilarity of manner and
brightness of countenance which these hopes inspired.
The drunken troopers now staggered out of the apartment one after the
other--their swords tripping them at every step, and several of them
with their caps turned the wrong way--next came Terence, and lastly the
serjeant, trolling, as he left the room--
"I'm bother'd with whisky, I'm bother'd with love;
I'm bother'd with this, and I'm bother'd with that;
I'm bother'd at home, and I'm bother'd abroad;
And it's all botheration together, says Pat."
M'Gregor went to the window, to see what he had no doubt was the last of
his poor friend, Sullivan--and he soon had this melancholy satisfaction.
In a few minutes, the party appeared proceeding down the avenue, with
Terence in the centre, mounted on one of the dragoon's horses--a favour
which his uproarious good-fellowship at Duntruskin had procured for him.
He caught a sight of Malcolm just as he and his escort were about to
take a turn in the road that would conceal them from each other, and
waved an adieu, accompanied by one of his characteristic shouts, which,
though plainly enough indicated by his gestures, was, from the distance,
unheard by him for whose edification it was intended.
In about an hour after the departure of Terence Sullivan, the commanding
officer of the party, who had been at Duntruskin House in the morning,
appeared riding up the avenue at the head of his troop. In a few minutes
afterward, he was again in the apartment with M'Gregor.
"We will now proceed, sir, if you please," he said, on entering. "Are
you ready?"
"I believe I must say I am, sir," replied Malcolm, with as much
composure as he could command.
"Nay," said the officer, who marked his agitation; "you need not say you
are, if you are not. Is there anything you wish yet done before you go?
Any one you wish to see?"
"There is--there is one I wish to see, sir--one to whom I should have
wished to have bidden farewell," said Malcolm, with an emotion which he
could not conceal; "but I know not when she may be here, and----"
"She is here, Malcolm--she is here," said Grace, at this instant
rushing into the apartment.
Malcolm flew towards her. "God be thanked, Grace, you are come! I would
have been miserable, if I had not seen you before I went. A few minutes
later, Grace, and we should never have beheld each other more. We have
now met," he added, "for the last time."
"No, no, Malcolm; we have not, we have not," said Grace, hurriedly, and
in great agitation, taking a letter from her bosom, which, with a blush
and a curtsey, she presented to Major Ormsby--the name of the officer
already so often alluded to. He bowed as he received it; and, unfolding
it, began to read. The perusal did not occupy him an instant. The matter
was short but effective. Having read it, he advanced towards Malcolm
with extended hand, and said--
"Allow me, sir, to congratulate you on your restoration to freedom, and
to an immunity from all danger on account of certain late transactions
which you wot of." And, as he said this, he smiled significantly. "You
are at liberty, Mr M'Gregor. I have no more control over you, and have
therefore to regret that I shall not have the pleasure of your company
to Fort-George, as I expected."
"What does all this mean, sir?" inquired Malcolm, in the utmost
amazement.
"Why, sir, it means simply that you are a free man," replied Major
Ormsby. "And here is at once my authority for saying so and my warrant
for releasing you." And he read:--
"This is to discharge all officers of his majesty's government,
civil and military, and all other persons whatsoever, from
apprehending, or in any other ways molesting, Malcolm M'Gregor,
Esq. of Strontian, for his concern in the late rebellion; and,
if he be already taken, this shall be sufficient warrant for
those detaining him to set him at liberty, which they are
hereby required to do forthwith.
"CUMBERLAND.
"_At Inverness, the 19th day of
April, 1746._"
"Grace," exclaimed Malcolm, in a transport of joy, when Major Ormsby had
concluded, "this is your doing, noble and generous girl. It is to you,
and to you alone, that I am indebted for life and liberty. But how, how
on earth, Grace, did you accomplish it?" he added, taking her
affectionately by the hand.
The explanation was a brief one. She had gone to Inverness--had sought
and obtained an interview with the Duke of Cumberland--had implored him
for a pardon to her lover, and to the amazement of those who were
present on the occasion, had succeeded. Her youth, her beauty, the
natural eloquence of her appeal, and the romance of the circumstance
altogether, had touched the merciless conqueror, and had betrayed him
for once into an act of humanity and generosity.
After partaking of some refreshment, Major Ormsby with his troop left
Duntruskin, and the happiness of Malcolm would have been complete only
for one circumstance. This was the miserable situation of his poor
friend, Sullivan; presenting, as it did, such a contrast to his own.
This, however, was a ground of unhappiness which was soon and most
unexpectedly to be removed. In less than two hours after the departure
of Major Ormsby, as Malcolm, Miss Cameron, and her father were sitting
together, talking over the events of the preceding two or three days, to
their inexpressible amazement, Sullivan suddenly burst into the
apartment, with a loud shout.
"Haven't I done them, after all, Malcolm?" He exclaimed--"done them
beautifully! Didn't I tell you, now, I would give the drunken rogues the
slip somewhere? Och! and just give me a bottle of whisky in my fist, and
I'll take in hand to bother a saint, let alone a serjeant of dragoons."
We need not describe the joy of the party whom Terence on this occasion
addressed, when he appeared amongst them. It was very great, and very
sincere. Terence, however, was immediately hurried off by M'Gregor, who
dreaded an instant return of the dragoons in quest of him, to a place of
concealment at a little distance from the house, where he remained for
two days, when he was secretly conveyed by his friend to the coast, and
embarked on board a small wherry, hired for the purpose, for his native
land, where he arrived in safety on the evening of the following day.
Within a year after these occurrences, Grace Cameron was fully better
known in the country by the name of Mrs M'Gregor, than by that which we
have just written.
THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.
In the very midst of apparent contentedness and happiness, W---- B----,
a merchant in Dumfermline, disappeared all at once. No one could tell
whither he had gone; and his wife was just as ignorant of his
destination or fate as any one else. That he had left the country, could
not be supposed, because he had taken nothing with him; that he had made
away with himself, was almost as unlikely, seeing that it is not
generally in the midst of gaiety and good humour that people commit
suicide. Every search, however, was made for him, but all in vain--no
trace could be found of him, except that a person who had been near the
old ruin called the Magazine, part of the old castle in the
neighbourhood of the town, reported that, on the night when he
disappeared, he, the narrator, heard in that quarter a very
extraordinary soliloquy from the lips of some one in great agony; but
that all his efforts (for it was dark) could not enable him to ascertain
who or where he was. So far as he could recollect, the words of the
person were as follows:--
"The self-destroyer has nae richt to expect a better place." (Groans.)
"A' is dark and dismal--a thousand times mair sae than what my fancy
ever pictured upon earth. But there will be licht sune, ay, and scorchin
fires, and a' the ither terrors o' the place whar the wicked receive the
reward o' their sins. If I had again the days to begin, which, when in
the body, I spent sae fruitlessly and sinfully, hoo wad I be benefited
by this sicht o' the very entrance to the regions o' the miserable? and
yet does not the great Author o' guid strive, wi' a never-wearyin
energy, by dreams and visions, and revelations and thoughts, which vain
man tries to measure and value by the gauge o' his insignificant reason,
to show him what I now see, and turn him to the practice o' a better
life. This is a narrow pit--there is neither room for the voice o'
lamentation, nor for the struggle o' the restless limbs o' the
miserable; the light, and the air, and the space, and the view o' the
blue heavens, and the fair earth, which mak men proud, as if they were
proprietors o' the upper world, and sinfu, as if its joys were made for
them, are vanished, and a narrow cell, nae bigger than my body, wi' nae
air, nae licht, nae warmth--cauld, dark, lonely, and dismal--is the last
and eternal place appointed for the wicked." (Groans.) "On earth men,
though sinners, hae the companionship o' men; here my only companion is
a gnawin conscience, the true fire o' the lower pit, and a thousand
times waur than a' the imagined flames which haunt the minds o' the
doers o' evil."
These dreadful words were spoken at intervals, and loud groans bespoke
the agony of the sufferer. The individual who heard them, at a loss
what to conceive, became alarmed, ran away to get assistance, and, in a
short time, returned, with a companion and a light, to search among the
old ruins for the individual who was thus apparently suffering under the
imagined terrors of the last place of punishment. They looked carefully
up and down throughout the place called the Magazine, among the ruins of
the castle, and in every hole and cranny of the neighbourhood, but
neither could they see any human being, nor hear again any of the
extraordinary sounds which had chained the ear of the listener, and
roused his terrors. The idea of a supernatural presence was the first
that presented itself; and a ghost giving its hollow utterance to the
lamentations of its suffering spirit, confined, doubtless, in some of
the vaults of the castle, and struggling for that liberty which depends
upon the performance of some penance upon earth, was the ready solution
of a difficulty which defied all recourse to ordinary means of
explanation. Having ascertained that nothing was to be seen or heard,
the two friends returned to the town, where they told what had happened.
The disappearance about that time of W---- B---- suggested to many a
more rational explanation of the mysterious affair; and a number of
people adjourned to the Magazine, for the purpose of exploring its dark
recesses more thoroughly, under the conviction that the missing
individual might be concealed in some part that had not been searched.
Every effort was employed, in vain. They penetrated all the holes, and
explored all the dark corners--nothing was to be seen, nothing heard;
and the conclusion was arrived at, either that the narrator was
deceiving or deceived, or that the spirit had ceased to issue its
lamentations.
For many days and many years afterwards, no trace could be had of
W----B----, nor was there ever even so much as whispered a single
statement of any one who had seen him either alive or dead. The food
for speculation which the mysterious affair afforded to the minds of the
inhabitants was for a time increased by the total want of success which
attended all the efforts of inquiry; and, after the fancies of all had
been exhausted by the vain work of endeavouring to discover that which
seemed to be hid by a higher power from human knowledge, the
circumstance degenerated into one of the wonders of nature, supplying
the old women with the material of a fireside tale, for the amusement or
terror of children. But it would seem that the energies of vulgar
everyday life are arrayed with inveterate hostility against the luxury
of a mystery so greedily grasped at by all people, however thoroughly
liberated from the prejudices of early education or of late
sanctification; and accordingly, one day many years after the
occurrences now mentioned, as some boys were amusing themselves among
the ruins of the old castle, they discovered lying in a hole--called the
Piper's Hole, from the circumstance of a piper having once entered it
with a pair of bagpipes, which he intended to play on till he reached
the end of it, but never returned--the body of a man, reduced to a
skeleton, but retaining on his bare bones the clothes which he had worn
when in life. It was the body of W---- B----. On searching his pockets,
there was found in one of them a few pence, and in another a bottle,
with a paper label, marked "Laudanum."
This discovery cleared up all mystery. The unfortunate man had intended
to kill himself in such a way as would put his suicidal act beyond the
knowledge of his friends, and had resorted to the extraordinary plan of
creeping up into the dark and narrow passage, where the action of the
fatal soporific had produced the delusion that he was in the place
appointed for the wicked, with the soliloquy already detailed, and then
death. The physical mystery was cleared up; but a mystery of a moral
nature remains, which will bid defiance to the revealing efforts of
philosophers--the strength and peculiarity of feeling which, working on
a sane mind, produced a purpose so extraordinary, and the resolution to
carry it into effect.
END OF VOL. XVI