FROM OUT THE NIGHT
There are few of the Perthshire castles that more plainly declare their
feudal origin and exhibit traces of obsolete power than does the great
gaunt pile of ruins known as Glencardine. Its situation is both
picturesque and imposing, and the stern aspect of the two square
baronial towers which face the south, perched on a sheer precipice that
descends to the Ruthven Water deep below, shows that the castle was once
the residence of a predatory chief in the days before its association
with the great Montrose.
Two miles from the long, straggling village of Auchterarder, in the
centre of a fine, well-wooded, well-kept estate, the great ruined castle
stands a silent monument of warlike days long since forgotten. There,
within those walls, now overgrown with ivy and weeds, and where big
trees grow in the centre of what was once the great paved courtyard,
Montrose schemed and plotted, and, according to tradition, kept certain
of his enemies in the dungeons below.
In the twelfth century the aspect of the deep glen was very different
from what it is to-day. In those days the Ruthven was a broad river,
flowing swiftly down to the Earn, and forming, by reason of a moat, an
effective barrier against attack. To-day, however, the river has
diminished into a mere burn meandering through a beautiful wooded glen
three hundred feet below, a glen the charms of which are well known
throughout the whole of Scotland, and where in summer tourists from
England endeavour to explore, but are warned back by Stewart, Sir
Henry's Highland keeper.
A quarter of a mile from the great historic ruin is the modern castle,
built mainly of stone from the ancient structure early in the eighteenth
century, with oak-panelled rooms, many quaint gables, stained glass, and
long, echoing corridors--a residence well adapted for entertaining on a
lavish scale, the front overlooking the beautiful glen, and the back
with level lawns and stretch of undulating park, well wooded and full of
picturesque beauty.
The family traditions and history of the old place and its owners had
induced Sir Henry Heyburn, himself a Fellow of the Society of
Antiquaries, to purchase it from Lord Strathavon, into whose possession
it had passed some forty years previously.
History showed that William de Graeme or Graham, who settled in Scotland
in the twelfth century, became Lord of Glencardine, and the great castle
was built by his son. They were indeed a noble race, as their biographer
has explained. Ever fearless in their country's cause, they sneered at
the mandates from impregnable Stirling, and were loyal in every
generation.
Glencardine was a stronghold feared by all the surrounding nobles, and
its men were full of valour and bravery. One story of them is perhaps
worth the telling. In the year 1490 the all-powerful Abbot of Inchaffray
issued an order for the collection of the teinds of the Killearns' lands
possessed by the Grahams of Glencardine in the parish of Monzievaird, of
which he was titular. The order was rigorously executed, the teinds
being exacted by force.
Lord Killearn of Dunning Castle was from home at the time; but in his
absence his eldest son, William, Master of Dunning, called out a number
of his clansmen, and marched towards Glencardine for the purpose of
putting a stop to the abbot's proceedings. The Grahams of Glencardine,
having been apprised of their neighbour's intention, mustered in strong
force, and marched to meet him. The opposing forces encountered each
other at the north side of Knock Mary, about two miles to the south-west
of Crieff, while a number of the clan M'Robbie, who lived beside the
Loch of Balloch, marched up the south side of the hill, halting at the
top to watch the progress of the combat. The fight began with great fury
on both sides. The Glencardine men, however, began to get the upper hand
and drive their opponents back, when the M'Robbies rushed down the hill
to the succour of the Killearns. The tables were now turned. The Grahams
were unable to maintain their ground against the combined forces which
they had now to face, and fled towards Glencardine, taking refuge in the
Kirk of Monzievaird. The Killearns had no desire to follow up their
success any farther, but at this stage they were joined by Duncan
Campbell of Dunstaffnage, who had come across from Argyllshire to avenge
the death of his father-in-law, Robert of Monzie, who, along with his
two sons, had a short time before been killed by the Lord of
Glencardine.
An arrow shot from the church fatally wounded one of Campbell's men, and
so enraged were the besiegers at this that they set fire to the
heather-thatched building. Of the one hundred and sixty human beings who
are supposed to have been in the church, only one young lad escaped, and
this was effected by the help of one of the Killearns, who caught the
boy in his arms as he leaped out of the flames. The Killearns did not go
unpunished for their barbarous deed. Their leader, with several of his
chief retainers, was afterwards beheaded at Stirling, and an assessment
was imposed on the Killearns for behoof of the wives and children of the
Grahams who had perished by their hands.
The Killearn by whose aid the young Graham had been saved was forced to
flee to Ireland, but he afterwards returned to Scotland, where he and
his attendants were known by the name of "Killearn Eirinich" (or
Ernoch), meaning Killearn of Ireland. The estate which he held, and
which is situated near Comrie, still bears that name. The site of the
Kirk of Monzievaird is now occupied by the mausoleum of the family of
Murray of Ochtertyre, which was erected in 1809. When the foundations
were being excavated a large quantity of charred bones and wood was
found.
The history of Scotland is full of references to the doings at
Glencardine, the fine home of the great Lord Glencardine, and of events,
both in the original stronghold and in the present mansion, which have
had important bearings upon the welfare of the country.
In the autumn of 1825 the celebrated poetess Baroness Nairne, who had
been born at Gask, a few miles away, visited Glencardine and spent
several weeks in the pleasantest manner. Within those gaunt ruins of the
old castle she first became inspired to write her celebrated "Castell
Gloom," near Dollar:
Oh Castell Gloom! thy strength is gone,
The green grass o'er thee growin';
On Hill of Care thou art alone,
The Sorrow round thee flowin'.
Oh Castell Gloom! on thy fair wa's
Nae banners now are streamin';
The howlit flits amang thy ha's,
And wild birds there are screamin'.
Oh, mourn the woe! oh, mourn the crime
Frae civil war that flows!
Oh, mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line,
And mourn the great Montrose!
The lofty Ochils bright did glow,
Though sleepin' was the sun;
But mornin's light did sadly show
What ragin' flames had done!
Oh, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud
That hung o'er thy wild wood!
Thou wert like beauty in a shroud,
And all was solitude.
A volume, indeed, could be written upon the history, traditions, and
superstitions of Glencardine Castle, a subject in which its blind owner
took the keenest possible interest. But, tragedy of it all, he had never
seen the lovely old domain he had acquired! Only by Gabrielle's
descriptions of it, as she led him so often across the woods, down by
the babbling burn, or over the great ivy-covered ruins, did he know and
love it.
Every shepherd of the Ochils knows of the Lady of Glencardine who, on
rare occasions, had been seen dressed in green flitting before the
modern mansion, and who was said to be the spectre of the young Lady
Jane Glencardine, who in 1710 was foully drowned in the Earn by her
jealous lover, the Lord of Glamis, and whose body was never recovered.
Her appearance always boded ill-fortune to the family in residence.
Glencardine was scarcely ever without guests. Lady Heyburn, a shallow
and vain woman many years younger than her husband, was always
surrounded by her own friends. She hated the country, and more
especially what she declared to be the "deadly dullness" of her
Perthshire home. That moment was no exception. There were half-a-dozen
guests staying in the house, but neither Gabrielle nor her father took
the slightest interest in any of them. They had been, of course, invited
to the ball at Connachan, and at dinner had expressed surprise when
their host's pretty daughter, the belle of the county, had declared that
she was not going.
"Oh, Gabrielle is really such a wayward child!" declared her ladyship to
old Colonel Burton at her side. "If she has decided not to go, no power
on earth will persuade her."
"I'm not feeling at all well, mother," the girl responded from the
farther end of the table. "You'll make nice excuses for me, won't you?"
"I think it's simply ridiculous!" declared the Baronet's wife. "Your
first season, too!"
Gabrielle glanced round the table, coloured slightly, but said nothing.
The guests knew too well that in the Glencardine household there had
always been, and always would be, slightly strained relations between
her ladyship and her stepdaughter.
For an hour after dinner all was bustle and excitement; then, in the
covered wagonette, the gay party drove away, while Gabrielle, standing
at the door, shouted after them a merry adieu.
It was a bright, clear, moonlit night, so beautiful indeed that,
twisting a shawl about her shoulders, she went to her father's den,
where he usually smoked alone, and, taking his arm, led him out for a
walk into the park over that gravelled drive where, upon such nights as
that, 'twas said that the unfortunate Lady Jane could be seen.
When alone, the sightless man could find his way quite well with the aid
of his stick. He knew every inch of his domain. Indeed, he could descend
from the castle by the winding path that led deep into the glen, and
across the narrow foot-bridges of the rushing Ruthven Water, or he could
traverse the most intricate paths through the woods by means of certain
landmarks which only he himself knew. He was ever fond of wandering
about the estate alone, and often took solitary walks on bright nights
with his stout stick tapping before him. On rare occasions, however,
when, in the absence of her ladyship, he enjoyed the company of pretty
Gabrielle, they would wander in the park arm-in-arm, chatting and
exchanging confidences.
The departure of their house-party had lifted a heavy weight from both
their hearts. It would be dawn before they returned. She loved her
father, and was never happier than when describing to him things--the
smallest objects sometimes--which he himself could not see.
As they strolled on beneath the shadows of the tall elms, the stillness
of the night was broken only by the quick scurry of a rabbit into the
tall bracken or the harsh cry of some night-bird startled by their
approach.
Before them, standing black against the night-sky, rose the quaint,
ponderous, but broken walls of the ancient stronghold, where an owl
hooted weirdly in the ivy, and where the whispering of the waters rose
from the deep below.
"It's a pity, dear, that you didn't go to the dance," the old man was
saying, her arm held within his own. "You've annoyed your mother, I
fear."
"Mother is quite happy with her guests, dad; while I am quite happy with
you," she replied softly. "Therefore, why discuss it?"
"But surely it is not very entertaining for you to remain here with a
man who is blind. Remember, you are young, and these golden days of
youth will very soon pass."
"Why, you always entertain and instruct me, dad," she declared; "from
you I've learnt so much archaeology and so much about mediaeval seals
that I believe I am qualified to become a Fellow of the Society of
Antiquaries, if women were admitted to fellowship."
"They will be one day, my dear, if the Suffragettes are allowed their
own way," he laughed.
And then, during the full hour they strolled together, their
conversation mostly consisted of questions asked by her father
concerning some improvements being made in one of the farms which she
had visited on the previous day, and her description of what had been
done.
The stable-clock had struck half-past ten on its musical chimes before
they re-entered the big hall, and, being relieved by Hill of the wraps,
passed together into the library, where, from a locked cabinet in a
corner, Gabrielle took a number of business papers and placed them upon
the writing-table before her father.
"No," he said, running his thin white hands over them, "not business
to-night, dear, but pleasure. Where is that box from the Professor?"
"It's here, dad. Shall I open it?"
"Yes," he replied. "That dear old fellow never forgets his old friend.
Never a seal finds its way into the collection at Cambridge but he first
sends it to me for examination before it is catalogued. He knows what
pleasure it is to me to decipher them and make out their
history--almost, alas! the only pleasure left to me, except you, my
darling."
"Professor Moyes adopts your opinion always, dad. He knows, as every
other antiquary knows, that you are the greatest living authority on the
subject which you have made a lifetime study--that of the bronze seals
of the Middle Ages."
"Ah!" sighed the old man, "if I could only write my great book! It is
the pleasure debarred me. Years ago I started to collect material; but
my affliction came, and now I can only feel the matrices and picture
them in my mind. I see through your eyes, dear Gabrielle. To me, the
world I loved so much is only a blank darkness, with your dear voice
sounding out of it--the only voice, my child, that is music to my ears."
The girl said nothing. She only glanced at the sad, expressionless face,
and, cutting the string of the small packet, displayed three bronze
seals--two oval, about two inches long, and the third round, about one
inch in diameter, and each with a small kind of handle on the reverse.
With them were sulphur-casts or impressions taken from them, ready to be
placed in the museum at Cambridge.
The old man's nervous fingers travelled over the surfaces quickly, an
expression of complete satisfaction in his face.
"Have you the magnifying-glass, dear? Tell me what you make of the
inscriptions," he said, at the same time carefully feeling the curious
mediaeval lettering of one of the casts.
At the same instant she started, rose quickly from her chair, and held
her breath.
A man, tall, dark-faced, and wearing a thin black overcoat, had entered
noiselessly from the lawn by the open window, and stood there, with his
finger upon his lips, indicating silence. Then he pointed outside, with
a commanding gesture that she should follow.
Her eyes met his in a glance of fierce resentment, and instinctively she
placed her hand upon her breast, as though to stay the beating of her
heart.
Again he pointed in silent authority, and she as though held in some
mysterious thraldom, made excuse to the blind man, and, rising, followed
in his noiseless footsteps.