MY MOTHER.
My mother was now so frail, weakened by long illness and by being
almost constantly confined to bed, that I dared not communicate to
her the fatal 'notice,' which had been served on us, in common with
all the people in the glen; but I never hoped that she would remain
long ignorant of the ruin that hovered over all, while the garrulous
old Mhari was daily about her sick-bed.
The moanings and mutterings of that aged crone, together with her
occasional remarks whispered in Gaelic, of course to Minnie, soon
acquainted the poor patient that every door in the glen, including
her own, had been chalked with a mark of terrible significance; and
that the crushed remnant of a brave old race which had dwelt by the
Ora for ages--yea, before the Roman eagles cowered upon the Scottish
frontier--was at last to be swept away.
It gave her a dreadful shock--our fate she knew was fixed: and while
Mhari, Minnie, and the older people of the glen, croaked incessantly
among themselves of the old legend of the Red Priest and 'the curse
he had laid on the stones of the jointure-house,' my mind was a
chaos; for I knew not on what hand to turn, or where to seek a
shelter for my mother's head. She had her little pension as a
captain's widow--true; but we had so many dependants who clung to us
in the good old Celtic fashion, and for whom our little farm had
furnished subsistence, that to be driven from it was to tear asunder
a hundred tender and long-cherished ties, which few but a Highlander
can comprehend.
A little hope was kindled in my breast, by my foster-brother
reminding me of that which (in the hurry of other thoughts I had
forgotten)--the great annual gathering on the Braes of Loch Ora being
now almost at hand; and that he or I--it mattered not which--might
win one of the handsome prizes which the generosity of Cluny Mac
Pherson, the Laird of Invercauld, and other true Highland gentlemen,
offered to the men of the mountains on such occasions, to foster
their ancient spirit, to develop their hardihood, and excite their
emulation in feats of strength and skill.
'Mother,' I whispered, and stooped over her bed, 'the gathering takes
place in three days--the daughter of the Englishman----'
'Sir Horace--well,' she muttered with a sigh of anger.
'Yes, dear mother--Laura Everingham and her friend, Miss Clavering,
have made up a purse of guineas (some say fifty, others a hundred)
with a silver brooch, for the best rifle-shot, and Callum and I have
sworn to win it if we can.'
'How many better marksmen than either of you have, ere this, sworn
the same thing?'
'But God will aid me, mother. I will shoot neither with pride nor
with a desire to emulate any one; but to find bread for our starving
household--to satisfy the cravings of the villain Snaggs, and to keep
this roof a little--a very little--longer over your head.'
'And this prize you say----'
'Will, at least, be fifty guineas, mother--think of that.'
'Scorn alike the prize and the donor.'
'The prize I may--but the donor--ah, mother, you know her not; but
think of this money and all it may do, if fairly and honestly won;
how long is it since we saw fifty guineas at once, mother? It will
pay part of our arrears, and win us a little time, if it cannot win
us mercy from Snaggs and his master.'
I dared not add that I had also in my breast a desire to appear to
advantage before the winning daughter of Sir Horace, and the
lingering hope of eclipsing the holiday Captain Clavering and that
mustachioed popinjay Mr. Snobleigh, who had been rifle-practising
incessantly to gain the ladies' prize. Yielding to the pressure of
our affairs, and, perhaps, to her inability to argue the point with
me, my mother gave her reluctant consent that I _might compete_.
She was very weak and faint, and before I left her, beckoned me to
kiss her cheek. Then she burst into tears, and this sorely startled
me--for it was long since I had seen her weep. Her great lassitude
required composure, and more than all, it required many comforts,
which, in that sequestered district, and with straitened means, she
was compelled to relinquish: thus, when I addressed her now, a time
always elapsed before she could collect her scattered energies to
understand or reply to me. This prostration of a spirit once so
proud, so fiery and energetic--this emaciation of a form once so
stately and so beautiful, with those gentle hands now so
tremulous--those kind eyes now so sad and sunken, and those weak,
querulous whisperings of affection, with the pallor of that beloved
face, smote heavily on my heart, which was traversed by more than one
sharp pang, as the terrible conviction came upon me, that she could
not be long with us now. Yet Mhari, Minnie, and Callum Dhu, all
strong in the belief of the legend of the Red Priest of Applecross,
believed that she was perfectly safe while enclosed by the four
charmed walls of the old jointure-house.
'The lamp may flicker,' said Mhari, with a solemn shake of her old
grey head; 'but, please God, it can never go out while we keep it
here.'
Accompanied by Alisdair Mac Gouran, Ian Mac Raonuil, Gillespie Ruadh,
the three patriarchs of the glen, and all the other male inhabitants,
among whom were five-and-twenty sturdy fellows, a few being clad in
tartan, but by far the greater number wearing the coarse dark-blue
homespun coats, ungainly trousers, and broad bonnets of the
peasantry, with four pipers in front (in the Highlands everything
partakes of the warlike), we marched from Glen Ora, and crossing the
shoulder of the great Ben, descended towards the Braes, where the
gathering was to be held, about ten miles distant. Callum carried my
rifle as well as his own, and his confidence that we would win Laura
Everingham's prize was somewhat amusing; but it arose less from his
certainty of our skill than from the fact of our bullets being cast
in a famous mould or _calme_, of unknown metal, which had belonged to
the father of old Mhari, who was never known to miss his aim. In
short, it was universally believed in the glen to be enchanted. All
the glensmen had in their bonnets a tuft of heather and the badge of
Mac Innon, a twig of the mountain pine; and most of them wore the
clan tartan plaid, which is of bright red striped with green. We
brought with us our own provisions, cheese, bannocks, and whisky,
which last never paid duty to Her Majesty, as the reader may be
assured.
Though my suit of tartans was far from rich or handsome--nay, I might
almost say that it was very plain--it was correct, and with three
feathers of the iolair in my bonnet, and my father's old 42nd's
claymore, having _Biodh treun_--be valiant--inscribed on its blade,
my pistols, horn, skene-dhu and biodag, I marched over the crest of
the hill which shaded our Highland glen with as much pride in my
heart as if all the well-armed Mac Innons that over followed my
fathers of old were behind me; for this native pride, and a glow of
old romance, as a poor Highland gentleman, were all that remained to
me now.
The summer morning was bright and beautiful; the air was fresh and
keen, and we drank it in at every pore; the unclouded sun was in all
his brilliance; the pipes rang loud and clear; and Callum, with three
or four others, sang one of the warlike songs of Ian Lom. The
gallant coileach-dhu (or black cock) rose before us at times; the
useag sang merrily among the black whin-bushes, and the mountain-bee
and the butterfly skimmed over the purple heatherbells. My heart
grew light; I forgot for a time that my mother was sick and
dying--that ruin hovered over us; and, boylike, I thought only of the
sports of the day, and the glory of our people carrying off the
prizes on the same green braes where Lachlan Mohr had routed Clan
Dhiarmid an Tuirc in the days of the great Cavalier.
The spirit of those who accompanied me rose also. Even Ephraim
Snaggs, his notices of eviction, and his legal terrors, were
forgotten. The veteran Mac Raonuil marched with his head up and his
war-medal glittering, as he told old yarns of the brave Black Watch,
and Callum urged that we, this day, should give place to none; but
remember, that the Mac Innons were the _head_ of the five tribes--the
Mac Gregors, Grants, Mac Nabs and Mac Alpines, who have ever been
linked together in Celtic tradition, as the descendants of five royal
brothers, and are hence known as the Siòl Alpin. The Highlander
broods over these old memories, and treasures them up as his only
inheritance, and they are his best and highest incentive to noble
daring in the hour of battle, and to kindly emotions of clanship in
the day of peace.
'Blessed,' says Andrew Picken, 'be that spirit of nationality or
clanship, or by whatever name the principle may be called, which
opens up the heart of man to his brother man; and in spite of the
trained selfishness to which he is educated in artificial life, bids
the warm and glorious feeling of sympathy gush forth in circumstances
of sorrow and of trouble, to cheer the drooping heart of the
unfortunate, and prevent his swearing hatred to his own species.'[*]
[*] The Black Watch.