A LAST INTERVIEW.
To-morrow evening, the steamer from Loch Linnhe for Oban and Glasgow,
would touch at Loch Ora, and with it, Callum and I were to leave our
native district for ever. The bitter, crushing, and painful sinking
of the heart that accompanied this conviction was increased by the
knowledge that never again would I see the face or hear the voice of
Laura. Grinding poverty on one hand, and wealth on the other, had
reared a solid rampart between us; yet I still loved Laura, despite
the hopelessness of that love, which made me feel more bitterly than
ever that a poor gentleman is the most miserable of all God's
creatures.
Callum, my fosterer, though to me, ever gentle as a woman and
faithful as a dog, was alternately morose or silent, and appalled by
our approaching departure; and as he lay that night on some
freshly-pulled heather, in a corner of poor Father Raoul's humble
hut, I heard him sobbing under the tattered plaid which enveloped his
head and shoulders; for his gallant heart and strong resolution were
failing him at last.
My whole thoughts were of Laura now, for my hopeless separation from
her, conflicted with my regret on leaving my desolated home. The
craving desire to see her once again became uncontrollable, and
desiring Callum to wait for me, by a near and familiar path--never
again to be trod by me--I hastened up the glen, which led directly to
the new manor-house of Glen Ora.
It was a narrow road which led of old to the stronghold of our tribe,
and there had been a time when none could have thought that a Mac
Innon would ever ascend it in such bitterness of soul as I then
endured. The tower--the home of a race whose source even tradition
failed to trace--was demolished now, and the huge square modern villa
of the baronet crowned its site; but all unchanged with its shade of
silver birch was the bramble-covered path by which for ages
'The hunter of deer and the warrior trod
To his hills that encircle the sea.'
Everything spoke to me of home and farewell. The murmur of the dark
pines that shaded the hills; the hiss of a little cascade, falling in
foam down the old grey rocks, like the end of a silvery scarf; the
sun lingering like a globe of fire above the dark shoulder of Ben
Ora. The little cascade seemed to have its source in the clouds,
and, like a silver shower, the light wind flung its spray abroad upon
the turf and flowers.
A moment I lingered there, and thought it would be a boon to be dead
and buried in peace on that green mountain slope, where the heather
might wave and the deer bound over me; for the dread of dying in a
far distant land is strong in the heart of every mountaineer.
But enough of such thoughts and themes.
Full of them, however, I reached the new birchen avenue which led to
the elegant manor-house of Sir Horace Everingham, and without having
conceived how I should achieve the desired interview with Laura, or
what means to pursue.
I lurked among the trees and shrubbery, watching the windows for
nearly half an hour, fearing to be seen, hopeless of seeing her alone
if I saw her at all, and trembling with anxiety, for every moment was
of priceless value to me. I saw the falling shadows lengthening to
the eastward, and knew that when the sun sank below the shoulder of
the Ben, the Highland steamer would be at the pier of the loch.
An exclamation of joy escaped me, as a drawing-room window which
unfolded to the floor was opened, and she--Laura herself--stepped out
into the gravel-walk of the garden, not a pistol-shot distant from
where I was concealed.
She was attired in a very becoming evening costume; she had her broad
hat slung by its ribbons over her left arm, and had an open volume in
her right hand. She looked pale and thoughtful, but was neither sad,
nor bearing a trace of tears. This disappointed me, as she must have
known that this was the eve of my final departure; but the claim I
had on her regard and memory was too slight--and among so many gay
friends and accomplished admirers, and amid so much luxury, it might
easily be effaced and forgotten.
My heart beat like lightning, as she approached and entered a
summer-seat, which was shrouded by a little dome, and four sides of
iron wire, in the fashion of a Turkish kiosk, and was covered
completely with roses and honeysuckle. I quickly crept towards it,
and---as my evil fortune would have it--had only time to ensconce and
conceal myself among the ample laurel-bushes close by, when the voice
of the gay and laughing Fanny Clavering, who had been asleep, I
presume, in the arbour, fell suddenly on my ear, as she at once
resumed what appeared to be a former conversation. To all this I was
compelled to listen. It may be the reverse of etiquette to repeat
what passes in private, and still more so, aught we may chance to
overhear; but there would be a fearful hiatus in many a veracious
history, in mine in particular, without those opportune
eaves-droppings; besides, I believe that no man in this world could
resist the desire to listen, 'with all the ears in his head,' if he
deemed himself the subject of conversation between two pretty women.
Thus, as much that passed between these fair friends concerned
myself, I hearkened with an anxiety that was the more painful, as I
dared not, for very shame, avow or discover myself.
The two girls were seated near each other. Laura had resigned her
book, and was twirling the ribbons of her broad summer hat round her
slender fingers. Fanny had her white hands thrust into the pockets
of a very bewitching little black silk apron, and her beautiful
features, her fine eyes, and nose _retroussé_, wore the most droll
and arch expression in the world.
'Come now, Fanny, don't be silly,' said Laura.
'Is it possible that you have lived to the age of twenty without
having one dear little affair of the heart?'
'Not one, Fanny--and _you_?--'
'Oh, don't speak of my heart, pray--it has been broken twenty times.
But, don't you know, love, that an engagement of the heart is a most
delightful thing?'
'Perhaps so--but mine is only formed for friendship.'
'Fiddlestick! one lover is worth a hundred friends.'
'Nay, Fanny; I think _one_ friend worth a thousand lovers; and I
never met with a man capable of inspiring in me more than the merest
friendship.'
'And how about my brother Tom?'
'Nay, nay, Fanny; now don't look so archly.'
'Well, then--our young Highland friend?'
Laura was silent, and became very pale.
'Speak?'
'You are a dear droll!' said Laura, making an effort to laugh, after
a pause; 'well--_he_ is both handsome and winning.'
'But so innocent--so particularly verdant.'
'Yet that innocence of dissipated life charms me.'
'I am excessively amused! But you cannot--dare not, encourage this
idea. Love _him_--oh, Laura, such a _mésalliance_! the imaginary
chief of a beggarly burned up tract in the West Highlands. The last
of the Mohicans!'
'_Mésalliance!_' reiterated Laura, with an air of pique; 'what is our
family, which dates from the Restoration, when compared to his,
which, for aught that I know, dates from the days of Ossian.'
'Immensely superior, I should say--for the gentlemen of Ossian's time
knew deuced little about making up a book on the Oaks, or knowing the
points of the winner of the Derby, as _I_ do--or of Bank-stock, or
shares or railway scrip, and so forth, as Sir Horace does.'
'But then, Fanny dear, think of what I owe him--that dreadful rescue
of yesterday? Oh, there is nothing I admire so much as bravery in a
man!'
'But this is a boy.'
'Well--a brave boy--and are we much more than girls?'
'Such a little sophist it is! If you run on thus I shall end by
loving that tall fellow who hunts the foxes. I own to be immensely
delighted with him. Is he not a love of a man, with his magnificent
black beard?'
'You have spoken more of _him_ than I have done of his master.'
'Perhaps I am in love with him,' said Fanny, with a roguish
expression in her beautiful eyes.
'Scarcely,' replied Laura, with a little reserve; 'for it is your
style to yawn and fret to-day over all that enchanted you yesterday.
You tire of everything.'
'And thus would very soon tire, I fear, of such a lover as your Allan
Mac Innon. He is but a wild Highland boy--I should like a man with a
lofty presence--a man of whom I should feel proud, even when I had
tired of him, and ceased to love him.'
'Oh, Fanny! I _am_ proud of him, in my own quiet and unobtrusive
little way. He is so bold, so hardy, so active, and so manly!' said
poor Laura, blushing deeply at her own energy, while my heart beat
with tumultuous joy; 'his eyes, too--do they not tell the history of
a sad and thoughtful life? He is like the Mac Ivor of Waverley.'
'There it is! you have caught the tartan fever, which is nearly as
bad as the scarlet one, and may be worse now, since the Line have
lost their epaulettes. Well, I should like a lover of whom one would
not be ashamed to make one's husband.'
'Husband--'
Laura was silent; and, trembling with joy, I forgot all about poor
Callum Dhu, who was seated patiently with my baggage on the pier,
awaiting the steamer which was now coming down the loch.
'Young Mac Innon is so poor, so wild, so strange!' resumed the
painfully plain-spoken Fanny.
'These only make me the more his friend.'
'And we all know that "friendship in woman is kindred to love." He
is quite like a young robber.'
'Well,' replied Laura, taking up her lively friend's rattling manner,
'I always thought it would be divine to marry a bandit! When we
travelled from Rome to Naples, I looked daily for a handsome young
brigand in a sugar-loaf hat, velvet jacket, and those red bandages
which no outlaw is ever without--a Masseroni--a Fra Diavalo--but,
alas! none ever came, and we jogged as quietly along the Appian Way
as if it had been Rotten Row or the Canterbury-road.'
'But as we have had enough about Allan Mac Innon, now let us recur to
our constant theme--my brother Tom and his old suit--or his friend,
Snobleigh.'
_Recur_, thought I.
'I could _learn_ to love your brother, perhaps, Fanny, because he is
gentlemanly, kind, and lovable; but, as for Snobleigh--the fop, the
mouthing idler--who would propose just as coolly as he would light a
cigar, button his glove, or stroke a horse's knee, do not speak of
such an atrocity as marriage with him--and yet he has proposed to me
twice.'
'And been rejected?' asked Fanny, her dark eyes flashing with a
mixture of fun and pique.
'Yes--rejected, yet still he loiters here, devoid alike of spirit and
delicacy.'
'How did he receive your refusal?'
'Such was his provoking coolness, that I could have boxed his ears.
Stroking his buff-coloured moustache, which, as you know, finds him a
vast fund of employment, he adjusted his round collar and
long-skirted surtout, and yawned out, "Vewy well, Miss Lawa--it don't
mattaw--aw-aw--but, wemembaw that, the--aw--choicest gifts of God and
of the Gwenadiaw Gawds, are--aw-aw--at your feet."'
Fanny's loud and ringing laugh at her friend's description was
interrupted by the bell to dress for dinner; on which she murmured
something about her attire, and in her usual volatile manner, sprang
away, leaving Laura to follow her as she chose.
All that I had overheard proved unmistakably the interest I had in
Laura's heart--a discovery that proved the foundation of much joy and
pride and future misery to me.
All that followed is dim and wavering now, as a dream of years long
past.
She was about to leave the saloon, when I stood before her, trembling
in heart and in every limb. She grew very pale on seeing me, and I
pressed her white passive hands to my lips and to my breast, and in
such language as the agony of the moment supplied, I thanked her for
the interest she took in one so miserable as I--and I prayed her to
remember me when gone, for never more would my voice fall on her ear;
I prayed, too, that God might bless her, and while thus pouring out
the long-treasured secret of my heart, without daring once to touch
her lips, though she stood beside me, pale and passive as a marble
statue, I sprang away, as the voice of Clavering was heard in the
shrubbery close by. I reached the avenue, and leaving the park and
plantations far behind me, rushed like a deer down the glen to reach
the steamer.
There was yet time to pause a moment!
I looked back to the old primeval woods which shaded the
mansion-house of Glen Ora, and to the fire-scathed mountains that
overhung it. Strange to say, I had now no bitterness in my heart,
for Laura was their heiress, and I loved her more than all the world.
I gave a parting glance at that beloved scenery now deepening in the
summer gloaming. Glen Ora was dark and silent now--dark as if the
shadow of death lay on it--and silent and voiceless as the grave, the
last home of our people.
Sorrow and love were struggling in my heart, and sad, solemn, and
terrible thoughts rose within me.
As each familiar object faded away and melted into night, then came
to my heart the bitter conviction that I was a houseless wanderer,
with the wide world all before me--that I was without country,
friends, or home--but of the right mettle to become a brave and
reckless soldier.
My country indeed!
I would have cursed her! What did I owe her? nothing. But she owed
me a debt of blood--the blood of more than thirty of my own name and
kindred, who had perished in her reckless wars--dying bravely sword
in hand, and in the king's service--for in legions have the men of
the clans gone forth to battle for Britain, and now ruin, treachery,
extirpation and obloquy, with the garbage of the public press, are
heaped upon the remnant who remain.