Part 12

The father was perfectly amazed that such an attempt should have been made on the life of his son by one whom he naturally supposed would, as his vassal, have rather died a thousand deaths than have touched a hair of the head of the son of her chief. The only plausible ground he could assign for this murderous attempt was the insanity of the old woman, who, perhaps, perplexed by the unexpected appearance of a stranger in a place where none had heretofore been, had, by some hallucination, fancied him a robber; and, under this impression, had boldly gone forward to do battle for the laird.

"Dear Roderick," said the father, "this is a sad welcome to the Tower of Gloom. If I was superstitious, I should augur something bad from this event. Poor Moome! she had long been a faithful servant, and I could have wished her fate different. We must conceal it from Annette. She will be sufficiently unhappy as it is; and it would be cruel to add to her annoyance by disclosing the strange fact that she had perished in attempting the life of her benefactor's son. Once more, good-night, dear boy."

So saying, he pressed his son's forehead to his lips, and, removing the body, left Roderick to his own thoughts.

Poor Annette was shocked exceedingly by the unexpected death of the nurse; but sorrow is said to be near akin to love; and, in the delicate attentions of her cousin Roderick, the fair Celt felt her grief strangely soothed, and her bosom experience sensations to which it had previously been a stranger.

Old Campbell witnessed the progress of this passion with great delight, and gave the young couple every opportunity for studying "_la belle passion_:" indeed, the necessary confinement of Roderick in the tower threw them so much together, that it was no wonder they became attached to each other.

The scene from the top of the tower was magnificent: the clear and pellucid water of the fairest of Scotland's lakes at its feet; the isles with which its glassy bosom was studded, looked like so many fairy bowers; and the magnificent range of mountains to the northward, added to the grandeur of a scene, the beauty of which words can but inadequately express. Often, at night, by the light of the silvery moon, the cousins would repair to this favourite seat, where Roderick would speak

"Of moving accidents by flood and field; Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery;"

whilst Annette listened breathless, but delighted, to his words.

It was here that he first ventured to breathe of love. Seizing the guitar from his cousin's hand, he poured forth his feelings in the following verses:--

"Impell'd by angry fate's decree In foreign lands to roam, With heavy heart I bid adieu To happiness and home.

"I braved the perils of the land, The dangers of the sea; But every suffering is repaid By one kind look from thee."

It is unnecessary to trouble our readers with all the love-passages between the two lovesick swains, which, although exceedingly interesting to the parties themselves, is anything but agreeable to any one else. It is sufficient to say, that Annette yielded her heart to her cousin, and that her uncle rejoiced at the surrender. A change for the better was evident in Roderick. He was no longer the gloomy repulsive individual that he once was. His manners gradually softened; and even the coldness with which he originally repelled his father's kindness began to disappear. He had been barely a fortnight in the tower, when he expressed an urgent desire to be allowed to leave it for a short time. Old Campbell was not a little surprised at this, and represented the great risk he ran in leaving a place of security, and exposing himself to the chance of apprehension: he also expressed some curiosity to know what engagement could lure him from his father's house at such a time. Roderick replied, that, were the business his own, he would not have scrupled to have explained everything to his father; but, as any disclosure would compromise other persons, he could not, as a man of honour, betray a trust that had been confided in him. The laird, whose notions of honour were somewhat lax, was not altogether convinced by this reasoning; but he did not press his opposition farther, and Roderick was allowed to depart.

After the absence of a week, Roderick returned, and was welcomed in the most affectionate manner by his father and cousin. Some time afterwards he again left the tower for a few days; but these absences became less and less, as his love prospered. One day his father, who had been from home for some time, returned, and calling his son and niece to his presence, said--

"My dear Roderick, you are now a free man--I hold here a free pardon for all offences. The interest of our chief with government has effected this. The Duke of Argyle is ever ready to assist his clansmen; and the faults and errors of the son have been overlooked in the services of the father. No obstacle longer remains to your nuptials with my beloved niece: take her from my hand as the greatest treasure I can give you."

Roderick's passion was equal to her rapture. Here was every obstacle removed. He could again appear in the world as a free agent, and the husband of one whose beauty was her least recommendation.

"Father," he exclaimed, "I know not how to express my gratitude for these favours. Henceforth you shall----" And here he paused--a blush came over his haughty features, and the sentence was left unfinished.

A week before the nuptials, the old man took his son aside.

"Roderick, I have something for your private ear."

"I attend."

"It is painful for a father to declare his unworthiness to his own offspring; but it must be. A bitter remorse has for many years soured my existence. My wealth is considerable; but it is a burden to me, because it originated in--blood!"

Roderick answered not.

"You must have heard that this tower once belonged to another?"

The son started.

"I have."

"I betrayed my friend. He perished, not by my hands, but by my fault; and from that moment deep remorse has filled my bosom: but of that no more. A sense of justice induces me to act decisively. Reginald Grahame had a son."

Roderick rose from his seat, but made no reply.

"It is of him I would speak. Circumstances have induced me to believe that the leader of the caterans who pursued me so long--who harried my lands, and injured my crops--was that son. His feelings towards me must be deadly; but I forgive him. It is but natural that he should hate the destroyer of his father. Would that he knew the pangs I have suffered--the anguish I have felt!"

"And is this true? Was your remorse so great? Have you repented of this cruel act?"

"Deeply--deeply, my son; but what avails it?"

"Much; for contrition----" And he paused.

"Proceed."

"I mean to say, that a contrite heart is acceptable to Heaven."

"I hope it is--I believe it is. But, to proceed:--I have enough to make you and Annette comfortable; and it is my wish to return to my own estate, now redeemed from the burdens which once pressed heavily upon it. If young Grahame lives, as I suspect he does, I will surrender his father's lands. I ask not his forgiveness--that I expect not--but I request him to take back his own. Have I your consent?"

"Most cordially."

"Then all is right. I must see the gipsy chief. I will place myself in his hands."

"Nay, nay, think not of that. I will myself see him."

"No, no; if he slays me, he but extinguishes a light that soon must be quenched; but if he murder you, I am left desolate, and Annette miserable."

"Feel no alarm: he knows me not. As a stranger I will seek him; and, be assured, no harm will befall me."

After much resistance, the old man yielded; and Roderick left the tower 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.