We got a cold welcome from the women of our own clan and country. They had been very warm and flattering as we passed north—the best they had was not good enough for us; now they eyed us askance as we went among them in the morning. Glenurchy at its foot was wailing with one loud unceasing coronach made up of many lamentations, for no poor croft, no keep, no steading in all the countryside almost, but had lost its man at Inverlochy. It was terrible to hear those sounds and see those sights of frantic women setting every thought of life aside to give themselves wholly to their epitaphs for the men who would come no more.
For ordinary our women keen but when they are up in years and without the flowers of the cheek that the salt tear renders ugly; women who have had good practice with grief, who are so far off from the fore-world of childhood where heaven is about the dubs of the door that they find something of a dismal pleasure in making wails for a penny or two or a cogie of soldier’s brose. They would as soon be weeping as singing; have you not seen them hurrying to the hut to coronach upon a corpse, with the eager step of girls going to the last dance of the harvest? Beldames, witches, I hate your dirges, that are but an old custom of lamentation! But Glenurchy and Lochow to-day depended for their sorrow upon no hired mourners, upon no aged play-actors at the passion of grief; cherry-cheeked maidens wept as copiously as their grand-dames, and so this universal coronach that rose and fell on the wind round by Stronmealchan and Inish-trynich, and even out upon the little isles that snuggle in the shadow of Cruachan Ben, had many an unaccustomed note; many a cry of anguish from the deepest well of sorrow came to the ear. To walk by a lake and hear griefs chant upon neighbouring isles is the chief of the Hundred Dolours. Of itself it was enough to make us melancholy and bitter, but it was worse to see in the faces of old women and men who passed us surly on the road, the grudge that we had been spared, we gentlemen in the relics of fine garments, while their own lads had been taken. It was half envy that we, and not their own, still lived, and half anger that we had been useless in preventing the slaughter of their kinsmen. As we walked in their averted or surly looks, we had no heart to resent them, for was it not human nature? Even when a very old crooked man with a beard like the foam of the linn, and eyes worn deep in their black sockets by constant staring upon care, and through the black mystery of life, stood at his door among his wailing daughters, and added to his rhyming a scurrilous verse whereof we were the subjects, we did no more than hurry our pace.
By the irony of nature it was a day bright and sunny; the londubh parted his beak of gold and warbled flutey from the grove, indifferent to all this sorrow of the human world. Only in far-up gashes of the hills was there any remnant of the snow we had seen cover the country like a cloak but a few days before. The crows moved briskly about in the trees of Cladich, and in roupy voices said it might be February of the full dykes but surely winter was over and gone. Lucky birds! they were sure enough of their meals among the soft soil that now followed the frost in the fields and gardens; but the cotters, when their new grief was weary, would find it hard to secure a dinner in all the country once so well provided with herds and hunters, now reft of both.
I was sick of this most doleful expedition; M’Iver was no less, but he mingled his pity for the wretches about us with a shrewd care for the first chance of helping some of them. It came to him unexpectedly in a dark corner of the way through Cladich wood, where a yeld hind lay with a broken leg at the foot of a creag or rock upon which it must have stumbled. Up he hurried, and despatched and gralloched it with his sgian dubh in a twinkling, and then he ran back to a cot where women and children half craved us as we passed, and took some of them up to this lucky find and divided the spoil It was a thin beast, a prey no doubt to the inclement weather, with ivy and acorn, its last meal, still in its paunch.
It was not, however, till we had got down Glenaora as far as Carnus that we found either kindness or conversation. In that pleasant huddle of small cothouses, the Macarthurs, aye a dour and buoyant race, were making up their homes again as fast as they could, inspired by the old philosophy that if an inscrutable God should level a poor man’s dwelling with the dust of the valley, he should even take the stroke with calmness and start to the building again. So the Macarthurs, some of them back from their flight before Antrim and Athole, were throng bearing stone from the river and turf from the brae, and setting up those homes of the poor, that have this advantage over the homes of the wealthy, that they are so easily replaced. In this same Carnus, in later years, I have made a meal that showed curiously the resource of its people. Hunting one day, I went to a little cothouse there and asked for something to eat A field of unreaped barley stood ripe and dry before the door. Out the housewife went and cut some straws of it, while her daughter shook cream in a bottle, chanting a churn-charm the while. The straw was burned to dry the grain, the breeze win’d it, the quern ground it, the fire cooked the bannocks of it Then a cow was milked, a couple of eggs were found in the loft, and I sat down in a marvellously short space of time to bread and butter, milk, eggs, and a little drop of spirits that was the only ready-made provand in the house. And though now they were divided between the making of coronachs and the building of their homes, they had still the art to pick a dinner, as it were, off the lichened stone.
There was one they called Niall Mor a Chamais (Big Neil of Karnes), who in his day won the applause of courts by slaying the Italian bully who bragged Scotland for power of thew, and I liked Niall Mor’s word to us as we proceeded on our way to Inneraora.
“Don’t think,” said he, “that MacCailein’s beat yet, or that the boar’s tusks are reaped from his jaw. I am of an older clan than Campbell, and closer on Diarmaid than Argile himself; but we are all under the one banner now, and I’ll tell you two gentlemen something. They may tear Castle Inneraora out at the roots, stable their horses in the yard of Kilmalieu, and tread real Argile in the clay, but well be even with them yet. I have an arm here” (and he held up a bloody-looking limb, hashed at Inverlochy); “I’ll build my home when this is mended, and i’ll challenge MacDonald till my mouth is gagged with the clod.”
“And they tell me your son is dead yonder,” I said, pitying the old man who had now no wife nor child.
“So they tell me,” said he; “that’s the will of God, and better a fast death on the field than a decline on the feather-bed. I’ll be weeping for my boy when I have bigged my house again and paid a call to some of his enemies.”
Niall Mot’s philosophy was very much that of all the people of the glen, such of them as were left. They busily built their homes and pondered, as they wrought, on the score to pay.
“That’s just like me,” M’Iver would say after speeches like that of Niall Mor. He was ever one who found of a sudden all another person’s traits in his own bosom when their existence was first manifested to him. “That’s just like me myself; we are a beaten clan (in a fashion), but we have our chief and many a thousand swords to the fore yet I declare to you I am quite cheery thinking we will be coming back again to those glens and mounts we have found so cruel because of our loneliness, and giving the MacDonalds and the rest of the duddy crew the sword in a double dose.”
“Ay, John,” said I, “it’s easy for you to be light-hearted in the matter. You may readily build your bachelor’s house at Barbreck, and I may set up again the barn at Elrigmore; but where husband or son is gone it’s a different story. For love is a passion stronger than hate. Are you not wondering that those good folk on either hand of us should not be so stricken that they would be sitting in ashes, weeping like Rachel?”
“We are a different stuff from the lady you mention,” he said; “I am aye thinking the Almighty put us into this land of rocks and holds, and scalloped coast, cold, hunger, and the chase, just to keep ourselves warm by quarrelling with each other. If we had not the recreation now and then of a bit splore with the sword, we should be lazily rotting to decay. The world’s well divided after all, and the happiness as well as the dule of it. It is because I have never had the pleasure of wife nor child I am a little better off to-day than the weeping folks about me, and they manage to make up their share of content with reflections upon the sweetness of revenge. There was never a man so poor and miserable in this world yet but he had his share of it, even if he had to seek it in the bottle. Amn’t I rather clever to think of it now? Have you heard of the idea in your classes?”
“It is a notion very antique,” I confessed, to his annoyance; “but it is always to your credit to have thought it out for yourself. It is a notion discredited here and there by people of judgment, but a very comfortable delusion (if it is one) for such as are well off, and would salve their consciences against the miseries of the poor and distressed. And perhaps, after all, you and the wise man of old are right; the lowest state—even the swineherd’s—may have as many compensations as that of his master the Earl. It is only sin, as my father would say, that keeps the soul in a welter———”
“Does it indeed?” said John, lightly; “the merriest men ever I met were rogues. I’ve had some vices myself in foreign countries, though I aye had the grace never to mention them, and I ken I ought to be stewing with remorse for them, but am I?”
“Are you?” I asked.
“If you put it so straight, I’ll say No—save at my best, and my best is my rarest But come, come, we are not going into Inneraora on a debate-parade; let us change the subject Do you know I’m like a boy with a sweet-cake in this entrance to our native place. I would like not to gulp down the experience all at once like a glutton, but to nibble round the edges of it We’ll take the highway by the shoulder of Creag Dubh, and let the loch slip into our view.”
I readily enough fell in with a plan that took us a bit off our way, for I was in a glow of eagerness and apprehension. My passion to come home was as great as on the night I rode up from Skipness after my seven years of war, even greater perhaps, for I was returning to a home now full of more problems than then. The restitution of my father’s house was to be set about, six months of hard stint were perhaps to be faced by my people, and, above all, I had to find out how it stood between a certain lady and me.
Coming this way from Lochow, the traveller will get his first sight of the waters of Loch Finne by standing on a stone that lies upon a little knowe above his lordship’s stables. It is a spot, they say, Argile himself had a keen relish for, and after a day of chasing the deer among the hills and woods, sometimes would he come and stand there and look with satisfaction on his country. For he could see the fat, rich fields of his policies there, and the tumultuous sea that swarms with fish, and to his left he could witness Glenaora and all the piled-up numerous mountains that are full of story if not of crop. To this little knowe M’Iver and I made our way. I would have rushed on it with a boy’s impetuousness, but he stopped me with a hand on the sleeve.
“Canny, canny,” said he, “let us get the very best of it There’s a cloud on the sun that’ll make Finne as cold, flat, and dead as lead; wait till it passes.”
We waited but a second or two, and then the sun shot out above us, and we stepped on the hillock and we looked, with our bonnets in our hands.
Loch Finne stretched out before us, a spread of twinkling silver waves that searched into the curves of a myriad bays; it was dotted with skiffs. And the yellow light of the early year gilded the remotest hills of Ardno and Ben Ime, and the Old Man Mountain lifted his ancient rimy chin, still merrily defiant, to the sky. The parks had a greener hue than any we had seen to the north; the town revealed but its higher chimneys and the gable of the kirk, still its smoke told of occupation; the castle frowned as of old, and over all rose Dunchuach.
“O Dunchuach! Dunchuach!” cried M’Iver, in an ecstasy, spreading out his arms, and I thought of the old war-worn Greeks who came with weary marches to their native seas.
“Dunchuach! Dunchuach!” he said; “far have I wandered, and many a town I’ve seen, and many a prospect that was fine, and I have made songs to maids and mountains, and foreign castles too, but never a verse to Dunchuach. I do not know the words, but at my heart is lilting the very tune, and the spirit of it is here at my breast.”
Then the apple rose in his throat, and he turned him round about that I might not guess the tear was at his eye.
“Tuts,” said I, broken, “‘tis at my own; I feel like a girl.”
“Just a tickling at the pap o’ the hass,” he said in English; and then we both laughed.
It was the afternoon when we got into the town. The street was in the great confusion of a fair-day, crowded with burgesses and landward tenants, men and women from all parts of the countryside still on their way back from flight, or gathered for news of Inverlochy from the survivors, of whom we were the last to arrive. Tradesmen from the Lowlands were busy fitting shops and houses with doors and windows, or filling up the gaps made by fire in the long lands, for MacCailein’s first thought on his return from Edinburgh had been the comfort of the common people. Seamen clamoured at the quay, loud-spoken mariners from the ports of Clyde and Leven and their busses tugged at anchor in the upper bay or sat shoulder to shoulder in a friendly congregation under the breast-wall, laden to the beams with merchandise and provender for this hungry country. If Inneraora had been keening for the lost of Inverlochy, it had got over it; at least we found no public lamentation such as made our traverse on Lochow-side so dreary. Rather was there something eager and rapt about the comportment of the people. They talked little of what was over and bye with, except to curse our Lowland troops, whose unacquaintance with native war had lost us Inverlochy. The women went about their business, red-eyed, wan, silent, for the most part; the men mortgaged the future, and drowned care in debauchery in the alehouses. A town all out of its ordinary, tapsilteerie. Walking in it, I was beat to imagine clearly what it had been like in its placid day of peace. I could never think of it as ever again to be free from this most tawdry aspect of war, a community in good order, with the day moving from dawn to dusk with douce steps, and no sharp agony at the public breast.
But we had no excuse for lingering long over our entrance upon its blue flagstone pavements; our first duty was to report ourselves in person to our commander, whose return to Inneraora Castle we had been apprised of at Cladich.
This need for waiting upon his lordship so soon after the great reverse was a sour bite to swallow, for M’Iver as well as myself. M’Iver, had he his own way of it, would have met his chief and cousin alone; and he gave a hint delicately of that kind, affecting to be interested only in sparing me the trouble and helping me home to Elrigmore, where my father and his men had returned three days before. But I knew an officer’s duty too well for that, and insisted on accompanying him, certain (with some mischievous humour in spoiling his fair speeches) that he dared scarcely be so fair-faced and flattering to MacCailein before me as he would be alone with him.
The castle had the stillness of the grave. Every guest had fled as quickly as he could from this retreat of a naked and ashamed soul. Where pipers played as a custom, and laughter rang, there was the melancholy hush of a monastery. The servants went about a-tiptoe, speaking in whispers lest their master should be irritated in his fever; the very banner on the tower hung limp about its pole, hiding the black galley of its blazon, now a lymphad of disgrace. As we went over the bridge a little dog, his lordship’s favourite, lying at the door, weary, no doubt, of sullen looks and silence, came leaping and barking about us at John’s cheery invitation, in a joy, as it would appear, to meet any one with a spark of life and friendliness.
Argile was in his bed-chamber and between blankets, in the hands of his physician, who had been bleeding him. He had a minister for mind and body, for Gordon was with him too, and stayed with him during our visit, though the chirurgeon left the room with a word of caution to his patient not to excite himself.
“Wise advice, is it not, gentlemen?” said the Marquis. “As if one stirred up his own passions like a dame waiting on a drunken husband. I am glad to see you back, more especially as Master Gordon was just telling me of the surprise at Dalness, and the chance that you had been cut down there by the MacDonalds, who, luckily for him and Sonachan and the others, all followed you in your flight, and gave them a chance of an easy escape.”
He shook hands with us warmly enough, with fingers moist and nervous. A raised look was in his visage, his hair hung upon a brow of exceeding pallor. I realised at a half-glance the commotion that was within.
“A drop of wine?”
“Thank you,” said I, “but I’m after a glass in the town.” I was yet to learn sorrow for this unhappy nobleman whose conduct had bittered me all the way from Lom.
MacCailein scrutinised me sharply, and opened his lips as it were to say something, but changed his mind, and made a gesture towards the bottle, which John Splendid speedily availed himself of with a “Here’s one who has no swither about it. Lord knows I have had few enough of life’s comforts this past week!”
Gordon sat with a Bible in his hand, abstracted, his eyes staring on a window that looked on the branches of the highest tree about the castle. He had been reading or praying with his master before the physician had come in; he had been doing his duty (I could swear by his stern jaw), and making MacCailein Mor writhe to the flame of a conscience revived. There was a constraint on the company for some minutes, on no one more than Argile, who sat propped up on his bolsters, and, fiddling with long thin fingers with the fringes of his coverlet, looked every way but in the eyes of M’Iver or myself. I can swear John was glad enough to escape their glance. He was as little at ease as his master, made all the fuss he could with his bottle, and drank his wine with far too great a deliberation for a person generally pretty brisk with the beaker.
“It’s a fine day,” said he at last, breaking the silence. “The back of the winter’s broken fairly.” Then he started and looked at me, conscious that I might have some contempt for so frail an opening.
“Did you come here to speak about the weather?” asked MacCailein, with a sour wearied smile.
“No,” said M’Iver, ruffling up at once; “I came to ask when you are going to take us back the road we came?”
“To—to—overbye?” asked MacCailein, baulking at the name.
“Just so; to Inverlochy,” answered M’Iver. “I suppose we are to give them a call when we can muster enough men?”
“Hadn’t we better consider where we are first?” said MacCailein. Then he put his fair hand through his ruddy locks and sighed. “Have you nothing to say (and be done with it) about my—my—my part in the affair? His reverence here has had his will of me on that score.”
M’Iver darted a look of annoyance at the minister, who seemed to pay no heed, but still to have his thoughts far off.
“I have really nothing to say, your lordship, except that I’m glad to see you spared to us here instead of being left a corpse with our honest old kinsman Auchinbreac (beannachd leas!) and more gentry of your clan and house than the Blue Quarry will make tombs for in Kilmalieu. If the minister has been preaching, it’s his trade; it’s what you pay him for. I’m no homilist, thank God, and no man’s conscience.”
“No, no; God knows you are not,” said Argile, in a tone of pity and vexation. “I think I said before that you were the poorest of consciences to a man in a hesitancy between duty and inclination.... And all my guests have left me, John; I’m a lonely man in my castle of Inneraora this day, except for the prayers of a wife—God bless and keep her!—who knows and comprehends my spirit And I have one more friend here in this room———”
“You can count on John M’Iver to the yetts of Hell,” said my friend, “and I am the proud man that you should think it.”
“I am obliged to you for that, kinsman,” said his lordship in Gaelic, with a by-your-leave to the cleric. “But do not give your witless vanity a foolish airing before my chaplain.” Then he added in the English, “When the fairy was at my cradle-side and gave my mother choice of my gifts, I wish she had chosen rowth of real friends. I could be doing with more about me of the quality I mention; better than horse and foot would they be, more trusty than the claymores of my clan. It might be the slogan ‘Cruachan’ whenever it wist, and Archibald of Argile would be more puissant than he of Homer’s story. People have envied me when they have heard me called the King of the Highlands—fools that did not know I was the poorest, weakest man of his time, surrounded by flatterers instead of friends. Gordon, Gordon, I am the victim of the Highland liar, that smooth-tongued——”
“Call it the Campbell liar,” I cried bitterly, thinking of my father. “Your clan has not the reputation of guile for nothing, and if you refused straightforward honest outside counsel sometimes, it was not for the want of its offering.”
“I cry your pardon,” said MacCailein, meekly; “I should have learned to discriminate by now. Blood’s thicker than water, they say, but it’s not so pure and transparent; I have found my blood drumly enough.”
“And ready enough to run freely for you,” said M’Iver, but half comprehending this perplexed mind. “Your lordship should be the last to echo any sentiment directed against the name and fame of Clan Campbell.”
“Indeed they gave me their blood freely enough—a thousand of them lying yonder in the north—I wish they had been so lavish, those closest about me, with truth and honour. For that I must depend on an honest servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, the one man in my pay with the courage to confront me with no cloaked speech, but his naked thought, though it should lash me like whips. Oh, many a time my wife, who is none of our race, warned me against the softening influence, the blight and rot of this eternal air of flattery that’s round about Castle Inneraora like a swamp vapour. She’s in Stirling to-day—I ken it in my heart that to-night shell weep upon her pillow because she’ll know fate has found the weak joint in her goodman’s armour again.”
John Splendid’s brow came down upon a most perplexed face; this seemed all beyond him, but he knew his master was somehow blaming the world at large for his own error.
“Come now, John,” said his lordship, turning and leaning on his arm and looking curiously at his kinsman. “Come now, what do you think of me here without a wound but at the heart, with Auchinbreac and all my gallant fellows yonder?”
“Auchinbreac was a soldier by trade and a good one too,” answered M’Iver, at his usual trick of prevarication.
“And a flatterer like yourself, you mean,” said his lordship. “He and you learned the lesson in the same school, I’m thinking. And as ill-luck had it, his ill counsel found me on the swither, as yours did when Colkitto came down the glens there to rape and burn. That’s the Devil for you; he’s aye planning to have the minute and the man together. Come, sir, come, sir, what do you think, what do you think?”
He rose as he spoke and put his knees below him, and leaned across the bed with hands upon the blankets, staring his kinsman in the face as if he would pluck the truth from him out at the very eyes. His voice rose to an animal cry with an agony in it; the sinister look that did him such injustice breathed across his visage. His knuckle and collar-bones shone blae through the tight skin.
“What do I think?” echoed M’Iver. “Well, now——”
“On your honour now,” cried Argile, clutching him by the shoulder.
At that M’Iver’s countenance changed: he threw off his soft complacence, and cruelty and temper stiffened his jaw.
“I’ll soon give you that, my Lord of Argile,” said he. “I can lie like a Dutch major for convenience sake, but put me on honour and you’ll get the truth if it cost me my life. Purgatory’s your portion, Argile, for a Sunday’s work that makes our name a mock to-day across the envious world. Take to your books and your preachers, sir—you’re for the cloister and not for the field; and if I live a hundred years, I’ll deny I went with you to Inverlochy. I left my sword in Badenoch, but here’s my dagger” (and he threw it with a clatter on the floor); “it’s the last tool I’ll handle in the service of a scholar. To-morrow the old big wars for me; Hebron’s troopers will welcome an umquhile comrade, and I’ll find no swithering captains among the cavaliers in France.”
Back sat my lord in bed, and laughed with a surrender shrill and distraught, until Master Gordon and I calmed him, and there was his cousin still before him in a passion, standing in the middle of the floor.
“Stop, stop, John,” he cried; “now that for once I’ve got the truth from you, let us be better friends than ever before.”
“Never the same again,” said M’I ver, firmly, “never the same again, for you ken my estimate of you now; and what avails my courtesy?”
“Your flatteries, you mean,” said Argile, good-natured. “And, besides, you speak only of my two blunders; you know my other parts,—you know that by nature I am no poltroon.”
“That’s no credit to you, sir—it’s the strong blood of Diarmaid; there was no poltroon in the race but what came in on the wrong side of the blanket I’ve said it first, and I’ll say it to the last, your spirit is smoored among the books. Paper and ink will be the Gael’s undoing; my mother taught me, and my mother knew. So long as we lived by our hands we were the world’s invincibles. Rome met us and Rome tried us, and her corps might come in winter torrents, but they never tore us from our hills and keeps. What Rome may never do, that may paper and sheepskin; you, yourself, MacCailein, have the name of plying pen and ink very well to your own purpose in the fingers of old lairds who have small skill of that contrivance.”
He would have passed on in this outrageous strain without remission, had not Gordon checked him with a determined and unabashed voice. He told him to sit down in silence or leave the room, and asked him to look upon his master and see if that high fever was a condition to inflame in a fit of temper. John Splendid cooled a little, and went to the window, looking down with eyes of far surmise upon the pleasance and the town below, chewing his temper between his teeth.
“You see, Elrigmore, what a happy King of the Highlands I am,” said the Marquis, despondently. “Fortunate Auchinbreac, to be all bye with it after a moment’s agony!”
“He died like a good soldier, sir,” I said; “he was by all accounts a man of some vices, but he wiped them out in his own blood.”
“Are you sure of that? Is it not the old folly of the code of honour, the mad exaltation of mere valour in arms, that makes you think so? What if he was spilling his drops on the wrong side? He was against his king at least, and—oh, my wits, my wits, what am I saying?... I saw you did not drink my wine, Elrigmore; am I so low as that?”
“There is no man so low, my lord,” said I, “but he may be yet exalted. We are, the best of us, the instruments of a whimsical providence” (“What a rank doctrine,” muttered the minister), “and Caesar himself was sometimes craven before his portents. You, my lord, have the one consolation left, that all’s not bye yet with the cause you champion, and you may yet lead it to the highest victory.”
Argile took a grateful glance at me. “You know what I am,” he said, “not a man of the happy, single mood like our friend Barbreck here, but tossed between philosophies. I am paying bitterly for my pliability, for who so much the sport of life as the man who knows right well the gait he should gang, and prays fervently to be permitted to follow it, but sometimes stumbles in the ditch? Monday, oh Monday; I must be at Edinburgh and face them all! Tis that dauntons me.” His eyes seemed to swim in blood, as he looked at me, or through me, aghast at the horror of his situation, and sweat stood in blobs upon his brow. “That,” he went on, “weighs me down like lead. Here about me my people know me, and may palliate the mistake of a day by the recollection of a lifetime’s honour. I blame Auchinbreac; I blame the chieftains,—they said I must take to the galley; I blame——”
“Blame no one, Argile,” said Master Gordon, standing up before him, not a second too soon, for his lordship had his hand on the dirk M’Iver had thrown down. Then he turned to us with ejecting arms. “Out you go,” he cried sternly, “out you go; what delight have you in seeing a nobleman on the rack?”
As the door closed behind us we could hear Argile sob.
Seventeen years later, if I may quit the thread of my history and take in a piece that more properly belongs to the later adventures of John Splendid, I saw my lord die by the maiden. Being then in his tail, I dined with him and his friends the day before he died, and he spoke with exceeding cheerfulness of that hour M’Iver and I found him in bed in Inneraora. “You saw me at my worst,” said he, “on two occasions; bide till to-morrow and you’ll see me at my best I never unmasked to mortal man till that day Gordon put you out of my room.” I stayed and saw him die; I saw his head up and his chin in the air as behoved his quality, that day he went through that noisy, crowded, causied Edinburgh—Edinburgh of the doleful memories, Edinburgh whose ports I never enter till this day but I feel a tickling at the nape of my neck, as where a wooden collar should lie before the shear fall.
“A cool enough reception this,” said M’Iver, as we left the gate. “It was different last year, when we went up together on your return from Low Germanie. Then MacCailein was in the need of soldiers, now he’s in the need of priests, who gloze over his weakness with their prayers.”
“You are hardly fair either to the one or the other,” I said. “Argile, whom I went in to meet to-day with a poor regard for him, turns out a better man than I gave him credit for being; he has at least the grace to grieve about a great error of judgment, or weakness of the spirit, whichever it may be. And as for Master Gordon, I’ll take off my hat to him. Yon’s no type of the sour, dour, anti-prelatics; he comes closer on the perfect man and soldier than any man I ever met.”
M’Iver looked at me with a sign of injured vanity.
“You’re not very fastidious in your choice of comparisons,” said he. “As for myself, I cannot see much more in Gordon than what he is paid for—a habit of even temper, more truthfulness than I have myself, and that’s a dubious virtue, for see the impoliteness that’s always in its train! Add to that a lack of any clannish regard for MacCailein Mor, whom he treats just like a common merchant, and that’s all. Just a plain, stout, fozy, sappy burrow-man, keeping a gospel shop, with scarcely so much of a man’s parts as will let him fend a blow in the face. I could march four miles for his one, and learn him the A B ab of every manly art.”
“I like you fine, man,” I cried; “I would sooner go tramping the glens with you any day than Master Gordon; but that’s a weakness of the imperfect and carnal man, that cares not to have a conscience at his coat-tail every hour of the day: you have your own parts and he his, and his parts are those that are not very common on our side of the country—more’s the pity.”
M’Iver was too busy for a time upon the sudden rupture with Argile to pay very much heed to my defence of Master Gordon. The quarrel—to call that a quarrel in which one man had all the bad temper and the other nothing but self-reproach—had soured him of a sudden as thunder turns the morning’s cream to curd before noon. And his whole demeanour revealed a totally new man. In his ordinary John was very pernicketty about his clothing, always with the most shining of buckles and buttons, always trim in plaiding, snod and spruce about his hair and his hosen, a real dandy who never overdid the part, but just contrived to be pleasant to the eye of women, who, in my observation, have, the most sensible of them, as great a contempt for the mere fop as they have for the sloven. It took, indeed, trimness of apparel to make up for the plainness of his face. Not that he was ugly or harsh-favoured,—he was too genial for either; he was simply well-favoured enough to pass in a fair, as the saying goes, which is a midway between Apollo and plain Donald But what with a jacket and vest all creased for the most apparent reasons, a plaid frayed to ribbons in dashing through the wood of Dalness, brogues burst at the toes, and a bonnet soaked all out of semblance to itself by rains, he appeared more common. The black temper of him transformed his face too: it lost the geniality that was its main charm, and out of his eyes flamed a most wicked, cunning, cruel fellow.
He went down the way from the castle brig to the “arches cursing with great eloquence. A soldier picks up many tricks of blasphemy in a career about the world with foreign legions, and John had the reddings of three or four languages at his command, so that he had no need to repeat himself much in his choice of terms aboat his chief. To do him justice he had plenty of condemnation for himself too.
“Well,” said I, “you were inclined to be calm enough with MacCailein when first we entered his room. I suppose all this uproar is over his charge of flattery, not against yourself alone but against all the people about.”
“That’s just the thing,” he cried, turning round and throwing his arms furiously about “Could he not have charged the clan generally, and let who would put the cap on? If yon’s the policy of Courts, heaven help princes!”
“And yet you were very humble when you entered,” I protested.
“Was I that?” he retorted. “That’s easy to account for. Did you ever feel like arguing with a gentleman when you had on your second-best clothes and no ruffle? The man was in his bed, and his position as he cocked up there on his knees was not the most dignified I have seen; but even then he had the best of it, for I felt like a beggar before him in my shabby duds. Oh, he had the best of us all there! You saw Gordon had the sense to put on a new surtout and clean linen and a freshly dressed peruke before he saw him; I think he would scarcely have been so bold before Argile if he had his breek-bands a finger-length below his belt, and his wig on the nape of his neck as we saw him in Glencoe.”
“Anyhow,” said I, “you have severed from his lordship; are you really going abroad?”
He paused a second in thought, smiled a little, and then laughed as if he had seen something humorous.
“Man,” said he, “didn’t I do the dirk trick with a fine touch of nobility? Maybe you thought it was done on the impulse and without any calculation. The truth was, I played the whole thing over in my mind while he was in the preliminaries of his discourse. I saw he was working up to an attack, and I knew I could surprise him. But I must confess I said more than I intended. When I spoke of the big wars and Hebron’s troopers—well, Argile’s a very nice shire to be living in.”
“What, was it all play-acting then?”
He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.
“You must be a singularly simple man, Elrigmore,” he said, “to ask that of any one. Are we not play-acting half our lives once we get a little beyond the stage of the ploughman and the herd? Half our tears and half our laughter and the great bulk of our virtues are like your way of cocking your bonnet over your right ear; it does not come by nature, and it is done to pleasure the world in general Play-acting! I’ll tell you this, Colin, I could scarcely say myself when a passion of mine is real or fancied now. But I can tell you this too; if I began in play to revile the Marquis, I ended in earnest I’m afraid it’s all bye with me yonder. No more mine-managing for me; I struck too close on the marrow for him to forget it.”
“He has forgotten and forgiven it already,” I cried “At least, let us hope he has not forgotten it (for you said no more than was perhaps deserved), but at least it’s forgiven. If you said to-morrow that you were sorry for your temper——”
“Said ten thousand fiends in Hell!” cried M’Iver. “I may be vexed I angered the man; but I’ll never let him know it by my words, if he cannot make it out from my acts.”
I dressed myself up in the morning with scrupulous care, put my hair in a queue, shaved cheek and chin, and put at my shoulder the old heirloom brooch of the house, which, with some other property, the invaders had not found below the bruach where we had hid it on the day we had left Elngmore to their mercy. I was all in a tremor of expectation, hot and cold by turns in hope and apprehension, but always with a singular uplifting at the heart, because for good or ill I was sure to meet in the next hour or two the one person whose presence in Inneraora made it the finest town in the world. Some men tell me they have felt the experience more than once; light o’ loves they, errant gallants, I’ll swear (my dear) the tingle of it came to me but at the thought of meeting one woman. Had she been absent from Inneraora that morning I would have avoided it like a leper-house because of its gloomy memorials; but the very reek of its repairing tenements as I saw them from the upper windows of my home floating in a haze against the blue over the shoulder of Dun Torvil seemed to call me on. I went about the empty chambers carolling like the bird. Aumrie and clothes-press were burst and vacant, the rooms in all details were bereft and cheerless because of the plenishing stolen, and my father sat among his losses and mourned, but I made light of our spoiling.
As if to heighten the rapture of my mood, the day was full of sunshine, and though the woods crowding the upper glen were leafless and slumbering, they were touched to something like autumn’s gold. Some people love the country but in the time of leafage! And laden with delights in every season of the year, and the end of winter as cheery a period as any, for I know that the buds are pressing at the bark, and that the boughs in rumours of wind stretch out like the arms of the sleeper who will soon be full awake.
Down I went stepping to a merry lilt, banishing every fear from my thoughts, and the first call I made was on the Provost. He was over in Akaig’s with his wife and family pending the repair of his own house, and Askaig was off to his estate. Master Brown sat on the balusters of the outer stair, dangling his squat legs and studying through horn specs the talc of thig and theft which the town officer had made up a report on. As I put my foot on the bottom step he looked up, and his welcome was most friendly.
“Colin! Colin!” he cried, hastening down to shake me by the hand, “come your ways in. I heard you got home yesterday, and I was sure you would give us a call in the by-going to-day. And you’re little the waur of your jaunt-hale and hearty. We ken all about your prisoning; M’Iver was in last night and kept the crack going till morning—a most humorous devil.”
He pinched rappee as he spoke, in rapid doses from a snuff-box, and spread the brown powder in extravagant carelessness over his vest. He might affect what light-heartedness he could; I saw that the past fortnight had made a difference for the worse on him. The pouches below the eyes had got heavier and darker, the lines had deepened on his brow, the ruddy polish had gone off his cheek, and it was dull and spotted; by ten o’clock at night-when he used to be very jovial over a glass—I could tell he would be haggard and yawning. At his years men begin to age in a few hours; a sudden wrench to the affections, or shock to a long-disciplined order of things in their lives, will send them staggering down off the braehead whereon they have been perched with a good balance so long that they themselves have forgot the natural course of human man is to be progressing somewhere.
“Ah, lad, lad! haven’t we the times?” he said, as he led me within to the parlour. “Inneraora in the stour in her reputation as well as in her tenements. I wish the one could be amended as readily as the other; but we mustn’t be saying a word against princes, ye ken,” he went on in the discreet whisper of the conspirator. “You were up and saw him last night, I’m hearing. To-day they tell me he’s himself again, and coming down to a session meeting at noon. I must put myself in his way to say a friendly word or two. Ah! you’re laughing at us. I understand, man, I understand. You travellers need not practise the art of civility; but we’re too close on the castle here to be out of favour with MacCailein Mor. Draw in your chair, and—Mary, Mary, goodwife! bring in the bottle with you and see young Elrigmore.”
In came the goodwife with even greater signs of trouble than her husband, but all in a flurry of good-humoured welcome. They sat, the pair of them, before me in a little room poorly lit by a narrow window but half-glazed, because a lower portion of it had been destroyed in the occupation of the Irish, and had to be timbered up to keep the wind outside. A douce pathetic pair; I let my thoughts stray a little even from their daughter as I looked on them, and pondered on the tragedy of age that is almost as cruel as war, but for the love that set Provost Brown with his chair haffit close against his wife’s, so that less noticeably he might take her hand in his below the table and renew the glow that first they learned, no doubt, when lad and lass awandering in summer days, oh long ago, in Eas-a-chosain glen.
They plied me with a hundred questions, of my adventures, and of my father, and of affairs up in Shira Glen. I sat answering very often at hazard, with my mind fixed on the one question I had to ask, which was a simple one as to the whereabouts and condition of their daughter. But I leave to any lad of a shrinking and sensitive nature if this was not a task of exceeding difficulty. For you must remember that here were two very sharp-eyed parents, one of them with a gift of irony discomposing to a lover, and the other or both perhaps, with no reason, so far as I knew, to think I had any special feeling for the girl. But I knew as well as if I had gone over the thing a score of times before, how my manner of putting that simple question would reveal me at a flash to the irony of the father and the wonder of the mother. And in any case they gave me not the smallest chance of putting it As they plied me with affairs a thousand miles beyond the limits of my immediate interest, and I answered them with a brevity almost discourteous, I was practising two or three phrases in my mind.
“And how is your daughter, sir?” might seem simple enough, but it would be too cold for an inquirer to whom hitherto she had always been Betty; while to ask for Betty outright would—a startling new spring of delicacy in my nature told me—be to use a friendly warmth only the most cordial relations with the girl would warrant No matter how I mooted the lady, I knew something in my voice and the very flush in my face would reveal my secret My position grew more pitiful every moment, for to the charge of cowardice I levelled first at myself for my backwardness, there was the charge of discourtesy. What could they think of ray breeding that I had not mentioned their daughter? What could I think from their silence regarding her but that they were vexed at my indifference to her, and with the usual Highland pride were determined not even to mention her name till she was asked for. Upon my word, I was in a trouble more distressing than when I sat in the mist in the Moor of Rannoch and confessed myself lost! I thought for a little, in a momentary wave of courage, of leading the conversation in her direction by harking back to the day when the town was abandoned, and she took flight with the child into the woods. Still the Provost, now doing all the talking, while his wife knit hose, would ever turn a hundred by-ways from the main road I sought to lead him on.
By-and-by, when the crack had drifted hopelessly away from all connection with Mistress Betty, there was a woman’s step on the stair. My face became as hot as fire at the sound, and I leaned eagerly forward in my chair before I thought of the transparency of the movement.
The Provost’s eyes closed to little slits in his face; the corner of his mouth curled in amusement.
“Here’s Peggy back from Bailie Campbell’s,” he said to his wife, and I was convinced he did so to let me know the new-comer, who was now moving about in the kitchen across the lobby, was not the one I had expected. My disappointment must have shown in my face; I felt I was wasting moments the most precious, though it was something to be under the same roof as my lady’s relatives, under the same roof as she had slept below last night, and to see some of her actual self almost, in the smiles and eyes and turns of the voice of her mother. I stood up to go, slyly casting an eye about the chamber for the poor comfort of seeing so little as a ribbon or a shoe that was hers, but even that was denied me. The Provost, who, I’ll swear now, knew my trouble from the outset, though his wife was blind to it, felt at last constrained to relieve it.
“And you must be going,” he said; “I wish you could have waited to see Betty, who’s on a visit to Carlunnan and should be home by now.”
As he said it, he was tapping his snuff-mull and looking at me pawkily out of the corners of his eyes, that hovered between me and his wife, who stood with the wool in her hand, beaming mildly up in my face. I half turned on my heel and set a restless gaze on the corner of the room. For many considerations were in his simple words. That he should say them at all relieved the tension of my wonder; that he should say them in the way he did, was, in a manner, a manifestation that he guessed the real state of ray feelings to the lady whose very name I had not dared to mention to him, and that he was ready to favour any suit I pressed I was even inclined to push my reading of his remark further, and say to myself that if he had not known the lady herself favoured me, he would never have fanned my hope by even so little as an indifferent sentence.
“And how is she—how is Betty?” I asked, lamely.
He laughed with a pleasing slyness, and gave me a dunt with his elbow on the side, a bit of the faun, a bit of the father, a bit of my father’s friend.
“You’re too blate, Colin,” he said, and then he put his arm through his wife’s and gave her a squeeze to take her into his joke. I would have laughed at the humour of it but for the surprise in the good woman’s face. It fair startled me, and yet it was no more than the look of a woman who leams that her man and she have been close company with a secret for months, and she had never made its acquaintance. There was perhaps a little more, a hesitancy in the utterance, a flush, a tone that seemed to show the subject was one to be passed bye as fast as possible.
She smiled feebly a little, picked up a row of dropped stitches, and “Oh, Betty,” said she, “Betty—is—is—she’ll be back in a little. Will you not wait?”
“No, I must be going,” I said; “I may have the happiness of meeting her before I go up the glen in the afternoon.”
They pressed me both to stay, but I seemed, in my mind, to have a new demand upon me for an immediate and private meeting with the girl; she must be seen alone, and not in presence of the old couple, who would give my natural shyness in her company far more gawkiness than it might have if I met her alone.
I went out and went down the stair, and along the front of the land, my being in a tumult, yet with my observation keen to everything, no matter how trivial, that happened around me. The sea-gulls, that make the town the playground of their stormy holidays, swept and curved among the pigeons in the gutter and quarrelled over the spoils; tossed in the air wind-blown, then dropped with feet outstretched upon the black joists and window-sills. Fowls of the midden, new brought from other parts to make up the place of those that had gone to the kail-pots of Antrim and Athole, stalked about with heads high, foreign to this causied and gravelled country, clucking eagerly for meat I made my way amid the bird of the sea and the bird of the wood and common bird of the yard with a divided mind, seeing them with the eye for future recollection, but seeing them not Peats were at every close-mouth, at every door almost that was half-habitable, and fuel cut from the wood, and all about the thoroughfare was embarrassed.
I had a different decision at every step, now to seek the girl, now to go home, now finding the most heartening hints in the agitation of the parents, anon troubled exceedingly with the reflection that there was something of an unfavourable nature in the demeanour of her mother, however much the father’s badinage might soothe my vanity.
I had made up my mind for the twentieth time to go the length of Carlunnan and face her plump and plain, when behold she came suddenly round the corner at the Maltland where the surviving Lowland troops were gathered! M’Iver was with her, and my resolution shrivelled and shook within me like an old nut kernel. I would have turned but for the stupidity and ill-breeding such a movement would evidence, yet as I held on my way at a slower pace and the pair approached, I felt every limb an encumbrance, I felt the country lout throbbing in every vein.
Betty almost ran to meet me as we came closer together, with an agreeableness that might have pleased me more had I not the certainty that she would have been as warm to either of the two men who had rescued her from her hiding in the wood of Strongara, and had just come back from her country’s battles with however small credit to themselves in the result. She was in a very happy mood, for, like all women, she could readily forget the large and general vexation of a reverse to her people in war if the immediate prospect was not unpleasant and things around were showing improvement Her eyes shone and sparkled, the ordinary sedate flow of her words was varied by little outbursts of gaiety. She had been visiting the child at Carlunnan, where it had been adopted by her kinswoman, who made a better guardian than its grandmother, who died on her way to Dunbarton.
“What sets you on this road?” she asked blandly.
“Oh, you have often seen me on this road before,” I said, boldly and with meaning. Ere I went wandering we had heard the rivers sing many a time, and sat upon its banks and little thought life and time were passing as quickly as the leaf or bubble on the surface. She flushed ever so little at the remembrance, and threw a stray curl back from her temples with an impatient toss of her fingers.
“And so much of the dandy too!” put in M’Iver, himself perjink enough about his apparel. “I’ll wager there’s a girl in the business.” He laughed low, looked from one to the other of us, yet his meaning escaped, or seemed to escape, the lady.
“Elrigmore is none of the kind,” she said, as if to protect a child. “He has too many serious affairs of life in hand to be in the humour for gallivanting.”
This extraordinary reading of my character by the one woman who ought to have known it better, if only by an instinct, threw me into a blend of confusion and chagrin. I had no answer for her. I regretted now that my evil star had sent me up Glenaora, or that having met her with M’Iver, whose presence increased my diffidence, I had not pretended some errand or business up among the farmlands in the Salachry hills, where distant relatives of our house were often found But now I was on one side of the lady and M’Iver on the other, on our way towards the burgh, and the convoy must be concluded, even if I were dumb all the way. Dumb, indeed, I was inclined to be. M’Iver laughed uproariously at madame’s notion that I was too seriously engaged with life for the recreation of love-making; it was bound to please him, coming, as it did, so close on his own estimate of me as the Sobersides he christened me at almost our first acquaintance. But he had a generous enough notion to give me the chance of being alone with the girl he knew very well my feelings for.
“I’ve been up just now at the camp,” he said, “anent the purchase of a troop-horse, and I had not concluded my bargain when Mistress Brown passed. I’m your true cavalier in one respect, that I must be offering every handsome passenger an escort; but this time it’s an office for Elrigmore, who can undertake your company down the way bravely enough, I’ll swear, for all his blateness.”
Betty halted, as did the other two of us, and bantered my comrade.
“I ask your pardon a thousand times, Barbreck,” she said; “I thought you were hurrying on your way down behind me, and came upon me before you saw who I was.”
“That was the story,” said he, coolly; “I’m too old a hand at the business to be set back on the road I came by a lady who has no relish for my company.”
“I would not take you away from your marketing for the world,” she proceeded. “Perhaps Elrigmore may be inclined to go up to the camp too; he may help you to the pick of your horse—and we’ll believe you the soldier of fortune again when we see you one.”
She, at least, had no belief that the mine-manager was to be a mercenary again. She tapped with a tiny toe on the pebbles, affecting a choler the twinkle in her eyes did not homologate. It was enough for M’Iver, who gave a “Pshaw!” and concluded he might as well, as he said, “be in good company so long as he had the chance,” and down the way again we went. Somehow the check had put him on his mettle. He seemed to lose at once all regard for my interests in this. I became in truth, more frequently than was palatable, the butt of his little pleasantries; my mysterious saunter up that glen, my sobriety of demeanour, my now silence-all those things, whose meaning he knew very well, were made the text for his amusement for the lady. As for me, I took it all weakly, striving to meet his wit with careless smiles.
For the first time, I was seized with a jealousy of him. Here was I, your arrant rustic; he was as composed as could be, overflowing with happy thoughts, laughable incident, and ever ready with the compliment or the retort women love to hear from a smart fellow of even indifferent character. I ic had the policy to conceal the vanity that was for ordinary his most transparent feature, and his trick was to admire the valour and the humour of others. Our wanderings in Lorn and I-ochaber, our adventures with the MacDonalds, all the story of the expedition, he danced through, as it were, on the tip-toe of light phrase, as if it had Ixrcn a strong man’s scheme of recreation, scarcely once appealing to ma With a Mushed cheek and parted lips the lady hung upon his words, arched her dark eyebrows in fear, or bubbled into the merriest laughter as the occasion demanded. Worst of all, she teemed to share his amusement at my silence, and then I could have wished rather than a bag of gold I had the Mull witch’s invisible coat, or that the earth would swallow me up. The very country-people passing on the way were art and part in the conspiracy of circumstances to make me unhappy. Their salutes were rarely for Elrigmore, but for the lady and John Splendid, whose bold quarrel with MacCailein Mor was now the rumour of two parishes, and gave him a wide name for unflinching bravery of a kind he had been generally acknowledged as sadly want ing in before. And Mistress Betty could not but see that high or low, I was second to this fellow going off—or at least with the rumour of it—to Hebron’s cavaliers in France before the week-end.
M’Iver was just, perhaps, carrying his humour at my cost a little too far for my temper, which was never readily stirred, but flamed fast enough when set properly alowe, and Betty—here too your true woman wit—saw it sooner than he did himself, quick enough in the uptake though he was. He had returned again to his banter about the supposititious girl I was trysted with up the glen, and my face showed my annoyance.
“You think all men like yourself,” said the girl to him, “and all women the same—like the common soldier you are.”
“I think them all darlings,” he confessed, laughing; “God bless them, kind and foolish——”
“As you’ve known them oftenest,” she supplied, coldly.
“Or sedate and sensible,” he went on. “None of them but found John M’Iver of Barbeck their very true cavalier.”
“Indeed,” said Mistress Betty, colder than ever, some new thought working within her, judging from the tone. “And yet you leave to-morrow, and have never been to Carlunnan.” She said the last words with a hesitancy, blushing most warmly. To me they were a dark mystery, unless I was to assume, what I did wildly for a moment, only to relinquish the notion immediately, that she had been in the humour to go visiting her friends with him. Mover’s face showed some curious emotion that it baffled me to read, and all that was plain to me was that here were two people with a very strong thought of a distressing kind between them.
“It would be idle for me,” he said in a little, “to deny that I know what you mean. But do you not believe you might be doing me poor justice in your suspicions?”
“It is a topic I cannot come closer upon,” she answered; “I am a woman. That forbids me and that same compels me. If nature does not demand your attendance up there, then you are a man wronged by rumour or a man dead to every sense of the human spirit I have listened to your humour and laughed at your banter, for you have an art to make people forget; but all the way I have been finding my lightness broken in on by the feeble cry of a child without a mother—it seems, too, without a father.”
“If that is the trouble,” he said, turning away with a smile he did not succeed in concealing either from the lady or me, “you may set your mind at rest The child you mention has, from this day, what we may be calling a godfather.”
“Then the tale’s true?” she said, stopping on the road, turning and gazing with neither mirth nor warmth in her countenance.
M’Iver hesitated, and looked upon the woman to me as if I could help him in the difficulty; but I must have seemed a clown in the very abjection of my ignorance of what all this mystery was about He searched my face and I searched my memory, and then I recollected that he had told me before of Mistress Brown’s suspicions of the paternity of the child.
“I could well wish your answer came more readily,” said she again, somewhat bitterly, “for then I know it would be denial.”
“And perhaps untruth, too,” said John, oddly. “This time it’s a question of honour, a far more complicated turn of circumstances than you can fancy, and my answer takes time.”
“Guilty!” she cried, “and you go like this. You know what the story is, and your whole conduct in front of my charges shows you take the very lightest view of the whole horrible crime.”
“Say away, madame,” said M’Iver, assuming an indifference his every feature gave the lie to. “I’m no better nor no worse than the rest of the world. That’s all I’ll say.”
“You have said enough for me, then,” said the girl.
“I think, Elrigmore, if you please, I’ll not trouble you and your friend to come farther with me now. I am obliged for your society so far.”
She was gone before either of us could answer, leaving us like a pair of culprits standing in the middle of the road. A little breeze fanned her clothing, and they shook behind her as to be free from some contamination. She had overtaken and joined a woman in front of her before I had recovered from my astonishment M’Iver turned from surveying her departure with lowered eyebrows, and gave me a look with half-a-dozen contending thoughts in it.
“That’s the end of it,” said he, as much to himself as for my ear, “and the odd thing of it again is that she never seemed so precious fine a woman as when it was ‘a bye wi’ auld days and you,’ as the Scots song says.”
“It beats me to fathom,” I confessed. “Do I understand that you admitted to the lady that you were the father of the child?”
“I admitted nothing,” he said, cunningly, “if you’ll take the trouble to think again. I but let the lady have her own way, which most of her sex generally manage from me in the long-run.”
“But, man! you could leave her only one impression, that you are as black as she thinks you, and am I not sure you fall far short of that?”
“Thank you,” he said; “it is good of you to say it. I am for off whenever my affairs here are settled, and when I’m the breadth of seas afar from Inneraora, you’ll think as well as you can of John M’Iver, who’ll maybe not grudge having lost the lady’s affection if he kept his friend’s and comrade’s heart.”
He was vastly moved as he spoke. He took my hand and wrung it fiercely; he turned without another word, good or ill, and strode back on his way to the camp, leaving me to seek my way to the town alone.