Kitabı oku: «Foxholme Hall, and Other Tales», sayfa 12
Story 7-Chapter I
STORY SEVEN – The Bogies of Glen Bogie
A gaily-painted canal boat was gliding smoothly and swiftly through the still waters of the Crinan Canal, which intersects the Mull of Cantire in Argyleshire. A steep bank of overhanging wood lay on one side, and on the other an open view stretched toward distant hills.
The day had been showery; drops sparkled upon the leaves, and pattered down on the boat as she passed beneath the hanging boughs; light clouds were speeding across the clear blue heavens, and as the sun shone out a fairy-like rainbow lay along the hill-side.
With a rustling sound the boat cut through the placid water, and for a time none other broke the silence; the exquisite peace and beauty of the scene cast a spell upon the party who were passengers on board, and, different as were the various tones of mind, one feeling seemed now to pervade the group. During this pause, let us examine the figures composing it.
That active well-formed man, with good sense and merriment in his clear kindly eye, and about his firm mouth, is Arthur Hardy. His early life of laborious self-denial, in support of dependent young brothers and sisters, has been rewarded with success and present prosperity.
The graceful lounging figure beside him, whose handsome features are clouded by such a look of inward dissatisfaction, is Edmund Bayntun, the luxurious and self-indulgent course of whose days lacks the stimulus of any object to rouse his faculties, brighten his eye, and dispel the dreamy gloom now habitual to his manner.
He and Hardy were school-fellows, and have unexpectedly met, to their great mutual pleasure. Edmund has just been introduced to Mrs Arthur Hardy and her pretty and rather romantic little sister, Helen Grey, and has been persuaded to join them in a visit they are about to pay to a hospitable Highland friend, instead of continuing his languid solitary wanderings.
He and Hardy were soon agreeably engaged in talking over early recollections and subsequent events; and the genuine kindness and lively good sense of the whole party tended considerably to overcome Bayntun’s moody feelings, and dissipate the somewhat peevish melancholy in which he usually indulged.
Towards evening Hardy announced that they must prepare to go on shore, as they had reached the nearest available landing-place to Glennaclach, the residence of Mr Stewart. The mountain mists were tinged with glowing gold, and under the shadow of the dark hill-sides the waters of the loch looked grey and cold, when the party stepped into the little boat which came out to meet them. A few passengers of an inferior rank accompanied them, and were heartily welcomed by the men in the boat in their wild Gaelic. Suddenly they all seemed to remember that there were strangers amongst them, and, with a courteousness which might put to the blush many more cultivated societies, continued their conversation in English; and addressing Hardy, as the evident head of the party, volunteered any assistance or information they could give. His plan had been at once to obtain some vehicle to convey them to his friend’s house in Glennaclach, but this he found to be impossible, as the distance was considerable, and part of the road liable to be overflowed by the tide. The only arrangement to be made, therefore, was to pass the night at the little inn near the landing-place, and proceed the following day on their visit. So Edmund Bayntun was condemned to spend the evening in an uncarpeted room, redolent of whisky and tobacco, the fumes of which ascended from the kitchen, where, as their usual rendezvous was occupied, the frequenters of the inn were holding their evening carousal; but the moon shone in a spreading path of silver upon the waters of the loch as the tide came rippling softly and steadily in, and he gazed upon it, and actually felt enjoyment. Soon from the party below rose and swelled a wild and melodious chorus, then a single voice sang alone, and again the chorus joined in, till it was suddenly hushed, and, after a little consultation, the landlord came up to ask, in the peculiarly delicate tone in which the Western Highlanders speak English, whether the ladies were annoyed by the noise below, as it should cease immediately if they wished it. Softened as it was, the effect of the music added much to their enjoyment, and they begged it might not be checked on their account.
Early the next day, in high spirits, and perfectly refreshed, though their accommodation had certainly been of the roughest description, the little party set off up Glennaclach, the gentlemen on foot and the ladies and carpet-bags in a cart full of straw, drawn by a rough wild-eyed pony, led by a Highlander equally so.
“Donald’s but a daft lad, but he knows the road and will guide ye safely, so ye’ll no be troubled with that,” said the mistress of the inn, as she shook up the straw in the cart so as to form cushions for the two ladies.
Donald was at first sight what would, in England, be called a lad, till, on closer inspection, his thick loose curls were perceived to be mingled, not sparingly, with grey. These he shook down over his wild light-blue eyes whenever he spoke, but, as he heard the mistress’s remark, he signified his appreciation of her confidence by throwing his head backwards, and, taking an inverted view of his charge, he opened his wide mouth and uttered the exclamation “Hech!” with a prolonged guttural aspiration. Then he addressed himself volubly to the pony in English and Gaelic indifferently, and not a word would he utter except for the information of this, his chosen friend and companion, in answer to any questions put to him.
Merrily they travelled, for the roads in Argyleshire are excellent, and the jolting of the cart, consequently, much less than they had ventured to anticipate; so that there was nothing to interrupt their enjoyment of the varied, always lovely, scenery through which their road lay. Now they crossed an elevated ridge, where heath and grey rock were mingled in rich though subdued tints; then they descended through a wood of fairy birches, whose light foliage quivered against the pure blue sky, to the margin of the loch, which glistened in the morning sunlight, on one hand, and the steep grey rock formed a wall on the other, over which, amongst pines and stunted oaks, the broad heads and short wide horns of the Highland cattle would occasionally appear. As they ascended the glen new hills came into view, some apparently of smooth velvet surface, descending with an easy slope towards the waterside, where a fringe of varied wood was reflected so clearly that it was difficult to distinguish it from the reality; others, dark and rugged, refusing to smile even under the joyous rays of the young day. Bayntun was less obdurate in his gloom, but he seemed to check himself whenever he yielded to the enlivening influences of place and circumstances; while Hardy gave himself up so entirely to the pure pleasure of the moment, that his chest heaved, and his eyes filled with tears, and he could have thrown himself down upon the heather in an ecstasy of joy.
“How dark and gloomy that glen looks between the steep mountain and the round smooth hill on the opposite side of the lake!” exclaimed Helen Grey.
“What is that glen called, Donald?” asked Mr Hardy.
“Ye ken the name as weel as any other word ye speak, Sandie, so come away and dinna be wasting your breath with asking idle questions,” said Donald, addressing the pony. Then, giving a leer at Helen from behind his grizzly locks, he began singing a few words of a Gaelic song; next he addressed some sentences in the same language to the pony, accompanied by a chuckling laugh; after which, he tossed back his head to take another inverted view of the party, and then giving a jerk to the short bridle by which he led the pony, he nodded to him in a patronising manner, saying, “Your memory’s short, Sandie; but we should ay pity folks that’s weak in mind, and so I’ll answer ye. Yon’s Glen Bogie, Sandie,” he continued almost in a whisper; “but ye shouldna go there in the full of the moon, Sandie, for there’s sights and sounds in Glen Bogie that would make a wise man quake and loosen his teeth in his head, much more a poor daft lad like you, Sandie. Dinna ye gang there, Sandie, to hear the Campbells come down the glen to cry the coronach over their dead, and them dead and gone themselves these hundred years. Ha! ha! Sandie. I heard it once mysel’ when the wind soughed in the trees and the burn roared amongst the stones; and I heard the rustle of their tartans, and when the moon shone out I saw them. Hush, Sandie! Whisht, my bonnie man! The sun shines now, and we’re no going to Glen Bogie.”
The convulsive jerks he had given to the bridle here made the pony so restive, that Donald’s whole attention was required to quiet him.
“That all sounds very delightful,” said Helen, still gazing at the dark glen which branched off from the wider one up which they were proceeding.
“Have you a fancy for spectral coronachs, Helen?” asked Hardy, smiling.
“I must go to Glen Bogie,” she replied in a very decided tone.
“And what says the little wife?” continued Arthur.
“Oh, by all means give Helen an opportunity of making friends with real bogies, and in Glen Bogie they must be genuine,” answered Mrs Hardy. “Besides, I cannot help thinking that there really was some ghastly tragedy enacted about here in which the Campbells were concerned. Glen Bogie may be the very spot.”
“Oh, I hope so,” exclaimed Helen, turning quite pale.
Suddenly Donald checked the pony’s pace, and his own half-dancing ambling steps, as, after passing a few thatched cottages roughly built of stone, they came in sight of a moderately-sized house, with wings added apparently as they were required; out-buildings and farm-house, surrounded by stately beech and spreading gene or wild cherry-trees. Immediately in front of the house, which, like most Highland mansions, was slated and white-washed, a lawn, shaded by fine trees, sloped towards the lake, where two boats were moored close to a boat-house; while the adjoining portion of the slope was laid out in a garden, now basking in the sunshine.
“Tread lightly, Sandie; there’s sorrow and pain at hand,” said Donald, in a tone so mournful and different from the wild, half-scoffing manner he had before adopted, that a thrill of apprehension ran through the whole party. “There’s sorrow yonder in the house of Glennaclach, and no cheering welcome for the Sassenach strangers.” His keen wandering glance had discovered one of the boats now moored to the shore, rowed hastily across the loch a few minutes before, and two figures hurrying up from it to the house. One of these he knew to be the only doctor in the glen. There were other signs of alarm and confusion; servants hastening to and fro, cottagers meeting and pausing as if to ask questions; and with all his wildness, half of which was but assumed to excite an interest which flattered his weak intellect, poor Donald was an acute observer, and sincerely attached to the family of the laird of Glennaclach, so that he readily took alarm. To the travellers, not perceiving the tokens by which he formed his suggestion, it had all the effect of the supernatural.
“Go you forward alone, Misther Hardy,” said Donald, addressing him for the first time; “and if there’s a welcome for you, come back and fetch the ladies, and,” – here he designated Bayntun by a certain contemptuous turn of the chin towards him.
“But why should you doubt it, Donald?” asked Hardy.
“Go you forward, Misther Hardy, or I maun go myself,” repeated Donald impatiently, and holding the pony firmly, as if determined that he at least should not proceed.
To humour him, Hardy followed his directions, but as he neared the house, a sound fell upon his ear which alarmed him; a boyish voice uttered a suppressed moan of intense suffering, repeated, yet apparently controlled by an effort. Seeing him pause, one of the group of people who stood with grief and terror in their countenances outside the door came towards him.
“Make haste, sir, if you are a doctor and can do him any good. He is not dead, though I never thought to hear the sound of his voice again when the tree gave way with him, and I saw the bonnie lad go down over the crags like a stane.”
“What has happened?” inquired Hardy. “I am no doctor, but I will gladly give any help I can.”
Then followed a voluble explanation in Gaelic from the whole group, interspersed with a few words in English, from which Hardy learned that one of the laird’s younger brothers, in climbing along the crags by the side of a waterfall, had trusted his weight to a slight tree which gave way with him, precipitating him into the rocky bed of the foaming torrent. The doctor was now examining the injuries he had received. While the women were speaking, a young man appeared at the door and said a few words to them in a kind but determined tone, which had the effect of instantly silencing and dispersing them; and he then perceived Hardy.
“Hardy, is this your promised visit? Alone, and at this unfortunate moment? Not that you are the less welcome,” he added, shaking him warmly by the hand, and leading him into the house.
The gleam of reason which had dictated Donald’s suggestion vanished as soon as Hardy followed it, and he began indulging in crazy merriment at having produced the excitement and alarm so visible in the faces of the three remaining strangers. Though Bayntun would not have confessed it, his imagination was strangely excited, and his nerves shaken, when Hardy and the young laird came together from the house.
“I am sorry to say that Donald’s conjecture was but too correct,” said Arthur; after introducing his friend; “and I have succeeded in convincing Glennaclach, much against his hospitable inclination, that he would distress us all by receiving us under such circumstances.” He then briefly explained what had happened, and his own proposition that they should proceed to Glen Bogie.
“Since you will positively not remain with me, it is some satisfaction to know that at Glen Bogie, notwithstanding the ill-omened connection it has with my house, you will meet with a more hospitable reception, if you do not fear it for its reputation of being haunted,” said the young man. “My boats are at your service to take you there; and I am vexed at not having the pleasure of myself introducing you to the scenery of the Glen; but in my mother’s present anxiety respecting my brother, I cannot leave her even for a few hours. His hurts are not dangerous, however, and I hope to-morrow to be able to bring you all back to my house.”
As he spoke, he carefully assisted the ladies to alight from the cart, returning Donald’s reverential salutation kindly, and desiring him to convey what Donald called the thravelling bags down to the boat. Helen thought of Fergus McIvor, of course, though nothing could be more dissimilar from the hero of Waverley than the frank, simple-mannered young Highlander, who, with kind quiet courtesy, was handing Mrs Hardy down the sloping lawn. Two men were ready in the boat, which was carefully spread with plaids, and Mr Stewart, or Glennaclach, as he was called in a district where the name Stewart is so frequent that it is absolutely necessary to distinguish the proprietors by the names of their estates, having given his orders to the men in their native language, and placed his intended guests comfortably, gave the boat a shove off from the shore, and lifted his bonnet as a parting salute.
“Now you have seen a real live Highland laird, Helen,” said Mrs Hardy, smiling.
As the men plied their square-handled oars, the young laird called out something to them in Gaelic, which made them look shy and shake their heads.
“I want them to sing to you,” said he in English; and after some hesitation, one of them struck up a wild song, which, in spite of the nasal sound he gave it, was full of beauty. So they glided over the still waters of the loch, which was —
“All of the dazzling sheen,
Like magic mirror, where slumbering lay
The sun and the sky and the cloudlet grey;
Which heaved and trembled and gently swung;
On every shore they seemed to be hung;
For there they were seen on their downward plain
A thousand times and a thousand again;
In winding lake and placid firth,
Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth.”
“Where did you learn that, Alice?” inquired Hardy gently, as his wife concluded these lines, which she murmured rather than pronounced, as she leaned back in the boat looking down into the water, and rippling it with her delicate fingers.
“It is in Hogg’s ‘Kilmeny,’” she answered. “You don’t know the poem, Arthur, but we will read it some day. Kilmeny was taken away to the spirit-land, and allowed to revisit her native Scotland, to show what a woman can be and what she can do.”
“And did she take you with her, Alice?” said her husband.
Mrs Hardy’s cheek glowed at the implied compliment.
Soon they entered the little stream which Mr Stewart had pointed out to them, and truly it was a lovely scene. Although evidently deep, the water was so transparently clear that each pebble and fibre of weed was distinctly seen. Trees arched overhead, hanging at times so far across the stream that it was difficult to manage the oars. Where it widened, little islands, covered with trees, ferns, and wild-flowers, broke it into still narrower channels, forming leafy vistas, occasionally terminating in the blue hills.
“Oh, what is that?” exclaimed Helen, as a large bird rose with heavy flight from a point of land which they were approaching.
“Hech! yon’s ta bhird,” commenced one of the rowers, with great animation; then, checked by the consciousness that, however well he might be supplied with information regarding the bird, he could not communicate it in English, he continued in a more subdued tone, “Yon’s ta bhird ye may often see nigh ta wather.”
The heron, for such it was, continued to precede them up the stream, resting on a point of land till they came close to it, and then majestically and gloomily rising, to alight again. In about an hour the boat touched a sandy beach, surrounded with magnificent chestnut trees, amongst which the stream still ran, but so shallow and rocky a’s to be unnavigable.
“And, now, are we in Glen Bogie?” asked Helen.
“Ay, ye may say that,” said the man who had before spoken.
With some difficulty they followed him by the brink of the stream, as, with their bags on his arm, he led the way. The glen became darker and narrower; gloomy firs, through which the summer wind moaned sadly, replaced the varied wood; a lofty mountain interposed its precipitous rocky side between the stream and the sun, which seemed never to shine on its troubled waters. As if placed as far as possible within the dark ravine, stood the house of Glen Bogie, and immediately behind it rose a grove of firs.
“What a beautiful sketch this would make!” said Helen, as they came suddenly upon a foaming torrent, which, descending the hill-side, emerged from the rocks, heather, and stunted trees, and fell into the stream by which they were guided.
“We must have it, Bayntun,” said Hardy. “The stream is swollen by yesterday’s rain, and by to-morrow would appear to less advantage.”
“I shall gladly attempt to render it justice,” answered Bayntun, “but it must be a work of time.”
“If you do not mind remaining, I will take Mrs Hardy and my sister on to the house and return to guide you, for I am sure they must be tired,” said Hardy.
Both ladies owned to considerable fatigue, notwithstanding their enjoyment. In answer to Bayntun’s inquiries, their guide assured him that he would have no difficulty in finding his way to the house alone, which he preferred.
Hardy and the two ladies then climbed the rocks from which the waterfall issued, and crossed by an old stone bridge; then again descending to the stream they had left, they followed it till they arrived opposite to the house, when they were greeted by furious barking from a number of dogs which simultaneously rushed from every angle of the building, ranging savagely up and down the waterside.
They were soon hushed by the appearance of a stout middle-aged woman, dressed in a gown of dark blue linsey-woolsey and a snow-white cap, who came out to see what had caused their noise.
“Yon’s Mrs Cameron,” said the guide; and in answer to her greeting, which was in Gaelic, and shouted with the full force of her strong vocal organs, he apparently told her who her guests were, and the cause of their coming.
“Any from Glennaclach are welcome to my roof,” said she in English, surveying them for a few minutes with her head on one side and her arms folded across her portly person. “Go you round to the bridge, and I will meet you; the lads are all away, but they’ll be at home the night, and meantime I will make you as welcome as a lone wife may.”
Still shouting to them across the stream, she stepped out firmly over the loose stones and met them on a high arched stone bridge, bestowing on each a hearty shake of the hand, and on Hardy a hearty thump on the shoulders, accompanied by the compliment —
“You’ve a right honest face, my lad.”
She then spoke with respectful interest of the family at Glennaclach.
“There’s no race like the Stewarts, meet them when and where you will,” added she.
Passing by several out-buildings, from which all the dogs rushed forth again, she led the way to the principal entrance of what was once a Highland gentleman’s mansion, gloomy and desolate as it now looked.
“My daughters are all married and away, and none of the lads has brought home a bride to take their place,” she said, rather sadly, and then bursting into a loud laugh, she continued – “But I am more than wife to all of them; look here,” and opening a large chest, she drew forth pieces of cloth and linen of all descriptions. “Spun it all with these hands, and there’s plenty of work in them yet; and see there,” she said, triumphantly pointing to dozens of woollen hose which hung in the wide chimney of the kitchen, to which she now led the way.
Then remembering that her guests must be tired and hungry, she placed upon the table oat-cake, milk, and whisky in abundance, heartily inviting them to partake of them.
The task which Bayntun had undertaken was longer than he had anticipated. While engaged upon it, his mind recurred more than once to the hints he had heard of the place he was now in. Donald’s apparently prophetic announcement of the sorrow which had befallen the family they had intended to visit had also taken a strange hold upon his fancy. Moreover he was tired and hungry, and whatever ascetics may say to the contrary, the mind cannot work so healthfully in conjunction with a feeble body, as with one in such comfortable condition that none of the reasoning faculties are needed to master its sufferings. In fact, he was neither more nor less than nervous. The spot in which he was left was calculated to increase these feelings, so totally lonely and silent, except the sad music of the breeze in the fir-trees, and the stream gurgling and rushing down the rocks. Just below him – for, although far beneath the level of the top of the waterfall, he was some feet above its base – was a smooth grassy nook, protected from the water by a wall of black rock, in which was a shallow cave overhung by a weeping birch.
Bayntun had noticed this when he first began his sketch, but as his sight grew rather dazzled from watching the constant play of the water, and the sun sank behind the towering mountain, he lost sight of it altogether. As he concluded his work and prepared to follow his friends, his steps were arrested by a harsh chuckle unlike any human voice, but which seemed equally unlike the sound of bird or beast. It proceeded from the cave in the grassy nook, and so excited Bayntun’s curiosity that he could not refrain from investigating its origin. With some difficulty he lowered himself down the face of the rock by means of the large ferns and bushes, and as he neared the cave the sound became louder and harsher, and expressive of terror. Just as he reached the spot and extended his hand to hold back the branches which overhung it, there was a shriek, and a violent rustle from within; and a form sprang out, passed him, and climbing the rock with the agility of a monkey, by clutching the boughs with its long lean arms and hands, fled away, continuing its wild chuckle.
Edmund stood paralysed. It must be something human or supernatural, but how it came there, and whether its glaring eyes had been fixed upon him as he sat there believing himself alone, he could not guess. Resolved not to give way to the strange fears which came crowding into his mind, he climbed up the rock again, and crossing the bridge, followed, as he thought, the path described by the Highlander. Instead, however, of soon finding himself at the farm-house, he lost all view of that or any other habitation; and pausing for a moment to peer amongst the trees for signs of a path, he heard again that unnatural chuckle at no great distance from him.
“Absurd folly!” said he to himself; “it must either be a poor maniac or some mischievous young mountaineer;” so he turned towards the sound, pushing his way through the underwood till he perceived an opening in the wood. There, on the shadowy hill-side, in a magic circle of mossy grey stones and whins, or furze, he witnessed a ghastly dance of pallid forms tossing their arms wildly above their heads, and, in the midst of them, the hobgoblin being which had just escaped from him, its grey garment fluttering, and its limbs jerking frantically as it bounded from one to the other of its spectral partners. Edmund paused in bewilderment.
“This is fearful,” he mentally ejaculated. “I confess I don’t half like it.”
He then endeavoured to retrace his steps towards the stream, which he should have followed as a guide towards the house, and at length discovered it by the sound of its murmuring waters. Hastening on, he had almost reached the old stone bridge on which Mrs Cameron had received her guests, when he perceived, as he thought, a tall Highlander, kilted, plaided, and bonneted, leaning against a tree a little to the right of the path, in an easy attitude, with one foot crossed over the other, one hand on his side, and the other supporting his head. His face was ghastly in its whiteness, and not less so were his hands and knees, and Bayntun’s first impulse was to hasten to his assistance, believing him to be ill. Greatly was he startled to find, on reaching the tree against which the figure had leaned so immovably, that he was gone. Not a trace or sound of him, and in the spot he had occupied was a twisted thorn, from which some branches had been lopped off. In Bayntun’s excited state of imagination he never suspected the truth, that these twisted branches, with the light shining through them, and the white wood showing where boughs had been removed, had formed the figure he had seen. More than ever impressed with the idea that the place was haunted, or his own brain affected, he sprang upon the bridge, and in a few minutes was heartily welcomed into the kitchen of Glen Bogie, where Mrs Cameron and a stout Highland girl were busily preparing a substantial and savoury supper.
Soon afterwards voices were heard outside, and home came the “lads,” as Mrs Cameron called her sons.
“Gude Lochaber stock, the whole of them,” said she, giving each a hearty slap on his shoulders as he came in.
And they certainly all did credit to Lochaber, from the eldest, who was a thoughtful-browed Highlander, to Dugald the youngest, a slight active lad of nineteen, with mirth and daring in his eye.
The supper was laid out in what had once been the dining-room of the Campbells of Glen Bogie. When it was concluded, a short consultation between the mother and sons was carried on in Gaelic, the result of which was, that the eldest Cameron invited “Misther Hardy and his friend to take their pipes and whisky in the kitchen along with the rest of us.”
“Might we not come too?” whispered Mrs Hardy, who felt rather oppressed with the idea of entertaining their hostess, who was rather deaf, in the dreary parlour.
To the kitchen they all adjourned, where a bright peat-fire glowed on the ground, in the centre of the wide chimney. Some of the dogs had crept in actually behind it, and lay dozing with one ear always on the alert. Wooden settles were placed in the ingle-nook for the young men, and the guests were accommodated with heavy high-backed chairs. Mrs Cameron drew her spinning-wheel towards her, and for a few minutes there were no sounds but its busy hum, and the roaring of the wind down the chimney, and amongst the old trees, and the ceaseless voice of the burn chafing in its rocky bed.
“Was there not some sad story of a quarrel between the Campbells and the Stewarts of this neighbourhood?” asked Helen of the company in general, very much afraid of hearing her own voice, but still more afraid of losing the delight of hearing the story, whatever it might be, on the very spot where the events took place.
“Neighbourhood!” repeated Mrs Cameron, “a neighbourhood should be a place where neighbours meet as friends, and the Campbells and Stewarts never can be friends. Did not I see a bonnie bride of the house of Stewart leave her father’s house with a Campbell for her husband, and was not blood shed even on the threshold? for, as the horses started off with their white cockades, one of the lads that rode them fell from the saddle in a fit, and was trampled to death under their feet, and sickness and Borrow waited on the bride till she was at rest in her grave. There’s no peace not friendship between the Campbells and Stewarts, and they should not be called neighbours.”
“But, mother, the young lady was asking you about the quarrel,” said Dugald, “and not wishing to mend it.”
