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“The young lady is not angered with a foolish old wife,” answered his mother, bursting into her loudest, harshest laugh, and laying her hand kindly on Helen’s. “She will pardon me, for I was born a Stewart, and I cannot hear with patience when any talk of the natural enemies of my family. Do you tell how it fell out, Ian, for your English is better than mine,” said she, addressing her eldest son.
It should be remembered, that Gaelic being so universally spoken in the Western Highlands, English is only acquired in a degree to be spoken fluently by people of some education, and is pronounced by them with a softness and delicacy amounting to an appearance of affectation. Ian Cameron related his story deliberately, and in choice language, giving each word and idea time to take effect before it was succeeded by another.
“You will have heard that when the royal house of Stuart lost the day, the lands of many who had fought for the right were confiscated, and bestowed as rewards upon the Campbells and others who stood up for might rather than right. This estate of Glen Bogie was one of them, and with it the Campbell to whom it was given received favours and authority, which he used as you would expect from a man that was not born to it, and had got it by ill means. They that would rule over a Highlander must find their way to the heart, and must trust him as one honest man trusts another. Campbell never did that. He knew that he was not loved, nor welcome, but still there was not a man – from a Stewart to a McCall – that would have raised a hand against him, except it were in open fight.
“You will have seen the rocky peak of Skuliahams, which shuts in the head of Glennaclach, as you came up the Toberdhu; that is the stream which we call the Blackwater. Just to the right of that peak there is a pass over the hill, and for eight miles the way is rough and dreary. Often have I travelled that road by night and day, and with the snow drifting in my face I have thought never to see my own fireside again. Campbell had gone by that pass to collect rents, but he did not return when they expected him. His wife grew alarmed, for she knew the hearts of the tenants were not with him; so she sent first one, then another, of his people, and lastly she went herself to watch for them on the hill-side, whence she could see far up the glen. Singly the people crossed the hill, but they all returned together, and amongst them they carried the corpse of Campbell, who had been shot dead in the wood beyond the hills, which was on the property of a Stewart. The widow went out to meet them; but she shed no tears nor spoke a word. Some say she had been warned.
“They brought him across the meadow yonder, and carried him up into the room overhead, and the Campbells came from far and near, and vowed vengeance upon the Stewarts; and it is said that as they hung up the dead man’s plaid, all stiff with his blood, so they swore to hang up a Stewart on the spot where Campbell was found dead. There was a show of law, too; for having fixed their suspicions upon a tenant-farmer like myself, a man named Stewart, they tried him by a jury – all of Campbells – and in the wood they hanged him, within sight of six residences of Stewarts; and watch was kept, day and night, lest the body should be removed. Vengeance and law they called it, but it was murder; for before the bones of their victim had whitened on the gibbet, it was discovered that Campbell had been shot by a foreign soldier who had some private quarrel with him. Can the Stewarts and Campbells be friends after that?”
There was a pause, and the young Highlanders sat looking sternly into the glowing fire. Tramp, tramp, came, heavy steps overhead, as of several persons moving some heavy burden. Bayntun felt his heart beat faster. He would not for worlds have let any one suspect it. Even Mrs Hardy, drew involuntarily nearer to her husband, and Helen’s eyes opened wider, while the most ghastly spectre would not have burst upon her sight unexpected.
“The lassies are putting the Doctor’s room in order for your friend, Misther Hardy. Maybe he is not used to rough lodging, and it is well for him that, the Doctor being at the house of Glennaclach to-night, I can give him the room,” said Mrs Cameron.
Dugald made some remark in Gaelic, with a mischievous glance towards Bayntun, but was sternly checked by his mother. Nevertheless, Bayntun perceived it, and determined more resolutely than ever not to divulge the strange sights and fancies which had haunted him.
Night had fairly closed in, and the reflection of the lights in the room mingled on the window-panes with the other objects outside, just lighted by a crescent moon, when, as Bayntun glanced towards the window, he perceived close to it the face of the hideous goblin which had haunted him in the day, and at the same moment came that fearful chuckle.
“Poor Marie Vhan,” said Mrs Cameron, rising and going to the door; “where has the wild creature been straying?”
“Marie has been naughty to-day,” said Dugald, speaking in English from fear of another rebuke from his mother: “she has been tossing and tearing the fleeces which were left to dry upon the whins.”
“Poor body,” rejoined Mrs Cameron. “It is a poor daft lassie. Her father is one of our shepherds, and it is a sad trouble to a poor man to have a feckless child that can do naught for herself, so she bides with me when she likes, and I give her food and shelter; but she will not stay long in any place.”
As she spoke, one of the servant girls opened another door, and began scolding the child in no gentle terms for the mischief she had done, which was serious in its way, for the fleeces had been prepared for spinning in long loose bands, and were required for her mistress’s immediate use. Instantly the wild creature fled chuckling into the wood, and up the dark dreary glen.
“It is an evil deed you have done, Lizzie, to drive the poor body from the door with your angry tongue,” said the mistress, as she resumed her place at the wheel.
Lizzie was out of hearing, and could not have understood had she been in the room, but the expression of disapprobation relieved Mrs Cameron’s indignant feelings.
Bayntun’s cheek glowed in the firelight at the solution of the terrific goblin dance which had so shaken his nerves. Fortified by a good sapper, and cheered by the sound of many voices, he now felt himself proof against bogies of all kinds, and at an early hour the party dispersed for the night. The home-made tallow candle which lighted Edmund’s spacious and gloomy apartment rendered the outlines of the dark, heavy furniture more massive and unshapely than they really were. It had been the state-room of the mansion, and was now let to a doctor, who, though possessed of considerable skill, had so lost his reputation by his intemperate habits, that he was driven to conceal his disgrace in this unfrequented glen, where his services were valued and repaid, and his failings easily overlooked. In a large closet adjoining were kept the phials and jars containing his supplies of drugs, etc, and from this closet was a narrow staircase, with a door by which the Doctor could come in and go out without disturbing the family.
“It was in this room that the Campbells cried the coronach over their dead, and here the jury sat to try poor Stewart, and the dead man’s plaid was hung in that closet, and by that staircase they brought Stewart in – the false-hearted murderers!” exclaimed Dugald Cameron; and having courteously begged the guest to ask for anything that was wanting for his comfort and repose, he left him to rest.
Completely yet healthfully fatigued, Edmund soon fell asleep. How long he slept, or whether he was still dreaming, he knew not, but distinct to his vision appeared the figure of a man leaning against the doorway of the closet adjoining his bedroom, from which shone a quivering spectral light. His plaid hung heavily, as if steeped in moisture, round his tall gaunt form. His bonnet was pressed down upon his brows, and under its shade his face looked pale and distorted by pain or sorrow, as he stood motionless, gazing intently upon the sleeper.
“This is a dream. The mysterious figure in the wood is haunting my memory. I will not give way to these fancies,” said Bayntun, mentally. “It is a very uncomfortable dream, too,” continued he, as the figure, still keeping its glazy eyes fixed upon his face, moved slowly towards him. The old floor creaked under his steps. “Dreams are often suggested by some real sound associating itself with the previous train of our thoughts. If I could but rouse myself, this phantom would be dissipated.” Yet his eyes felt perfectly wide open, and there was none of the painful sense of oppression on the eyelids and restraint upon the tongue which usually attends an unpleasant dream. Nearer and nearer came that pale, haggard face, till the sound of his breathing became audible. “That is myself breathing quick, and no wonder,” thought he. “Edmund Bayntun, why don’t you rouse yourself? What a fool you are!” and uttering the last sentence with the full strength of his voice, Edmund started up, and at the same moment the spectre staggered back, exclaiming —
“Ay, sirs! That is not a civil way to speak to a gentleman, more especially finding himself turned out of his own bed when he comes home to it, wet and tired.”
More and more perplexed, Bayntun stammered out, “Really, sir, I beg your pardon, but I thought – I took you – that is to say, I fancied that I was dreaming, and I don’t feel quite sure whether I am awake now.”
“Waking or dreaming, my man, you should always use civil language. When I saw you lying so comfortably in my bed, I was just thinking I would leave you there, and go down myself to the kitchen fire; but really, your uncivil speech! – Ha! ha! it is a good joke, too, to be mistaken for a dream. So, good night to you, young man, and I will not disturb you again.”
The next morning the Doctor was found fast asleep in the kitchen. His young patient at the house of Glennaclach not needing his assistance so much as another sick person in the Glen, he had left him early in the evening, and preferred coming home to Glen Bogie rather than returning late at night to disturb the household of Mr Stewart. Early in the day the young laird arrived, with a pressing invitation to the four English strangers to come and stay at his house. They willingly accepted it, and whether they enjoyed the visit is a question to be best answered by those who have found themselves the guests of a Highland family, amongst their own beautiful glens, and mountains, and woods, and waterfalls, after passing months and years in cities, and amidst “the hum, the buzz, the crush of men.”
Bayntun spent much time after this in the society of his friend Hardy, and, yielding to his advice and example, adopted a more stirring, healthful, vigorous course of thought and life, and his favourite motto was —
“Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate.”
Story 8-Chapter I
STORY EIGHT – Piper’s News – A Fairy Tale
There was once a piper, called Alaister Mackinnon, and he lived in the town of Inverknickle; he played better than any other piper in all the country side, and was deservedly esteemed by the gude wives, as he always brought the earliest news of the events in the distant villages; for though Alaister called Inverknickle his home, he rarely stayed there long at a time, but wandered about, hearing and telling news, and playing at all the merry-makings that were held within twenty miles. At these he was always to be seen dressed in full Highland garb, with gay streamers floating from his pipes, and his bonnet set jauntily on the side of his head, surrounded by young and old, who listened with equal delight to his tunes and his stories. Alaister’s dancing was a thing of which he was very proud, as none of the lads could compete with him in it; he was, therefore, not so great a favourite with them as amongst the women, but none dared say a word against him, as it invariably reached his ears, and the next time he came to the village he was sure to have some story about them which turned the laugh against themselves. One day there was a wedding at a village some miles from Inverknickle, and of course Alaister was there, marching at the head of the party as it returned from the manse, dressed in his newest kilt and hose, and playing the most appropriate tunes, while the young men shouted and fired guns and pistols at irregular intervals to do honour to the occasion; and every time they fired, the women screamed, and the men laughed, and in short they were a very merry party. Then came the feast, which was more remarkable for quantity than quality, and was held in the house of the newly married pair; it was succeeded by dancing, the bride and bridegroom joining most energetically, but never being allowed to dance together.
Reels were the usual dances; but when the lasses were tired, and sat down and fanned themselves with their handkerchiefs, the lads began to dance the sword-dance. The lasses soon asked Alaister to dance; and after a great deal of pressing, for he always feigned modesty on such occasions, he danced, the men looking on anxious to catch him making a false step, the women in silent admiration of his neat foot, silver buckles, and new hose, which, from the beautiful shape of his leg, did not require to be gartered.
None of the women saw that he twice touched the sword; but it was not lost on the men, who looked at each other with pleased smiles, though no one ventured to say anything, and Alaister’s performance was finished amidst loud applause.
Supper followed, which was much the same as the dinner, only there was more toddy, and therefore more noise; and Duncan Cameron, emboldened by the whisky, ventured to say that Alaister had not danced “clean” that night; to which Alaister answered, with a look of pity, that “Duncan, puir fellow, had never seen right since the night he had sic a fley wi’ the fairies on the moor, when they shot him into a peat-moss, and the Will-of-the-Wisps ran so near him that they singed his nose, and it had been red ever since.” This had the effect of silencing Duncan, who had fallen in as described when coming home tipsy from a wake, and had told many wonderful stories of his ill-treatment by the “gude fouk,” as he called the fairies.
The conversation now turned on fairies, and all professed the deepest admiration and respect for them. Alaister, however, rather laughed at the idea of their doing anybody good or ill, and even hinted that he doubted their existence. Then began a warm discussion; and by degrees Alaister grew bolder, and expressed in plain terms his entire disbelief in these gentle spirits, challenging them to meet him that night on his way home, and let him play on the bagpipes heard by so many of his companions in the gloamin’ among the heather on the hill-side; at the same time drinking glass after glass to his success in the exploit.
Soon after this the party broke up, and Alaister started for Inverknickle, playing what he intended for “Wooed and married and a’,” but it was a bad version of it, and sounded dismal and unearthly as it died away in the distance.
He crossed the moor in the bright moonlight, and at last reached the birch wood, where the white stems shone like ghosts in their winding-sheets, and the branches swung noiselessly in the night breeze, and gave out their fresh sweet smell. Let it not be supposed that Alaister actually observed all this, but it had an influence on his mind, and made him feel eerie, it was so different from the noisy scene he had left.
Just then he heard “Wooed and married and a’” played as well as he could play it (this he only confessed silently to himself, he would on no account have let any one else say so), but on a bagpipe of the softest and moat silvery tone, and soon a band of bright little creatures came from among the green grass and bracken, and stopped directly in his path. All wore the full Highland dress, but the checks in the tartan looked as if made of precious stones, for they sparkled and glittered in the moonlight, till Alaister was almost dazzled by their brilliancy; the red cherry tufts on their bonnets shone with a clear calm light, like glowworms, but as he had never seen one of these, he mentally said “like anything.” The party was headed by a piper, playing on pipes, the bag of which was a bluebell, the chaunter a hedgehog’s bristle, and the ribbons made of dragonflies’ wings. He was followed by the king and queen, who wore beautiful crowns, from which shot rays of variegated light; then came the train of followers, and round the whole ran three Will-of-the-Wisps. These were taller than the rest; from their hands, feet, and eyes came bright flashes like lightning, but their bodies were quite black and very slight.
When they halted in front of Alaister, the piper stopped playing, and even the Will-of-the-Wisps did not run quite so fast; the king and queen stepped forward, and asked who it was who dared to disturb their midnight march through their own domain, but such a hubbub arose amongst their followers that, without waiting for his answer, they turned to inquire into the cause.
This was very soon explained: it was an outburst of rage against the piper Alaister, with eager offers to bring forward proof of misconduct against him. These were immediately accepted, and an old fairy-elf was commanded to speak first.
There was now a dead silence, except when the night wind rustled amongst the birch branches, and bent the waving bracken, or some night bird uttered a wild cry. The old elf stepped forward, and then, by suddenly twisting his legs and arms together, and sinking his head between them, he changed into the cup, with the picture of the real king in the bottom, which stood on the chimney-piece of the room where the wedding feast had been held, and from this cup came a voice which repeated all the scornful words of Alaister against the fairies. When he ceased he resumed his former shape and retired; others were then called forward in his place, and took the form of cups, bowls, toddy ladles, and glosses, each repeating the same tale; but last of all appeared a lovely girl, who changed into the little square looking-glass in a red frame, in which Alaister had from time to time arranged his hair during that evening; and there was his face reflected in it, and it was his own voice which he now heard, and he saw his lips moving so distinctly, that he put up his hand to feel if he were really speaking, but his lips were still, and the loud ringing laugh of the glittering band made him feel so angry, that he tried to move away, but he then found that he was spell-bound, and must remain to be laughed at or ill-treated by his little enemies. Now Alaister was a very sensible man, so when he found that he must stay, he tried to look as if he liked to stay, and when he heard the king command that he should have his wish, and might play on their bagpipes that night, he smiled blandly, and took the little instrument, which looked like a large spider as it lay in the palm of his hand. In an instant it changed, and became as large as his own, which was carried off by one of the Will-of-the-Wisps, to whom he tried to say something civil, but before he could make up his mind what it was to be, the sprite was glancing amongst the trees far away.
Thinking it might be the wisest plan to conciliate the gude fouk, he played his best tunes, and never had they sounded so well, for the tones of the fairy pipe were far softer and sweeter than his own, and the fairies danced so lightly and nimbly, that he forgot it was against his will he had been ordered to play, and was sorry when the king waved his crystal sceptre, and, pointing to the moon, now fast sinking towards the distant hills, commanded his followers to return home. And now, of course, Alaister thought that he was to return home also, but no, he was commanded to follow, and in spite of himself he was obliged to run through the thick wood, down steep banks, and over rocks to the river-side, where a fleet of egg-shells came towards them at the fairies’ call, and each jumping into one, they shoved off, laughing to see how Alaister plunged into the cold water, and how the Will-of-the-Wisps jostled against him in the deepest parts of the stream.
Wet and weary, he at length reached the cave, which seemed to be the home of the party, and where he found many already busily employed in making preparations for a meal.
The cave was hung with the trailing moss, called tod’s-tail, while pieces of rock crystal, cairngorm, and amethyst reflected the light given out by the Will-of-the-Wisps, who suspended themselves like chandeliers from the stalactites which hung from the roof. The floor was thickly strewn with stag-horn moss, which formed a soft and elastic carpet. In the middle of the cave was a large mushroom, round which the fairies were now busy spreading the cloth, woven of the finest gossamer, and arranging the acorn-cups and dishes of delicate meats, which had been prepared during their absence by those who remained at home.
When all was ready, numbers of green beetles ran forward to the table and ranged themselves round it; on these the fairies sat as they feasted.
Never was there a merrier party; they laughed and talked, and pledged each other in bumpers of mountain dew, and sang sweetly while bunches of white hare-bells, which hung from the roof, chimed in as accompaniment.
All this time Alaister had stood looking on, wondering what was to happen to him, and not feeling quite at his ease, for he knew it was a mark of displeasure when the gude fouk ate without offering anything to the mortal who was present, and besides, the younger fairies every now and then made faces at him. At length the feast was ended, and the king called together the oldest of his followers, and retired to some distance from the rest, where, for a time, they held eager consultation. The king then advanced to Alaister and told him that as he had played so well for them that night, they had determined not to change him into a Will-of-the-Wisp, as was the fate of all who spoke ill of them, and who afterwards fell into their power, but they would send him out into the world again, under a ban which would follow him to the end of his life, but which they would leave him to discover. While his sentence was being pronounced, the Will-of-the-Wisps were much agitated, darting about the roof, and giving out streams of pale cold light; the white hare-bells rang mournfully, shaken by a creeping blast which circled round and round; cold drops fell from the roof and trickled feebly down the sides of the cave, while the voices of the elves’ and fairies sounded harsh and shrill.
A Will-of-the-Wisp was then commanded to be his guide to the birch wood, and Alaister was again led through the river, up the rocks, and through the woods he had passed on his way to the cave.
Arrived at the wood, his guide vanished, and he found himself alone on a bright sunny morning, the dew-drops glistening on the grass, amongst which he joyfully discovered his pipes; but at the same time he saw that his clothes hung about him in tatters, and oh! how wet and tired he was with his night’s work! He could not, however, show himself at Inverknickle in so disordered a state, so was obliged to remain in the wood till the evening, when he thought it safer to go home, in case his tormentors should again carry him off. When he reached his cottage, he told his wife that he had lost his way in the dark, and had torn his clothes on the brambles and bushes, amongst which he had got entangled; but not a word did he say about the fairies, lest he should offend them, and be carried off, and turned into a black Will-of-the-Wisp, and have to dance about every night in the cold moonlight, which was not at all Alaister’s idea of real comfort.
Now Mrs Mackinnon had what is called “an ill tongue,” and she did not spare poor Alaister as she turned over his torn garments; but he was well accustomed to her attacks, and had learnt that silence was his only safety, so he took one child on his knee as he sat by the fire, and rocked the cradle with his foot, in hopes of softening his wife’s temper. As the evening advanced, she became pretty tired of having all the talk to herself, so sat down opposite him, and with a cross face, and in a sharp voice, asked what made him sit there without speaking, – could not he tell her any news after being sae long away from his gude wife and the weans?
When this question was put, Alaister was always sure the scold was over, however cross the voice was in which it was asked; so he began at once to tell all the events of a harvest home at which he said he had been the night before, but he was at once stopped by an angry “Hout!” from his wife, and then followed a storm of abuse for telling her about things which had happened three years before; then, pointing to the fields of green oats that were to be seen all around, she asked him what sort of harvest home there could be at that time of year. Alaister was sorely puzzled, for certainly the corn was still green; but yet he felt sure it was only yesterday he had been at the harvest feast, and if not at that – where had he been? He could remember nothing of the wedding, and stared at his wife, who at last began to be alarmed at his perfectly stupid look, and said, “Is the man fey?” As soon as she said this, his night’s adventure returned to his mind, and looking on the ground, he saw it alive with fairies, laughing and mocking him. Had it been earlier in the day, he would have run out of the house, but it was nearly dark, and the uncomfortable Will-of-the-Wisp came into his mind, so he sank down again in his chair, and shut his eyes, fully determined not to speak; but he could not keep this resolution. Again and again he was impelled to begin stories, and as often was he told that these things had happened years before. He then tried to play, but could remember none but the very oldest tunes, such as had been out of date for many years, and when, wearied in mind and body, he fell asleep, he dreamed of fairies and discomforts all night long.
Next day he set out again on his wanderings, hoping that it was only in his own house that the fairies would haunt him; but no – go where he would they were by him, nor could he tell any story which was not at least three years old. His former admirers, the women, now asked him, jeeringly, for “three-year-old news;” when he was seen coming towards a farm, he was treated almost as a beggar, and was sent to the back door, where he got a piece of oat-cake and a drink of milk, but was never asked into the house. Occasionally the servants asked him why he did not carry a wallet like other “puir bodies;” but Alaister, though often really in want, never would condescend to a wallet. By degrees he became more and more impoverished; he was thin, and had a look of great unhappiness. His hose hung over the heels of his worn shoes, from which the silver buckles had long since disappeared; his second-best kilt was very much the worse for wear, nor had he money to buy a new one; and as to the one he had worn on the night from which his woes dated, it had even beat the thrifty Mrs Mackinnon to get it into tolerable repair again.
In all the country side it had become the common expression, when any old story was told, “Hout! that’s Piper’s news;” and at last Alaister, feeling that he was despised where he had been respected, and laughed at by those at whom he had laughed, without even having a comfortable house in which to hide himself, for Mrs Mackinnon’s tongue was more abusive than ever, determined to retire from the world.
Being in low spirits, of course he chose the most dismal spot he could find; it was a bleak glen, down which the north wind howled in winter, and in summer the sun hardly reached its depths; for the bare rocks were high and near each other, so that it was always cold and damp. But this suited Alaister’s frame of mind. One chill day in autumn he crept into a sort of hollow in the rock; there was a constant trickle, trickle, trickle, down the sides of this hole, and the water soaked through blackened patches of liver-wort and moss; the floor was damp and slippery, and on it Alaister sat down to think how very uncomfortable he was, and to abuse the fairies as the cause of all his misfortunes.
It grew colder and colder, and darker and darker, and Alaister began half to repent of his determination to die in a cave, when a flash of light shone into the hollow, and in an instant his old acquaintances, the three Will-of-the-Wisps, were dancing round him in a more frenzied way than ever; now they were up in the roof, now out in the open air, now far back in the darkness where he thought there was only rock. But the cave seemed to become larger every moment, and the water dried up as the Will-of-the-Wisps darted along the sides, and then Alaister saw the well-remembered tod’s-tail moss hang where liver-wort had been before, and stag’s-horn moss again covered the dark floor. The air felt dry and warm, and a comfortable sleepy peace crept over the heart of the distressed piper; he began to think that, on the whole, it was more enjoyable to be in the fairies’ cave than in a hay-loft on a gusty autumn night; and when the glittering band sparkled into their hall he smiled, and offered to play to them again, and soon they were all dancing merrily on the moss, for it was now too cold, even for fairies, to spend the whole night in the woods.
Then came the feast, and this time Alaister was given on acorn cup full of brightest mountain dew; and though he thought it a small allowance for a full-grown man, still he knew that the little creatures had no larger cups; and not to disappoint them or fail in his manners, he nodded to the king, and with a “Here’s your very gude health, sir,” emptied his cup. Immediately he sunk back on the floor and slept, for the dew that had been given him has, it is said, wonderful powers, making mortals forget their homes and former lives, and desire only to be with the fairies.
