The Beads of Tasmer

Front matter

BY AMELIA E. BARR AUTHOR OF "JAN VF.DDER's WIFE," ETC. LONDON JAMES CLARKE & Co., 13 & 14 Fleet Street PRINTED AT THE EDINBURGH PRESS 9 AND II YOUNG STREET CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. THE READS OF TASMER .... I II. ROBERTA 19 III. UNDERCURRENTS 42 IV. SARA'S LOVER 73 V. A LOVE-

LETTER 99 VI.

FATHER MATTHEW FOR THE PEOPLE . IlS VII. THE MINISTER'S INTERFERENCE . . 1 47 VIII. THE CLEARANCE 166 IX. THE MINISTER CALLS ON THE BARON . 191 X. SARA'S MARRIAGE 201 XI. A SQUALL 233 XII. FAREWELL, LOVE ! 244 XIII. AT THE LAST— PEACE 269 XIV. THE GIFT OF THE BEADS .... 286 XV. BRING HOME THE BRIDE .... 305

Chapter I. The Beads Of Tasmer

" Lovest thou mountains great, Peaks to the clouds that soar, Corrie and fell where eagles dwell, And cataracts dash evermore ? Lovest thou green grassy glades By the sunshine sweetly kissed ; Murmuring waves, and echoing caves ? Then go to the Land of Mist." On the thundering shores of West Ross stands Tasmer, the old castle of the Torquils. Its foundations are laid upon that colossal masonry which the primeval deep piled up when it first began the fashioning of the hills ; and there are hours of blinding mist and dazzling sunshine, when its towers and turrets are scarcely to be A distinguished from the great red rocks which buttress the coast against the stormy Minch. At the foot of these rocks the waves roar and moan through the vast vaults of innumerable caverns, surge out again in foaming cataracts, and then roll through the torn and splintered fissures with an appalling fury.

But above all this ceaseless battle of earth and water Tasmer Castle has stood securely for seven centuries. Originally it was little else than a square hall defended by a round tower, the walls of both the hall and tower being twelve feet thick ; but in the sixteenth century Rolfe Torquil allied himself to the great family of the Mackenzie, and built what is known as "the Lady's Tower" for his bride. Other additions were made at intervals, and when, at length, the exile of the Stuarts gave a promise of permanent peace to the Highlands, the Torquils began to take a pride in their old home, and to furnish it luxuriously, according to the Georgian ideas of beauty and splendour. Even the small rooms within the ancient walls were made picturesquely habitable, for the stone-work was covered with tapestry, the floors and ceilings with light woods ; and dyed skins, gay chintzes, and soft carpets did much to beautify and soften the grim, bare strength which had been the original idea of home.

But nothing could banish the strangely past look of the older portion of the building. In the brightest summer day the twilight of Ossian lingers about it ; and an imaginative person would scarcely wonder to see some fierce bare armed Thane of Ross look from the narrow windows, or walk out from the iron-studded door. Behind the castle there is a range of mountains shouldering each other up, until their bald heads are lost in mist and clouds. Half way down the firs begin ; and as they approach Tasmer, the dense woods embrace it on three sides. But to the sea it turns an open face, and looks boldly over " the fractured Caledonian isles ; " and the innumerable lochs, and bays, and sounds, through which — " By night and day, The great sea water finds its way Through long, long windings of the hills."

Among the men of Ross, the Torquils have always held a certain pre-eminence. They have usually had the qualities which ensure it — ready tongues, ready hands, and consciences not over tender. They handled a sword as naturally as a bird uses its wings. They knew their own minds, and worked out their own wills, often ruthlessly, but without weakness or indecision. Also, the Torquils had an im measurable admiration for the Torquils ; that portion of humanity not connected with them, or serviceable to them, had, at best, their pro found indifference ; and so little did they care to conceal this social contempt, that the motto above their door constantly asserted it : — " They say. Wat say they ? Lat them say." From such ancestors a family is not easily delivered ; and in the beginning of the nine teenth century, the Torquils were still known as a race " 111 to themselves, and worse to their foe."

After this, however, the progressive spirit of the time reached even to the lonely Ross shores. The next Baron was sent to a French seminary ; he travelled and observed, and learned to partially sacrifice his personal feel ings to the rules of cultured society. He was nearly fifty years old when he inherited Tasmer, and had been in active service in various parts of the world for more than twenty years. So he was not averse to sheathe his sword. The grim old castle, to which he attached the idea of home, had a very warm place in his heart ; and he cherished a most exalted opinion of the importance of his own position and ancestry. It was a proud moment when his General first addressed him as Sir Rolfe Torquil. Hitherto he had been very reticent about his family, but now, as the head of it, he was quite inclined to be garrulous.

" It is a very ancient barony," he said. " The Torquils are of the pure Albionic race, with some slight admixture of Scandinavian blood. My family were Earls of Ross in the twelfth century." This statement was made at mess, where his brother officers were good-naturedly discussing the new prospects of their colonel, and Captain Stafford replied — " You may restore the title, Sir Rolfe ; a great deal of favour might be granted you on your military career." " I am one of those who love an old name better than a new one, Captain ; and the Torquils have carved 'Torquil' with their swords and bayonets all over the English history of the past century." " We can go a good deal further back than that," lisped a young lieutenant, with the royal name of Fitzroy. " You ought to do so, sir. You are Norman- English.

I am a Highland chief. We fought for our own side, and were our own masters until a hundred years ago." " I beg pardon, Sir Rolfe. I did not know about the Torquils." The young man spoke with an air of apology, but Sir Rolfe answered with cool contempt — "That may be; but we think no less of our selves for your not knowing us." This short conversation indicated the sudden change of manner which his accession to the estate induced. He had always been haughty, but he had hitherto been reticent ; and though manner is a great matter, no one finds it easy to complain of a silent man. Privately Sir Rolfe's musings were not al together of unmixed satisfaction. The estate of Tasmer, though of great extent, was unpro ductive, and the rental roll far below that of the poorest English barony. Highland lords had not begun to slaughter their game for Covent Garden, nor dreamt of renting out their acres as shooting grounds for their far wealthier southern neighbours.

Upon Tasmer's hills were great flocks of sheep, with scrambling feet and twisted horns, and droves of little Highland cattle, and from these sources the largest part of Sir Rolfe's income was derived. Here and there in the narrow straths it was possible to raise cereals, and the wealth of the ocean was at his doors ; but within the castle walls there had always been a dreary want of ready money. No one but himself knew how this want had pinched him for thirty years, and he was by no means sure that his pecuniary perplexities were over. This was the more annoying because his son and daughter had arrived at ages when they could no longer be supported at economical schools. " Donald is twenty-two years old," he mused. " He ought to be in the army. Sara is twenty, and is doubtless thinking of fine dresses, and lovers, and society."

It was something strange for Sir Rolfe to take the children into consideration at all. He had seen very little of them. When their mother died at a lonely station in the Madras Presi dency, they were sent to Scotland, and they had grown up between the formal discipline of schools and the liberty of the long vacations at Tasmer. During these latter periods they ruled absolutely the irritable old baron, their grandfather, and lived in a perpetual holiday in each other's company. Only Donald had any memory of his mother ; his sister had forgotten her. But their father had made three long visits to his native land, and during them they had been his companions. Since the last visit five years had passed ; they had not forgotten him, but they had become accustomed to life without him. Still, youth always expects change to bring happiness.

They looked forward with pleasant anticipations to the new life which his coming home would inaugurate, and they were discussing it together one morning as they lingered over a late breakfast. "There will be a great deal to do," said Sara, "when father arrives. Donald, read his letter again. I do not believe I heard a word of it. I was listening to something old Fergus was tell ing me. What was said about Tasmer?" " ' The principal rooms in the castle must be refurnished; for your sake, and your sister's sake, we must live more like people of wealth and position.' That is what father says." " And when does he expect to reach home ? " " After this letter — -immediately." " If it were possible for you to meet him on the way, Donald." " I think he would not like it, Sara. Father was always annoyed at anything like ' fuss.' There is no certainty either about the time.

He may be delayed in London ; for he is sure to go to the Army and Navy Club, and so it is likely he will meet some old comrade. I will take a good horse to Balmacarra, and leave it at the inn for him. I think that is the only attention it will please him to have." Then they renewed a discussion which was of more personal interest to them. " I should think father would like to have ' the baron's rooms.' The Torquil has always occupied them. What do you think, Donald ? " " I am sure he will keep them, Sara." " Then there is no reason why you and I should not at once select the apartments we like best. I will have a suite that looks upon the fir forest. 0 Donald ! what charming hours we have had in those woods ! What mysteries we have met there ! What pretty nests we set rocking as we parted the branches in our way !

And how the blackbirds used to sing ! just as if their hearts were not large enough to hold so much happiness. And what bluebells ! And moss ! And little daisies ! One never forgets such things, Donald." " No ; yet I always fancied the firs were full of sad stories — that they knew all the dreadful secrets of those days when the Mackenzies and Torquils were burning, and slaying, and carrying off miserable women and frightened children ; if I sleep at that side of the house, I hear them crying all night long. I sleep with my beads in my hands, and wake up in a fright to pray for them. I will have rooms that look over the sea. There is nothing secret about the sea. If any harm was coming the sea way, one could see it coming. What is lurking in a wood, who can tell?" " Oh, indeed, Donald, you must not say there is nothing secret about the sea," interrupted Sara.

" How often it covers itself with a thick mist. Then how awful, and how melancholy are the mountains, and how far away and sad are the long, low islands ! The birds are so quiet, and the very surf is muffled on the beach. Nothing in nature is so full of secrets, and of mystery, as the sea." " But I love the sea, Sara. When I get neat it I feel it in every pulse of my body. I would rather watch the wind shimmer across it than look at the finest picture man ever painted. And as for bluebells and daisies, how much more I love the sea's pale salt flowers. Oh, the sea ! the sea ! Glorious things can be told of the sea, Sara." " I know that, Donald. I hope father will get you a boat. I could trust myself with you and Angus Mackenzie." " I should think you could. Now you have given me a sea-longing, Sara.

I must go and find Angus." "Donald, the riding-horse must go to Bal macarra first." " I had forgotten. The horse is certainly the first thing to be attended to. Still, I do not think father will get here to-day. The stages after leaving Oban are not to be depended upon." Indeed, it was nearly a week after this conversation before the Master of Tasmer arrived. The feeling of expectation had ex pended itself, and the young people were in dulging that not unpleasant sentiment of making the best of a happy period which must soon pass away for ever. Then, one brilliant July afternoon, when the windows were all open to the fir woods or the sea, when they were eating dinner, and had for the moment forgotten him, the door quietly opened, and Sir Rolfe Torquil entered. Donald sat in his grandfather's seat, Sara at his right hand ; they were talking merrily, quite occupied with the present, forgetful of the past and the future alike ; and of all things, they had the least thought of giving offence, and yet when Sir Rolfe saw Donald in the master's chair, his first feeling — though it was evanescent as a shadow — was one of anger.

Innocent as the appropriation was, and in spite of the joyful love that welcomed him, he felt it. Yet he looked with delight upon the children who called him " father." Donald had grown far beyond his hopes. His figure was tall and erect. He had blue eyes full of piercing light ; eyes that looked straight at everything, like the eyes of an eagle ; and that bright auburn hair which had given the prefix roy or red to so many of his ancestors. It was easy for Sir Rolfe to imagine him at the head of a troop of cavalry rushing by, with the light of battle on his face. And Sara Torquil resembled her brother in her tall, slender form, her dazzling complexion, her bright hair, and frank, fearless manner. For a little while the joy of their reunion was almost perfect ; but ever, sooner or later, humanity finds the pain of reunion as great as the pain of parting.

Some secret disappointment or fear enters into all meetings after long absence. No one has stood still ; it is uncertain whether the changes will please or displease us. Some bonds of sympathy are almost certain to have worn away ; and it is to a person not quite what was expected that we have to learn to adapt ourselves. After the night's rest and solitude something of this feeling was in each heart. Sir Rolfe perceived that his son had become a man ; that his daughter had crossed the line ' Where brook and river meet.' She was no longer a school-girl, to be retired to a governess or sent out of the parlour if her society interfered with him. And to the children their father was not quite the same. They missed his uniform ; it had always inspired in them pride and respect. They missed also that air of careless relaxation which was natural in a soldier on furlough, but not desirable in the master of a home to be arranged on a permanent basis.

So that Sir Rolfe Torquil was in many respects unlike the man whom they remembered as Colonel Torquil. His return home, and his accession to the estate, had made but a slight sensation among his people. The tenantry of an English baron would have eaten and drunken and shouted themselves hoarse with " Hurrahs ! " for their new master. Sir Rolfe expected nothing of the kind. Such a welcome would have almost offended him. Torquil was in the very heart of the old Catholic district of the north, and in its religious and social aspects a flat contradiction to every other part of Scotland. Here the pious, melancholy Celt, cradled in mists, and bringing his daily life into constant sympathy with The Church, was, both by nature and education, inclined to a grave and serene seriousness. He lived in nearly constant danger, either on the ocean or the wild, precipitous mountains ; and he lived almost with prayer upon his lips.

Centuries ago, the grand faith of Iona, Tyree, and Coll had found among these sombre lochs and dusky hills a fitting refuge, and under the little black-thatched cottages of Kintail and Torquil they had preserved the faith of their fathers. And not because they had been hidden away from the world and its trials, for to the last hour they stood by the Stuarts, fully comprehending that their loyalty included their religion. In social life they remained quite apart. The names which thrill the Lowland heart touched them not. They believed in King Fergus, they knew little of Sir William Wallace, and Robert Burns never sang for them. .'Duncan Ban Mac- Intyre. and the seraphic psalms of their own saints, touched them far more nearly. They were, however, neither rude nor ignorant, for one or two religious sanctuaries had always lifted their stately domes among these humble clachans ; and pious priests, and white-robed sisters, had been their teachers and friends for unnumbered generations.

So Sir Rolfe expected only the mannerly, kind greeting which was gladly given him. The men came to their doors, as they passed, and lifted their bonnets with a pious ejaculation. The women smiled placidly, and dropped him a modest curtsey — a curtsey which expressed respect without a particle of servility. For they were all Mackenzies and Torquils. Only Sir Rolfe was The Torquil — the head of their house, the chief of their sept, and as such entitled to their affection and respect. He felt its sincerity, and it warmed his heart, and brought a mist of tears into his bright, stern eyes. He was telling himself as he entered his children's presence that no military honour or disciplined subservience could compare with regards so personal and so spontaneous. And their delight and love crowned his satisfaction so that he went to his own rooms that nieht penetrated with grateful and pleasant emotions.

As Donald had anticipated, he took possession of the apartments always occupied by the barons of Tasmer. They were situated in the south wing, facing the sea, and connected with an oratory in the old central tower. It was necessary that he should visit this oratory, for the most sacred charge of his father's dying hours referred to it. He sat for some time thinking, and then he took from his pocket-book the last letter which he had received from the deceased baron, and he read the following portion : — " Be careful of the ivory beads you will find in the oratory, and do not be so fool ish, son Rolfe, as to think all beyond your under standing superstition. I have been told, as I now tell you, that the fortune of Tasmer is, in some way unknown to me, influenced by them. They were brought here in A.D. 1 1 33 by Murdo Torquil, a true knight, who followed Tancred of Sicily to the conquest of Jerusalem.

He it was who built the church in which we still worship. Forget not to pray for your ancestors when you kneel before its altar. As he was dying he put the beads into the Torquil's hand and with them a writing which a wise Augus tine monk from Feme wrote out, thus : — ' 'Tellen these trewe wordse. Whaune Tasmer's fortune shalle wane and faide, Thaune aske of the beads of Tasmer aide.' " Sir Rolfe read this portion over again, and as he refolded the letter there was no doubt on his face. Slowly, and with a marked solemnity B of manner, he turned the key of the oratory door and closed it behind him. It was one of the small rooms contained in the walls of the tower ; but the stone had been covered with hangings of purple velvet. They were nearly a century old and frail with age, but the lustrous dye and strong silk pile of Genoa, even in decay, looked royal and handsome.

The stone floor was uncovered, and there was only one piece of furniture in the room — a heavily-carved oak lectern, holding an open parchment breviary, and a rosary of large ivory beads, beautifully cut, but yellow with age. Light was admitted through a window of stained glass, and the last rays of the setting sun tinged with marvellous glory a large, white crucifix, standing clearly out against its purple background. With the holy sign Sir Rolfe lifted the beads, made rich by centuries of sup plications, and, kneeling at the foot of the cross, he recited not only the prayer appointed for the living, but also that solemn litany for the dead, whose intercession is by virtue of the Cross " Give them, O Lord, eternal rest, and let per petual light shine upon them."

Chapter II. Roberta

" Alljthe events of life are materials out of which we may make what we will." — Novalis. " He who loses not his senses in love has no senses to lose." " Beneath her eyelids deep Love, lying, seems asleep — Love, swift to wake, to weep. To laugh, to dream." There was sunshine and clear air, and a good blow of fresh wind, and in it the Sea Bird was dancing along the pulsing floor of the sea, and humming a pleasant tune as she went. She had been northward as far as the Gairloch, and was making for the little harbour of Torquil in the morning light. Donald Torquil and Angus Mackenzie, and a couple of young lads, were the whole of her crew, and they were as merry a company as ever journeyed along these storied, cheerless seas. But this morning the grey Minch was dimpling all over, and the boat, with a good wind from the north-west, " went away like a lady."

The comparison was Donald's. He was sitting with Angus on her deck, drinking their early cup of coffee. They were talking gaily, for they were always happy when they were together, and it was evident that they had been much together for some weeks, for Donald's skin had taken on that red-brown tint which is only made by the salted wind of the sea. Keeping well in shore, they were surrounded by multitudes of sea-birds, whose shrill cries mingled not unpleasantly with the ringing Gaelic of the boys and the stirring sound of bouncing water. "What are the lads singing, Angus?" " A song about the Rover of Lochryan. It is a goot song whateffer. If you will be knowing it, you will say that it is a goot song." " How can I know it when I understand so little Gaelic ? " "In the English, too, it will be ferry well.

They were saying it would be like this— if you ROBERTA. 21 will be hearing it," and Angus rolled out the last verse of the spirited sea-song with all his own peculiar intonations : — "Unstent and slack each reef and tack, Gi'e her sail, boys, while it may sit ; She's roar'd through a heavier sea before, An' she'll roar through a heavier yet. ' When landsmen sleep, or wake and creep, In the tempest's angry moan, We dash through the drift, and sing to the lift Of the wave that heaves us on." " It is a good song, Angus, but I like Father Matthew's song better." " There are other men ; ay, there are other men, who will be saying that also, for there never was in the world such a boat-song as Father Matthew's song." " Then let us sing it together as we are com ing into harbour. Cheerily, Angus, sing with all your heart, and the birds will listen to us, and the wind and the water will be our chorus : — " Boat, that bears me through foam and squall, You in the storm are my castle wall ; Though the sea blacken from bottom to top, From tiller to mast she takes no drop.

" On the tide top ? The tide top ! Wide, white breast of the cradling sea ! On the tide top ! The tide top ! That is enough for my boat and me ! She dresses herself, and goes gliding on, Like a lady in robes of Indian lawn ; For God has blessed her gunnel and wale, And oh ! if you saw her stretch out to the gale. Old rocks, ahoy ! Old hearts of stone ! Stooping so black o'er the beach alone, Answer me true ; on the bursting brine Saw you ever a boat like mine ? " They were singing as the boat cast anchor ; and as Donald climbed the hill he burst out again and again into the stirring, swinging melody. In the first he became suddenly silent. A figure was approaching him — a tall, spare man with an air of authority and con templation. As they met, their faces brightened. " Father, your blessing ; " and in the twilight of the firs, the father's hand was lifted a moment over the young head, reverently bared and bent.

" My son, God give you His blessing. Where have you been ? It is the fifth day since you left Tasmer." " Northward to the Gairloch. It was a fine sail. If you had been with us, it would have been much better. Last night off Scalpa we sang the ROBERTA. 23 Ave Mary, and missed your help. Some fishing boats were near and they sang with us, but we missed your voice, dear father." " Now, Donald, are you going home ? "Yes, father." " That is right. Sir Rolfe is troubled about you. You do not please him lately. A son should be obedient." Donald's face showed a little resentment. " I try to be obedient. It is very hard sometimes, father." " Have you considered well the words I gave you to read ? ' It is much more secure to be in a state of subjection than in authority.'" " But a young man may have an opinion of his own ?

" " ' If God be amongst us, we may sometimes give up our opinion for the sake of peace.'" " But if I am certainly right ? " " ' Although thy opinion be good, yet, if for God's sake thou leavest it to follow that of another, it will be more profitable to thee.' These are the counsels of one wiser and holier than most mortals." * He passed gravely on with the words, and * Thomas A'Kempis, " The Imitation of Christ." Chapter Donald, troubled at the reproof, and the ob ligation implied in it, reached Tasmer in an unhappy and dissatisfied mood. It was yet early, and in the entrance hall he saw Fergus, the oldest servant in the castle, pottering about among antlers, and shields, and dusty old flags. As Donald appeared, he dropped all pretences and went to meet him. " It wass a goot wind that blew you home, Maister Tonalt.

Sir Rolfe is the angry man ; the angriest man in all Ross, is he whateffer." " Have I done anything wrong, Fergus, while I was out of sight and hearing ?" " You has been strafaiging aal over the Minch ; you has been more as four days away ; and you know there iss company in the house, and Sir Rolfe iss not in the mood to be doing the honours to any man, no, nor yet to the saints themselves." Donald made no further remark, but he went upstairs to change his sea-suit, fretted and unhappy. With a heart full of love and good intentions he seemed quite unable to satisfy his father. It was scarcely the youth's fault, for the things in which he offended were parts and results of circumstances which Donald Torquil had no power to alter or control. ROBERTA. 25 In the first place, his presence in the castle was not desirable.

There was really no place for him, no duty to fulfil ; and as Sir Rolfe frequently suffered from the diseases common to East Indian officers, Donald was a constant presentation to the nervous, suspicious man of an heir waiting for his decease. Generally, he knew well that the suspicion was false and cruel ; but there were hours when he half believed it, and when it humoured his ill-temper to say so. That momentary shadow of Donald in The Torquil's chair, which had darkened his own welcome home, was in a dim, unacknowledged way the key to the treatment of his son ; perhaps, because it interpreted some unvoiced regret or resentment in his own delayed inheritance. Also, he was annoyed by his inability to provide for Donald without seriously curtailing his own plans. He felt that the youth ought to have his commission, but to give him it would not only necessitate the outlay of much ready money, but also the obligation of an allowance sufficient to maintain the honour of the Torquils among his associates.