The Lady of Balmerino. A romance of the Grampians, etc

Front matter

A ROMANCE OF THE GRAMPIANS. BY MARIE CONNOR-LEIGHTON, Author of '" The Triumph of Manhood," " Husband and Wife," " A Morganatic Marriage," "Sweet Magdalen" etc. , etc. IN THREE VOLUMES. Vol. II. LONDON : TRISCHLER & COMPANY, 1 8, NEW BRIDGE STREET, E.C. 1891. [All rights reserved.} PRINTED BY THE HANSARD PUHLISHING UNION, LIMITED, LONDON ; AND REDHILL. TO MY HUSBAND, IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE DAYS PASSED IN SOLITUDE AND SILENCE OF THE HILLS. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. — A Supper of Rejoicing ... ... i II. — Rohilla's First Pleading ... . . 13 III. — A Prophecy ... ... ... ... 27 IV. — " Come, Little Flock, 'tis Time to Leave the Mountain" ... ... 34 V. — In which St. Just's Hopes Rise High 44 VI. — On the Way to the Sheep-Yard ... 56 VII. — The Meeting by the Rowan Bush 71 VIII. — Wherein John Mitchell Receives his Dismissal 78 IX. — How Rohilla Confided in the Chaplain ... ... ... ... 89 X. — How Lord Lindsay Made his Confession ... 106 XI. — My Lord in Fink Clothes ... ...

CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE XII. — How Annie Found her Lover Cold 125 XIII. — How Jacques Betrayed a Secret ... 136 XIV. — "I Would Forgive Him" ... ... 147 XV.— "I Doubted Thee" 159 XVI. — How Rohilla Fell under her Father's Wrath ... ... ... 165 XVII. — Jacques' Superstition ... ... 174 XVIII. — "For a Beast of the Field" ... 183 XIX. — The Kiss of Absolution ... ... 198 XX. — Home in the Darkness ... ... 205 XXI. — Reconciled ... ... ... ... 209 XXII. — Down by the Bridge ... ... M THE LADY OF BALMERINO.

Chapter I

A SUPPER OF REJOICING, It was late when they arrived at Balmerino ; the tall clock in the kitchen had just struck ten. The whole gathering — forty-one in all — came in ; for David Ramsay would have it so, saying that not only should every one of them sup with him that night, but that for three days his house would be open to all men whatsoever, and there should be no lack of whisky and venison, even though to supply them he exhausted all his stores ; for that God had heard the prayer of a desolate old man and had restored to him his child. VOL. II. B "Ay," solemnly added Father Constantine, " and that by a miracle — no less than the putting of mercy and graciousness into the heart of the most hardened of all sinners ; as what else can a thieves' captain be ? " "Will," said one of the shepherds to another in a low voice, "wad ye no think yon fellow was a parson, to hear him talk ?

" "Ay," was the reply. Then they fell to upon the whisky and forgot the subject. Great was the surprise of Jeanie and Mistress Duncan at the arrival of the party, whose return — even should Providence permit them to return at all — had not been looked for so speedily. But their joy was greater still, as also was their wonder, at the good fortune of Rohilla in being thus liberated. They cried for happiness, as women sometimes will cry, and amid their crying began to busy themselves about whisky for the guests and supper for all ; and piled up the fire and reached down the great side of smoked venison from the beams of the roof, while Rohilla and her father, with St. Just and Lindsay, went in search of the marquis and Antoinette. They were in the family room, where, indeed, they had been all the day, Antoinette having been forbidden by her father to go beyond his sight.

Ever since the departure of the rescuing expedition the marquis, who in conjunction with Jacques had been left to protect the women, had been tormented with a profound dread lest the Caterans, knowing probably the defenceless condition of the house, should swoop down upon it, sack it, and murder every person in it. He had therefore locked himself, with Antoinette, in the inner room, resolved that no force on earth should dislodge him ; and when now, just as he and his daughter were deliberating as to whether it would be safe for them to retire to bed, the great uproar of many shouting voices and tramping feet occurred in the kitchen, B the thought instantly presented itself to him that the band of rescuers had fought and been defeated, perhaps all slain, and that these noisy invaders were none other than the free booters, come down to follow up and complete their victory.

They would take Antoinette next, and then slaughter himself; of the others in the kitchen he thought not at all. It was in vain that Antoinette said she recog nised some of the voices, whose tones, though not their words, reached her ear. The marquis, who wavered in all things else, was in his weakness inflexible. He was beginning to barricade the door when David Ramsay, finding it would not open, knocked at it. He accompanied his knocking with many calls, to which were added the adjurations of Lindsay, the sarcasms of St. Just, and, presently, the exhortations of Father Con stantine, who had hastened in from the kitchen ; but it was only when Rohilla's voice, rising above the rest, appealed to Antoinette, that the marquis consented to believe his senses and admit his returned friends. Most glad was he to see them, nevertheless ; the more especially as they took from him that burden of responsibility which in the course of a single day had oppressed him most grievously, causing him to lament that he had ever been born into a world so full of knavery and discomfort.

So bad an opinion did he now hold of humanity that the courteous conduct of the chief in liberating Rohilla, as now detailed by her father, seemed almost incredible to him. He protested that the man was a most gallant fellow, doubtless a gentleman whose misfor tunes had driven him into an evil way of life. " I believe that is truly so," said Rohilla gravely. " Doubtless you have seen enough of him to form a judgment thereupon," observed St. Just, with quiet meaning. Like all persons who are themselves somewhat evil-natured, he ever suspected others of evil, and he doubted now the absolute truth of Rohilla's story. There had even arisen within him an instinctive beginning of jealousy against the mysterious figure that had waited on the height. Rohilla flushed at the insinuation contained in the words, but she made no rejoinder to them ; and at this point a diversion was effected by the entrance of Jacques, who was but now emerged from the dairy, whither he had retreated in terror on the first irruption of the returned party into the house.

"Ah!" cried Lindsay, "you are recovered, then, from your whisky drinking, my brave Jacques ? " " Nay, my lord," answered Jacques, " for I cannot make my own head obey me ; and my tongue is stiff from having been tied up so long. Master Rousseau tells us not in his Confessions whether he was ever drunk, but if he was, I warrant it was not on such stuff as I swallowed last night. Truly, I knew not its nature till I tried it, but I might have thought that such a country as this is wouldn't produce light drinks. And indeed, masters, I must beseech you to send me back to France ; for, truly, what with secret places dug under him as he sleeps, and thieves and murderers coming ever about his ears, a man's life in this country isn't worth a penny ransom. And though there is much disorder in Paris, and cutting off of heads, yet if I call out there that I'm a butcher's son nobody will touch me ; whereas here, the lower I say I am, the quicker they're at me.

At least 'twas so last night with the villains that gagged me and stole my weapon." David Ramsay looked at him with indulgent contempt. " I thought," said he, " to have held thy drunkenness responsible for the work of last night, but now I see that hadst thou been sober it would have made no difference. Well, well, eat a good supper, and then sleep off the unwieldiness of your head. Since all hath turned out well, I will not upbraid you. Also, I daresay that Jeanie hath well punished you with reproaches for discovering her secret — the jade ! " David Ramsay was evidently in high spirits. to-night. The sudden discovery of the child whom he had in his inmost heart believed to be irrevocably lost had shaken him out of his habitual selfish gloom into that genial relaxa tion of mood which ever follows thankfulness to God for some great danger averted, or suffering spared.

And now he embraced Rohilla, and called for supper and whisky, and soon the whole company were feasting, some in the family room and the rest in the kitchen, with the door open between. In the kitchen there was much shouting and singing and exchanging of good-humoured jests ; in the family room the party was quieter, for various reasons. Lindsay, indeed, was in a lightsome mood — as when was he not ? — and sang a most graceful love song, whereof Antoinette was the object ; and David Ramsay, contrary to his custom, further enlivened the meal with an energetic flow of words, unto which, at every pause, Father Constantine appended some wise and pious observation ; but the rest were nearly silent. Rohilla's thoughts were with her brother, and her face was grave ; and Robert Stewart, whom she had invited in to sup with them, was silent because of his great love for her, which made him desire no other enjoyment than to be where she was and to look upon her.

For much the same reason, too, Antoinette spoke less than her wont. As for the marquis, he was worn out with the fatigue of prolonged nervousness ; and St. Just, with new sus picions and jealousies rankling in his mind, was watching Rohilla furtively. The two others who completed the number at the table — farmers from far up the glen — were silent from shyness, not being accustomed to eat in such good companionship. It was two o'clock before the noisy gathering in the kitchen broke up. By this time some of the men were too drunk to go to their homes, and places had to be prepared for them for the night in the outhouses. The rest departed with cheerful strides, singing as they went. Lord Lindsay, who had passed the hours talking with Antoinette, was offered accommodation in the marquis's room ; but he preferred to walk back to Invermark.

He set out forthwith, and St. Just and Father Con stantine went with him as far as the Esk foot bridge. And they were no sooner gone than Robert Stewart bade good-night to his host and went in his turn to the door. Close by it he met Rohilla, who was coming in after watching her three friends disappear into the darkness. "Ah, you are going?" she said. "Good night. Although it is well-nigh the morn again. The dawn will come ere long." She held out her hand to him. He took it and strained his eager eyes towards her, try ing through the gloom to see her face and learn what was written upon it. " Thank you for coming with the others," she went on, " I know well that you would have given your life to save me had it been needed. You are a brave, true man." They were standing outside the door now, and none could hear what they said.

Robert Stewart held her hand lightly and fearfully, as though it were a holy thing. " Oh, lady Rohilla ! " he cried, yet in a low voice, " I'm sae wretched that I couldna do more. I wanted to shed my blood for you, so that maybe you'd honour me, though I'm sae humble and poor." " I do honour you," Rohilla said. "But now, good-night, for it is late." "Ah, then," he cried, "I'm nae longer humble nor poor. I'm as great an' as rich as a king. May God bless you, an' gie you sweet sleep ! " She moved away in her stately manner, as chough her heart beat no faster and her cheek shone no brighter than before. He went home with a dawn-song in his heart, although the shadow of full night lay yet on the land about him ; and she, tired both in mind and limb, presently lay down by Antoinette's side and fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter II. Rohilla's First Pleading

The morning was well advanced when Rohilla arose, having awakened to find that Antoin ette was already dressed and gone, and looked out at the little door-window, scarce a foot and a half square, which was the only source of light that the room possessed. It was a bright morning, yet with a wild cold wind that blew in stormy gusts around the house and across the moor ; but doubtless it would be calmer by mid-day, when the daily strengthening warmth of the April sun would be shed unchecked upon the broad glen. Now, however, the sound of the turbulent wind was desolate as the mountain ranges between which it passed. But Rohilla's heart was not chilled thereby, for she was a daughter of the North, whose body, in its whiteness, seemed formed of animated snow, and in its stateliness was cast to move in natural grandeur through the harsh atmosphere of a land of gloom.

She now put off her night clothes and began to dress, putting on first a white woollen undergarment and then a loose bodice of white linen. No corset wore she, nor any confining thing, save only her broad girdle ; her beautiful body was free to move as nature guided it, and therefrom it derived its excelling grace. Quickly she put on her underskirt, her arms bare the while, and her breasts swelling beneath their divers encasements ; then came a woollen vest, with sleeves, and lastly, her crimson gown. This she wore so that she might thereby be con stantly reminded of her mission. Upon going downstairs she found that Father Constantine and St. Just were long since gone to their work at the mine, and that her father, notwithstanding his weak arm, was harrowing one of the barley fields. The marquis sat in his place by the hearth, and Antoinette waited with her breakfast, all radiant with joy because Rohilla had slept so well, and because Lord Lindsay was come home again unhurt.

And while Rohilla ate they sought to gather from her the story of all that had happened in the many hours between her carrying away and her return ; but she refused to be false to the promise she had given the chief. The marquis, who upon a little persuasion would have broken a promise made to an honest man, marvelled much at her fidelity to a rogue, and pondered within himself whether there might not be some hidden meaning therein. She sat all day and span, saving an hour spent in hearing Jeanie's tearful pleadings for pardon in the matter of the smuggled whisky and Jacques' counter complaints at the under mining of his floor and the loss of his dirk. Jeanie was forgiven with a warning never again so to transgress, for that it was only because her transgression had been swallowed up, as it were, in a great alarm, that it was now passed over so lightly ; and Jacques was recommended to ponder ere he fully made up his mind to go back to his native country.

To this recommendation the marquis, from his seat in the chimney corner, added a flow of fretful words, wherein he bade his servant be gone and vex not his misery with trifles ; which command Jacques speedily obeyed, departing to be himself vexed by the conduct of Jeanie, who regarded him as the cause of her unhappiness, and upbraided him accord ingly, amid copious streams of tears. It was not until evening that Rohilla found an opportunity of being alone with her father, partly owing to his late return from the harrowing and partly because of the pertina city wherewith the marquis clung to his hearth seat, as though it were the only safe place in the world. But at sunset time Lord Lindsay came and drew him perforce, with Antoinette's aid, forth to look at the sky and to exercise himself with walking about the farm place ; and Father Constantine having lingered up at the chapel, and St. Just, who had returned for a while, having gone out again — although no one knew whither — Rohilla and her father found themselves alone together in the wide sitting-room, which was all bright with the sunrays that slanted through the thick green panes of the tiny windows.

David Ramsay, who was weary with his long day's work, sat in his wooden arm-chair under the great black-lined chimney hood, with his elbow on his knee and his head rest ing on his hard palm. His face had taken again its old look of sullenness ; his forehead vol. 11. c was wrinkled and grim, and his tired right hand lay across his knee, with its fingers hidden by the flowing white beard that streamed down over his well-worn homespun coat. Rohilla stood by one of the windows, watching him. From the kitchen came the voices of the neighbours who had come in by reason of David Ramsay's three days' hos pitality to eat his oatcakes and venison and drink his whisky, while they talked of the strange taking off of Mistress Rohilla, and her yet more strange return. And then Jacques began to tell them, as well as he could, of what had happened to himself in the outhouse, and went on to chatter about the revolution in his own country and how the blood ran and how all men there were to be brothers.

And soon there came the silence of many listening and only his voice could be heard. Rohilla crossed the room to her father. She had not meant on this first day to speak to him of his son ; but here was the occasion and the seed must be sown ; also, now that she had pondered the matter, she saw that what had happened to herself gave her sufficient reason for speaking on the subject, so that no suspicion of a secret motive therein should enter her father's mind. She crossed to him therefore, and, absorbed though he had been, he heard her moving feet upon the rush-strewn floor and raised his head. It may be that his thoughts, too, had been fixed on the same sorrow as those of his daughter ; but without the glow of knowledge that illumined hers. " Rohilla, my child," he said, awakening to tenderness as she knelt beside him.

" I had well-nigh lost ye ; and I am weary, and my useless anger against an unjust world weareth me out fast. Ye are the only light that falls upon my path. So that if dishonour had come to ye or I had never seen ye more, I would not have toiled on longer here like a c mindless slave. Yon Caterans should have killed me. A fine ending, truly," he burst forth bitterly, " for the last of the Rothesays, to die by the hand of a hill robber ! " Rohilla, speaking not, drew his head against her breast and held it there to rest. " But I have ye back," he went on as though calming himself with the words, " and ye are my comfort and my strength and the pride of my old age. But therein also have I sorrow, since ye are doomed to waste your beauty in this wilderness. I would I could see ye wedded, so that a child of my own blood might kindle anew in better times the fire of our forsaken hearth."

Rohilla looked up. The red sunlight streaming in through the window panes bade her take heart. She remembered that it fell also on the mountains, and thought that perhaps at that very moment it kissed the dark face of the Cateran chief as an earnest of his father's pardon. " Father," she said in her sweet, full voice, " that which hath happened to me hath made me think of another. Had God willed that I should be kept from you there would yet have remained to you, somewhere on the earth, one who shareth with myself the birthright of being a help and comfort to you and a light upon your pathway. He hath erred, truly " " Silence ! " cried the old man, raising his head. But she kneeled still beside him and leaned her body against his knee and looked up calmly into his angry face. " Nay, father," she went on gently, " hear me out.

Why may I not speak of this sorrow that, as I well see, is ever in your thought as in mine ? Think you I know not what it is you brood upon, night after night, as you sit looking into the fire ? It is the face of your son that you seek there, as you would now be seeking mine had I not by God's help come back to be beholden of you in the flesh. Ay, well I know that the name ye would not have me utter eateth into your heart as rust into iron." " Why speak you of this now ? " asked David Ramsay trembling. " Because," she said, fixing her clear eyes upon his, " in the hours when I knew not whether I should ever return hither I pictured to myself your great sorrow and desolateness, and my heart bled for you ; for although I hoped all things, as it was right I should do, yet I could not but feel that in all likelihood I should never retrace yon mountain ways again.

And then I thought how unnatural would be your condition, left thus all desolate, and yet a father, with two living children " " Living ! " fiercely interrupted David Ram say, " how know ye that ? " " I judge so," she answered, " by the likelihood of things, which tends not to the belief that a man born with strong blood and hardily nurtured, should be dead at thirty years. Wherefore should he have died ? And I thought that night that if I, all innocent, suffered so at the thought of separation from you — my separation being caused solely by the irresistible will of God — what then must be his sufferings who by his own act hath divided himself from a father and a sister who loved him and whom he loved ? " "Ye delude yourself," muttered the old man, " he loved nor you nor me. If he be dead, I forgive him ; for it behoveth all men to forgive the dead ; but if he be alive — if he be alive " He continued muttering to himself.

Rohilla lifted her hand, as though to prevent the falling of a malediction from his lips. "He may have repented," she said, "he may have repented and grieved sincerely for the sins of his hot youth. And knowing nothing, perchance, of our worldly disgrace, his thoughts may have turned for years past to the home of his boyhood, whither, as it may be, he dares not himself follow them, because of your forbiddance and the dread of your wrath." " If it be so, then he is wise — he does well," muttered David Ramsay, with tremu lous anger. " Nay," said Rohilla, " even God turneth not away from the cry of repentance. Shall, then, an earthly father do so ? " The old man turned fiercely round upon her. " But whither tends all this ? " he cried in a raised voice. "Ye speak as if my miscreant son were kneeling in your place.

I hear no cry of repentance, nor am I likely to hear one. What is it that ye seek ? what would ye have me do ? " " I would have you cease to mortify* your self with bitterness and wrath," she answered. "I would have you give free loose to the tenderness against which you ever strive, making these your later years, which should be blessed, one long record of gloom. It is a deeper gloom than mere grief at our mis fortunes could warrant. The cry of repentance you will hear in your heart — ay, even now, if you listen and think how oft in its childhood that voice hath struck upon your ear. I would have you more softened, my father, towards Alastor's memory, so that I may speak of him sometimes without risk of your dis pleasure. And thereby, also, perchance — who can tell ? — God may in time be moved to guide his steps, if he still liveth, homewards again towards us, so that he may atone for past offending by comforting and supporting us in our downfall."

She had risen, and now stood erect before him, with her face warm with feeling and the red light from the window surrounding her tall, crimson-clothed figure. David Ramsay looked up at her with both anger and wonder in his face ; but therein she saw also a change, a breaking up as it were of the iron clotted grief that had weighed so long upon his brain — as when a lump of thick dark ice is thawed by a ray of the April sun. " Well, well," he muttered sullenly, " speak of him when ye will. But not to others," he added with an angry start. " Only to me. Little matters it that he be spoken of, if such be your woman's fancy. I warrant he hath drunk himself to death long ago — or else been run through the body by some honest man's sword. I pray God that But here comes Lindsay."

Chapter III

A PROPHECY. That night, when Father Constantine was retiring to bed, Jacques asked him if he believed in witches ; for, said he, some folks had told him that afternoon that there was one dwelling in a shieling on the road to Glen Effock. She was an old woman of ninety, called Meg Christison, who sold butter without having either cow or ewe. Wherefore the people who bought of her always had the butter delivered to them up through the chimney of her shieling, so that it might be freed from bewitchment before they touched it. And if all that was said of her was true, she must be a fearsome hag ; for one man who had crossed her will broke his neck an hour afterwards. " Hold thy peace," said Father Constantine with stern contempt. " Think ye that the Lord's purposes can be either divined or thwarted by an old hag ?

Thou hearest things with thine ears, but thou applyest not thy judgment thereunto." " But," persisted Jacques, " it is a fact that she sells butter, for the people hereabout buy it from her ; and if she have neither cow nor ewe, why, then, the devil must help her. For, truly, butter cannot be made out of air without magic, and since it would scarce beseem the Lord to have to do with such a creature, why, it must be the devil." But hereat the worthy chaplain's grave features assumed an impatient frown. He launched into many pious exclamations at Jacques' folly and superstition, with sharp rebukes therefor, and finally dismissed him with the usual formula : " Get thee to bed." But the matter had evidently sunk deep A PROPHECY. 29 into Jacques' mind and awakened his curiosity ; for on the next evening — but still in fullest daylight — St. Just, happening to be walking towards Glen Effock, came upon him, loitering around the ruined shieling, behind whose walls he had once seen the Cateran lurking.

He loitered idly, as it seemed ; and now and then he looked behind him with an air of longing, mingled with indecision. " Eh, Jacques ! " cried St. Just, in surprise, " what are you doing here ? " " Why," said Jacques, " they say there is a witch lives in that hut round there, and I came up to see if I could catch a glimpse of her ; but I've been here nigh upon an hour, and she hasn't come out yet, neither for water, nor wood, nor peat ; though for certain, at this time o' day, she must want all three." "A witch, eh?" laughed St. Just. "Jacques, thou art a fool." "That may be," returned Jacques. "But nevertheless, a woman that can make eatable butter out of nothing, as they say she does, is worth coming a few miles to see. And how ever great a fool I am, she must be a greater; for if I could do what she does, I'd set up a butter shop and make my fortune and live in a fine house, instead of in yonder dirty hovel."

" Where is it ? " asked St Just, becoming curious in his turn. Jacques thereupon led the way behind the ruin and round the curve of the hill to a solitary shieling, built of loose stones and roofed with rotting thatch. A tall pine stood against its western wall and a little burn ran down the hill beside it, babbling lightsomely. "Why," cried St. Just, half-mockingly, " this looks not so dismal as I had thought to find it. There is neither raven nor wolf for sentinel here. Go you, Jacques, and knock and ask what hour it is." But Jacques liked not this proposition. "Truly," said he, "it looks not as if the A PROPHECY. 31 devil came a visiting. But the inside may be worse than the out. And who knows what a witch may do when she is disturbed ? She might cast the evil eye at me." "Fool!" said St. Just.