A plain dark-coloured chariot, whose dusty wheels gave evidence of a journey, stopped to change horses at Fushie Bridge, on the 7th of August 1838. The travellers seemed listless and weary, and remained, each ensconced in a corner of the carriage. The elder was a lady of from forty to fifty years of age—thin, and somewhat prim in her expression, which was perhaps occasioned by a long upper lip, rigidly stretched over a chasm in her upper gum, caused by the want of a front tooth. Her companion had taken off her bonnet, and hung it to the cross strings of the roof. The heat and fatigue of the journey seemed to have almost overcome her, and she had placed her head against the side, and was either asleep or very nearly so. It is impossible to say what her appearance might be when her eyes were open; all that we can say under present circumstances is, that the rest of her features were beautifully regular—that what appeared of her form was unimpeachable—that her hair was disengaged from combs and other entanglement, and floated at its own sweet will over cheek, and neck, and shoulders. In the rumble were seated two servants, who seemed to have a much better idea of the art of enjoying a journey than the party within. A blue cloak, thrown loosely over the gentleman’s shoulders, succeeded (as was evidently his object) in concealing a certain ornamental strip of scarlet cloth that formed the collar of his coat; but revealed, at the same time, in spite of all the efforts he could make to draw up the apron, the upper portion of a pair of velvet integuments, which, according to Lord Byron’s description of them, were “deeply, darkly, beautifully blue.” The lady, reclining on his arm, which was gallantly extended, so as to save her from bumping against the iron, requires no particular description. She was dressed in very gay-coloured clothes—had a vast quantity of different-hued ribbons floating like meteors on the troubled air—from the top and both sides of her bonnet; while a glistening pink silk cloak was in correct keeping with a pair of expansive cheeks, where the roses had very much the upperhand of the lilies. While Mistress Wilson, the respectable landlady of the posting-house, was busy giving orders about the horses, a carriage was heard coming down the hill at a prodigious rate, and, with a sort of prophetic spirit, the old woman knew in an instant that four horses more would be required; and then she recollected as instantaneously that there would only be one pair in the stable. Under these circumstances, she went directly to the door of the plain chariot, whose inmates still showed no signs of animation, and tried to set their minds at rest as to the further prosecution of their journey—though, as they had no knowledge of the possibility of any difficulty arising, they had never entertained any anxiety on the subject.

“Dinna be fleyed, my bonny burdy,” she said, addressing the unbonnetted young lady, who was still apparently dozing in the corner. “Ye sal hae the twa best greys in Fussie stables; they’ll trot ye in in little mair than an hour; an’ the ither folk maun just be doin’ wi’ a pair, as their betters hae dune afore them.”

The young lady started up in surprise, and looked on the shrewd intelligent features of the well-known Meg Dods, without understanding a syllable of her address.

“Haena ye got a tongue i’ yer head, for a’ ye’re sae bonny?” continued the rather uncomplimentary landlady—“maybe the auld wife i’ the corner’ll hae mair sense. Hear ye what I said? ye sall hae the twa greys—and Jock Brown to drive them; steady brutes a’ the three, an’ very quick on the road.”

The elder lady gazed with lack-lustre eyes upon the announcer of these glad tidings.

“Greys, did you say?” she asked, catching at the only words she had understood in the address.

“Yes, did I. An’ ye dinna seem over thankful for the same. I tell ye, if ye hadna a woman o’ her word to deal wi’, ye wad likely hae nae horses ava’;—for here comes ane o’ the things thae English idewuts ca’s a dug-cart that they come doon wi’, filled inside an’ out wi’ men, and dugs, an’ guns—a’ hurryin’ aff to the muirs, an’ neither to haud nor bind if they haena four horses the minute they clap their hands. They’ll mak’ a grand fecht, ye’ll see, to get your twa greys; but bide a wee—the twa greys ye sall hae, if it was the laird o’ Dalhousie himsell.”

And in fact in a very few seconds after the venerable hostess had uttered these sybilline vaticinations, they received an exact fulfiment—

“Four horses on!” exclaimed a voice from the last arrived vehicle, which sorely puzzled the knowing ones of Fushie Brig to determine to what genus or species it belonged. It was a long high carriage, fitted for the conveyance both of men and luggage; and its capabilities in both these respects were, on this occasion, very severely tried. On the high driving-seat were perched two gentlemen, counterbalanced on the dicky-seat behind by two sporting-looking servants. Inside, four other gentlemen found ample room; while a sort of second body swinging below, seemed to carry as many packages, trunks, and portmanteaus, as the hold of a Leith smack. “Four horses on!” repeated the voice, which proceeded from one of the sporting-looking servants on the seat behind.

“Blaw awa’, my man,” murmured Mrs Wilson; “it’ll be a gey while or the second pair comes out, for a’ yer blawin’. Did ye want onything, sirs?” she inquired, going up to the equipage.

“To be sure,” answered one of the gentlemen; “four horses immediately—we’re pushed for time.”

“Hech, sirs, so are we a’, but time’ll hae the best o’t,” replied the hostess. “Ye maun just hae patience, sirs, for ye canna get on this three hours.”

“Three hours!” exclaimed the gentleman; “why, what’s the matter? Why the deuce don’t they get out the horses?”

“Just for the same raison the Hielanman couldna’ get out the bawbee,” replied the imperturbable Meg Dods; “the deil a plack was in his pouch, puir body—an’ sae, ye see, ye maun just stay still.”

“My lord,” interposed one of the servants, touching his hat, “there’s a pair of very natty greys just coming out of the stable, and a pair of bays with the harness on. I have seen them in stall”—

“Then let us have them, Charles, by all means,” replied his lordship.

“Yes, my lord.”

In a very short time high words were heard, from which it was evident that by no means a complimentary opinion was entertained of the gentlemanly conduct of the nobleman’s dependant by the guard and ornament of the plain chariot.

“I say, my fine chap, you leave them there grey ’osses alone, will ye? they ain’t none o’ yourn.”

“Quite a mistake, Johnny,” replied the noble retainer, with a supercilious glance at our friend, who was still perched high in air.

“Oh! if ye come to go to be a-leaving off of names, old Timothy, you’ll find I’ve a way of writing my card with my five fingers here in a text hand as no gentleman can mistake.”

While boasting of his literary acquirements, our Hector in livery slewed himself down from the side of the red-cheeked Andromache, and presented an appearance which apparently induced the gentleman in the cockade to believe that the mistake might possibly be on his own side.

“My lord is in a great hurry.”

“So is my ladies.”

“He must have four horses.”

“They must have two.”

“Lauds!” exclaimed the voice of the hostess, addressing three or four stable-men who had been gaping spectators of this altercation, “bring yer grapes and pitchin’ forks here, an’ lift this birkie wi’ the cockaud in his head back till his seat again. Tell Jock Brown to get his boots on wi’ a’ his micht, and drive thir ladies to Douglas’s Hotel. An’ I’m sayin’, if ony o’ thae English bit craturs, wi’ their clippy tongues, lays hand on bit or bridle o’ ony o’ my horses, dinna spare the pitchin’ fork—pit it through them as ye wad a lock strae; I’ll hae nae rubbery in my stable-yaird—I’m braw freens wi’ the Justice-Clerk.”

As affairs now appeared to grow serious, the Noah’s Ark disembogued the whole of its living contents, and a minute inspection of the stables was commenced by the whole party. The ladies, in the mean time, who had some confused idea that all was not right, were looking anxiously from the windows; and if the elder lady had been an attentive observer of her companion’s looks, she would have seen a flush of surprise suffuse her whole countenance as her eyes for an instant rested on one of the gentlemen, who stood apparently an uninterested spectator of the proceedings of his friends. A similar feeling of amazement seemed to take possession of the champion of the ladies, as he recognised the same individual. He left his antagonist in the very middle of a philippic that ought to have sunk that gentleman in his own estimation for ever, and walking hurriedly up to the gentleman, who was still in what is called a reverie, said—

“Mr Harry!—hope ye’re quite well, sir?”

“What?—Copus?” replied the gentleman. “I’m delighted to see you again. Who are you with just now?”

“Family, sir—great family—equal to a duke, master says;—lady’s-maid uncommon pleasant, and all things quite agreeable.”

“Do you mean you are with a duke, Copus?”

“Bless ye! no, sir, only equal to it. Master has bought a Scotch chiefship, and we’re all a-going down to take possession. Master made all the tartans himself afore we left off trade.”

“I don’t understand you—what is he?”

“Smith, Hobbins, and Huxtable, they called us at Manchester,—great way of business—but master, old Smith, has retired, and bought this here Scotch estate, and makes us all call him Ben-na-Groich.”

“And his family, Copus?”

“Only his old sister, and our young lady.”

“Well,—her name?”

“Miss Jane. She’s a niece, they say, of old Smith—Ben-na-Groich, I means; but I don’t b’lieve it. She’s a real lady, and no mistake; and, they say, will have a prodigious fortin. By dad, our old ’ooman takes prodigious care of her, and is always a snubbing.”

“My dear Copus, say not a word of having seen me; you can be the greatest friend I ever had in my life—you’ll help me?”

“Won’t I?—that’s all;—’clect all about Oriel, Mr Harry, and Brussels? Ah! them was glorious days!”

“We shall have better days yet, Copus, never fear.”

After a few minutes’ conversation, the face of affairs entirely changed. An apology was made by his lordship in person for the mistake of his servant; that individual was severely reprimanded, greatly to the satisfaction of Mr Copus; the two greys were peaceably yoked to the plain chariot, and Jock Brown cracked his whip and trotted off at a pace that set loose the tongues of all the dogs in the village.

“What a barbarous set of people these Lowlanders are!” exclaimed the senior lady—“so different from the brave and noble mountaineers. My brother, the chieftain, is lucky in having such a splendid set of retainers, and the tartan he invented is very becoming.”

“Vell, only to think of picking up my old master in a inn-yard!” murmured Mr Copus, resuming his old position, and fixing his guarding arm once more inside of the rumble-rail; “after all the rum goes we had together at Oxford and Brussels. Nothing couldn’t be luckier than meeting a old friend among them Scotch savages. Do ye know, Mariar, they haven’t no breeches?”

“For shame, Mr Copus!”

CHAPTER II.

It must be evident to the most unpractised eye that the young gentleman recognised by his old servant, and the pretty young lady in the plain chariot, are the hero and heroine of this true story. And a very fitting hero and heroine they would have been for a tale of far higher pretensions than the plain unvarnished one which it is now our duty to deliver. At present, all we can afford to tell the reader is the fact of their being consumedly in love—that their love proved its truth by not running very smoothly—and that, at the moment at which we have brought them on the stage, they had had no communication for several months before. The delight, therefore, of Henry Raymond on recognising Jane Somers at Meg Dods’s door, was equalled by his surprise. He formed one of a party going down for the twelfth of August to the moors of his friend, Lord Teysham; but the interview he had had with his former domestic, Bill Copus, who had attended him through his career at Oxford, and afterwards for a short time to the Continent, somewhat cooled his zeal as a sportsman, by adding to his hopes as a lover. The forced embargo laid on them by the hostess of Fushie Bridge—for she was resolute in refusing to take them on with a pair, and the cattle of the last stage were miserably tired—gave him time to lay so much of his plans before his friends as he saw fit; and, long before the second pair, which had been with a party to Leith, had been refreshed, and were ready to start, his companions had unanimously passed a resolution, “that it was incumbent on the members of this excursion, collectively and individually, to give all possible aid and assistance to Henry Raymond, in overthrowing the plans of all persons of the name of Smith, or of any other name or denomination whatever, and marrying a certain young lady of the name of Jane Somers.”

But Lord Teysham, who united a great deal of good plain sense with his buoyancy of spirits, took him quietly aside, and asked him—

“Why, in heaven’s name, if he liked the girl, he didn’t propose for her in form?”

“I have, my dear fellow,” replied Harry, “and been refused.”

“By whom?”

“The uncle. He wrote me a letter, saying my favour of 3d ult. had come duly to hand, and he declined the offer as expressed therein,—and he remains, sir, for self and niece, my obedient servant, Thomas Smith.”

“But had he a right to send you this letter?”

“As guardian and uncle, I suppose he has; but as empowered by Jane herself, none whatever.”

“But what’s his objection?”

“I’ve an elder brother.”

“Well, but your governor is a close old boy. He has metal enough for a frigate besides his First-rate.”

“Yes; but he has told me a hundred times that tit for tat is the only game he plays at—whatever fortune I bring he will pay me over the same; if I marry for love, I must live on it. I could give you a score or two more of his wise sayings.”

“Oh! thank ye—I’ve a good stock of my own; but why, in the name of wonder, is he so distrustful? Can’t he give you credit for being able to choose, without bribing you, as it were, to look out for a fortune?”

“My father won’t give credit to any one, especially to me; besides, he has some little cause to be suspicious, for I’ve cleaned him out of a trifle once or twice, in a way that makes him slow to bite now. I have been on the point of marriage twice—once to old Crocky, and once to Stulz.”

“How?”

“Why, you see, last year I was dipt a little to the fishmonger, and wrote a matrimonial letter home hinting at trousseaus and other expenses, but mentioning no names. Nothing could please the old gentleman so much, and it was on that occasion he sent me up the paper, properly signed and attested, binding himself to give me guinea for guinea whatever fortune I might get with my wife. A thousand he sent me to do the needful in the way of jewels and other presents, set me square with all the world.”

“And your progenitor was indignant at the disappointment?”

“Oh! horribly; and unless it had been for a four-year bill of Stulz, I shouldn’t have troubled him so soon. But, as I was aware that Walter knew of the obligation about my future fortune, I gave him to understand that I was devoted to Miss Coutts, and that I had no reason to despair. The very thought of such a thing was death both to the old Jack Daw and the young. The squire and his eldest hope would have been both in the poor-house if I had succeeded in carrying off the heiress, and had kept them to their bond. So, after a week or two, I let them off for their alarm, and a moderate tip. But all these things, my dear Teysham, are over now. I am resolved to marry Jane Somers, and cut both Stulz and Crocky.”

“If you can get her; but this old monster, with the uncommon name, has her in his power. We must concert measures calmly, and we need not despair. Will she herself help us?”

“To be sure she will. Her new home must be misery to her. She is the daughter of a sister of this old Smith, who, by some chance or other, married a gentleman. She had a large fortune, which now belongs to this only child. Colonel Somers has long been dead; the widow died a few years ago. Jane was then educated in the house of another guardian, a cousin of Colonel Somers, who lived near Bath; and, on his lately being sent to India on a high command, she was claimed by this Manchester hobgoblin, and torn from all her old friends.”

“Yourself among the rest?”

“Just so—and now you know the whole story.”

In which respect, as we conclude, the reader is by this time on a par with Lord Teysham, we quit the conclave at Fushie Bridge, and proceed to the more splendid apartments in Douglas’s Hotel.

In the little drawing-room that looks to St Andrew Square, the evening seemed to have passed stupidly enough. Aunt Alice, after yawning till tea time, and scolding the greater part of that excellent time-killer, had at last, at about nine o’clock, betaken herself to her bedroom, to bring down the Scottish Chiefs—a book of manners and statistics from which all her notions of the Scottish nation of an early period were derived. Waverley, and the other northern stories of the enchanter, supplied her with all her modern information; and not very bad sources they would have been, if Miss Alice had been able to understand the language in which they were written. But our noble vernacular was to her a more impenetrable mystery than any revealed at Eleusis, and it was, perhaps, on this account that she entertained so decided a preference for the performance of Miss Porter.

Jane Somers, whom we have hitherto represented as either listless or sleeping, was sitting busily engaged in the somewhat unusual occupation of thinking. And, as her thoughts were wandering about Lansdowne, and a vast apartment, nobly lighted and filled with the sounds of revelry by night, we need not be surprised if they occasionally made a detour to the stables of Fushie Bridge, and the sight that met her there. While musing deeply on these very interesting subjects, our friend Copus entered the room and said—

“Please, mum, one of the vaiters here knows all about them there places as master talks so much on; p’raps Miss Alice would like to hear about ’em?”

“I will tell my aunt, William,” said the young lady, and returned to her former musings.

Copus retired and shut the door.

A low voice at her ear as she again rested her head upon the arm of the sofa, whispered “Jane!”

On looking up she saw a tall man dressed in the usual waiter’s costume, with a large white cloth spread over his left arm.

“Harry Raymond!” she said, but by some unaccountable instinct speaking, even in the extremity of her surprise, in a tone of voice that scarcely reached beyond the person she addressed,—“In Heaven’s name, what do you here?—in this disguise? Aunt Alice will detect you, and then my situation will be made doubly miserable.”

“Then it is miserable, Jane? Why do you submit to it? Ah, Jane, you have forgotten, surely, the promises you gave me.”

“Forgetfulness seems to have existed on more sides than one. I have been four months in Lancashire, and am indebted, at last, to a chance meeting in Scotland for being recalled to your recollection.”

“Recollection!” echoed the young man, in the liveliness of his emotion flinging the white cloth upon the floor. “Good heavens! what can have put such a notion into your head? I have written letter upon letter, both to you and your guardian—that is, after I found out where you had gone to. My letters to you have not been answered; my letter to him was answered by a refusal.”

“Harry, Harry, he never consulted me—I never”——but here she checked herself, as perhaps she considered that the vehemence of her denial might be construed into something very like an anxiety to retract it; and whether this was the construction put on it or not, all we have to say is, that on Miss Alice Smith slipping quietly into the room, with a volume of the Scottish Chiefs in her hand, she almost screamed, as she saw a stranger seated on the sofa beside her niece, and holding her very earnestly by the hand.

“How! what’s all this?” exclaimed Miss Alice. “Them Scotch is the oddest people!”

“Young lady nearly fainted, ma’am, at some accounts I was giving her of the Highlands, ma’am. I’m waiter here, ma’am; and it’s part of my business, ma’am, to give all sorts of information to the English families as they pass through the city, ma’am.”

“And what were you a-telling of to this young lady?”

“Only a few incidents that occasionally happen in such wild scenes as Fash-na-Cairn or Ben-na-Groich. They say the new Ben-na-Groich is an English nobleman, with a very handsome sister;—I was merely telling this young lady here what would probably be the fate of the beautiful English-woman.”

“Gracious me!” exclaimed Miss Alice: “no wonder she fainted, poor thing. What was it? for mercy’s sake—what will they do to her?”

“Fash-na-Cairn and all his clan have been at war for hundreds of years with Ben-na-Groich. He will probably lead a foray upon the new chief and carry off his sister.”

“Gracious! how old is this Fash-na-Cairn?”

“About five-and-twenty. He has buried his fifteenth wife. They seldom live more than three months.”

“Oh, Jane! Jane! we’re lost—ruined—murdered! Waiter, I’m the sister of Ben-na-Groich, the victim of Fash-na-Cairn!”

“Sorry, ma’am, I’ve alarmed you; but, perhaps, the friends of the clan may gather round Ben-na-Groich, and succeed in capturing Fash-na-Cairn.”

“And what then?” inquired Miss Alice, with a glimpse of hope.

“Oh, then, it is the universal custom for the next in blood of the chieftain, if she be unmarried, to cut off a finger of the prisoner every day with an old hereditary hatchet kept for that purpose, till he relents, and offers to make her his bride. If he does so before he has lost the fingers of both hands, the feud is at an end.”

Miss Alice shuddered at the thoughts of cutting off a young man’s fingers.

“Oh, waiter, this is dreadful news! I’m certain my poor brother knew nothing of this when he purchased that horrible property. And what will they do to him if the furry succeeds?”

“Tie him up in a wolf’s skin, and hunt him to death with bloodhounds.”

“My poor brother, my poor brother! And he so fat, and subject to the gout! But it’s quite true—it’s exactly what they did to the Bohemian in Quentin Durward.”

“The present Fash-na-Cairn is a descendant of Le BalafrÉ.”

“Oh, the monster! Have they no police at Ben-na-Groich, nor even special constables?—no justice of peace?”

“The only justice there is the dirk and claymore. But the young lady seems revived now. Do you take supper? I’ll send the chambermaid directly, ma’am.”

When the historical and veracious waiter left the room, the long and stately figure of Miss Alice sank slowly down upon the sofa. Jane Somers’s face was buried in her hands, and, by the tremors that ran through her whole frame, and the redness of what was visible of her cheeks and neck, it was evident that she was nearly in convulsions with some powerfully suppressed feeling. The aunt, of course, considered it to be the result of terror, whatever sager guess the reader may make upon the subject, and gave way to a fit of dolorous lamentation, that did not much contribute to her niece’s recovery.

“This comes of pride, and being one of the Scottish chiefs! To be eaten up by bloodhounds, and have his sister carried off by Fash-na-Cairn! Blue-Beard was a joke to him; fifteen wives, and only five-and-twenty!—more than three per annum since he came of age! I will put my brother on his guard the moment we arrive. This is truly a barbarous country, and inhabited by nobody but murderers and cannibals. Hobbins and Huxtable will be amazed to hear of their partner’s fate—and my brother never was partial to dogs!”

CHAPTER III.

The castle of Ben-na-Groich was an old square building, situated in a wild ravine of the North Highlands. It consisted of little more than a high tower, of the rough stone of the country, at one corner of a low mass of building, in many parts fallen into decay, and presenting an appearance of strength and massiveness, on which any attempt at beauty would have been thrown away. One side of the square had something more of a habitable look than the remaining portions, from the circumstance of its chimneys being newly rebuilt and tastefully whitewashed; the roof also was repaired, and the windows fitted with glass—a luxury which was considered useless by the inhabitants of the remaining three sides—the said inhabitants consisting of two or three cows, half a score of dogs, and one or two old representatives of Fingal, who clung to their ancient habitation with a local attachment that would have done honour to a cat.

On the evening of the 10th of August, the parlour (for it was nothing more, though bearing the nobler designation of the hall) was occupied by a solitary gentleman of somewhat solid dimensions, who cheered his loneliness by an occasional stir of the fire, and a frequent sip at a tumbler of whisky-toddy. From time to time he went to the window and listened. The cataract that rushed down the ravine would have drowned any other external sound, even if such had existed; and with an expression of increased ill humour after every visit to the window, the gentleman renewed his former occupation of sipping the toddy and stirring the fire.

“Some folly or other of sister Alice,” at last he grunted, “putting off her time in Edinburgh. They ought to have been here by two o’clock, and here it is eight, and not a sound of their wheels. That cursed rivulet, to be sure, drowns everything else; ’tis worse than our hundred-horse engine. I wish they were here, for being a Highland chieftain is lonely work after all—no coffee-house—no club—no newspaper. Hobbins was right enough in saying, ‘I should soon tire;’ but tire or not, I am too proud to go back—no! Young Charles Hobbins shall marry Jane Somers. I will settle them here for three or four months in the summer, and we can all go back to his house for the rest of the year. A real chieftain will be something to look at there, though, in this cursed country, it does not seem to create much admiration. What can be keeping sister Alice?”

The gentleman walked to the window once more, and, opening it a little way, shouted “Angus Mohr! Angus Mohr!” A feeble voice in a short time answered from the dilapidated end of the building.

“Her’s comin’—fat ta teil does ta fat havril want?” Uncertain steps not long after sounded along the creaking passage; the door was opened, and presented to the impatient glance of the new proprietor the visage of the grumbling Gael. He was an old decrepit man, with bright ferocious eyes gleaming through his elf-locks. If he had succeeded in making a “swap” of his habiliments with any scarecrow south of the Tay, he would have had by far the best of the bargain, for his whole toilet consisted in a coarse blue kilt or petticoat (for it had none of the checkers that give a showy appearance to the kilt); his stocking—for he only rejoiced in one—was wrinkled down almost over his shoe; his coat was tattered and torn in every variety of raggedness; and the filth, which was almost thick enough to cover the glaring redness of his fortnight’s beard, showed that Angus Mohr took very little interest in the great question about the soap duties. “Fat d’ye want, auld man?” inquired the visitor—“bringin’ a poddy a’ this way to hear yer havers.”

“I merely wish to know, Angus, if there is any lad here you can send to the side of the hill to see if a carriage is coming this way.”

“Tere’s a laud oot in the byre,” replied Angus; “but he’s four score year auld, an’ has been teaf and blind since they took him to Inferness jail for dirking the packman—teil tak their sowls for pittin an honest man in ony such places—ye can pid him gang, if ye like.”

“Why, if he’s deaf and blind, Angus, he will be no great help.”

“Ten gang yersell; petter that than sitting filling yer pig wame wi’ whisky.”

“You shall have a glass, Angus, when I have tea brought in.”

“An’ little thanks for it too. It’s a small reward for comin’ a’ this way through the cauld.”

“You may go now,” said our fat friend, who was now more anxious to get quit of his visitor than he had been for his appearance.

“Teil a pit, teil a pit; no without the glass ye promised.”

“Be off, sir—be more respectful to your superiors. I am chief of this clan.”

“He’s ta chief!” cried old Angus, with a laugh that shot a chill into the gallant chieftain’s heart—“he’s ta chief, is he? Hu! hu! hu!”

“For goodness’ sake, old man, go back to your own room. You shall have a whole bottle; I’ll send it to you directly.”

“Mak it a gallon, an’ I’ll gang. Mak it a gallon—it will do for twa days.”

“Well, well, you shall have a gallon—only go,” urged the now alarmed proprietor; for Angus, perceiving his advantage, went on increasing in his demands, and the self-elected chief began to perceive that his subjects were not so obedient as he had expected; and vague ideas of dirks and drownings occurred hurriedly to his mind.

Angus, however, seemed for this time satisfied with his prize, and resumed his way to the lower regions, muttering and growling as he went, as if he had been a highly injured individual, and leaving the fat gentleman in a very uncomfortable frame of mind.

“Savages!” he murmured to himself; “by dad, we shall all be murdered to a certainty. However, when all my own servants arrive, we shall turn Angus and the blind old man out of the castle, and have things a little better managed than this. But it certainly is very strange my sister does not come! Our new man, Copus, is a stout fellow, and would keep this old rascal Angus in order.”

“Fat, in the teil’s name, are ye skirlin’ there for?” said the sharp voice of that uncourteous seneschal, as he put his shaggy head out of the glassless orifice that served as a window; “are we a’ teaf, think ye?”

“Hallo, old feller!” shouted the voice of Copus in reply, “leave off your hinfernal jabber, and open the door, will ye?”

“Open’t yersell, and be t—d till ye,” screamed the old man; “her’s no servant o’ your’s, I’m thinking.”

“William, isn’t there never a bell?” inquired Miss Alice.

“Bell!” re-echoed Mr Copus; “no, nor nothing else that a gentleman is acquainted with; so here I thinks, ma’am, we must stay all night, for that ’ere waterfall wont let nobody hear, and the old lunatic, as peeps out of the hole in the wall, don’t seem inclined to be civil.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, William, try again—shout as loud as you are able.”

“Hillo! hillo! hillo!”

“What’s the matter?” exclaimed the voice of the new proprietor himself, at the same moment that his head appeared at the window.

“Here we are, sir,” replied Copus, “half-dead with fear and hunger, and yet can’t get into our own house for love or money.”

“I’ll open the door myself,” said the chieftain, and putting for the nonce his newly acquired dignity into his pocket, he waddled through the blustering passages, and turned the key with his own hand.

“And this, then, is Ben-na-Groich Castle,” sighed Miss Alice, as at length she entered the parlour, leaning on the arm of her niece, and looking round with a dolorous expression that would have furnished a study for a picture of despair.

“Even so,” replied her brother, with an attempt at a joyous chuckle that died off into a groan.

“Oh, brother Ben—since Ben-na-Groich you insist on being called—oh, brother Ben, what tempted you to buy such a place as this?—in such a country?—among such hideous people?”

“Partly a bad debt that the late owner was on our books—partly a desire to be a regular chief, and astonish the Huxtables; but cheer up, sister, things will be better in a day or two. We shall all put on our tartans—cheer up you too, niece Jane, Charles Hobbins will be here ere long; I’ve got some clothes ready for him too, and intend to give him a black feather, and make him as good a downy-whistle as you can desire.”

“Ah, brother!” interposed Miss Alice, “that would have been all very well a short time ago, and it would have been delightful to see you with your henchman, and jellies, and downy-whistles—but ’tis too late now. Oh, brother! we are doomed to destruction. Copus will tell you what he has seen this very day.”

“Why, what has he seen?—a ghost? they are wery superstitious, and believe in the second sight.”

“Oh, first sight is quite enough for us. I saw them myself, though they were at such a distance, I confess, I took them for a flock of sheep.”

“Who?—what was it you saw?—speak, Copus.” Thus adjured, our travelled friend, with a face from which the expression of alarm had not yet entirely subsided, commenced his narrative.

“This morning, sir, when we first changed ’osses, I gets off the rumble, sir, and leaves Mariar by herself. I goes into the small house while the cattle was a-coming—a lonely place, sir, in the midst of a moor, sir—and says I to the landlady, says I, ‘here’s a fine day,’ says I.’

“‘Make the most of it,’ says she, ‘you bid fair never to see another.’

“‘You’re wery purlite,’ says I; ‘I don’t think I’m in a dying condition.’

“‘You carry your death-sentence at your breast,’ says she, in a hollow voice, like a drum with a hoarseness.

“‘What do you elude to,’ says I?—and looking at my breast, sir, I seed nothing in life but this here watch-ribbon as you gived me, of your own tartan, you know, sir.

“‘Why wear ye the badge of the doomed Ben-na-Groich?’ says she; ‘know you not that his web is spun?’

“‘There you’re misinformed,’ says I, ‘ma’am; they’re all done by machinery.’

“‘Fool,’ says she, quite in a passion, ‘you’ve put yourself under a ruined wall, and will be crushed to the dust by the tumble.’

“‘Wrong again,’ says I, ‘for master has had the whole building repaired.’

“‘Blind mole, you will take no warning; perhaps because you don’t believe—see there!’ And when I looked in to where she pointed, sure enough I sees ten or a dozen stout chaps all a-sharping of their swords upon great grinding-stones, at the other end of the house.

“‘What’s all them fellows arter?’ says I.

“‘Blood,’ says she.

“‘Blood and wounds!’ says I, ‘I never heared such a woman. ’Clect, at Oxford, hearing of an old Roman Catholic lady they called the Civil, as spoke in that ’ere fashion, and was a dealer in books and stationery, but, cuss me, if you doesn’t beat her hollow. Whose blood do you mean, ma’am?’

“‘His who calls himself Ben-na-Groich.’”

“Oh, brother Thomas, did you ever hear of the like?” shuddered Miss Alice.

“A witch,” said the gentleman thus appealed to, with a very unsuccessful effort to appear disdainful. “What more, Copus?—did she say anything else?”

“Lots more, but I’ve nearly forgotten it.”

“How long did this detain you?”

“Oh, he kept us waiting three or four hours,” interposed Miss Alice; “and when he came out, he couldn’t have been more unsteady if he had been a-drinking.”

“Yes, indeed, sir,” added Maria, “his manners has been wery extraordinary ever since; he has been either singing songs or sleeping the whole way here.”

“The interview was a very strange one. Did any one else see the ten or twelve men?” inquired the chief.

“I seed one of them, sir,” replied Maria—“a tall, handsome gentleman, in a green frock coat. He went towards a horse that was tied near a stack of fuel, just at the moment Copus came out.”

“Indeed? Did you see him, Copus?”

“Oh yes. I saw a figure something as she describes it. He is the surest sign, the wild woman said, of something awful; they calls him Kickan-drubb.”

“How strange!” repeated the chieftain, for the hundredth time—“a regular conspiracy, and nobody here to defend us. The old tiger down-stairs, Angus Mohr, would be the first to kill us if he could, and what is to become of us, Heaven only knows.”

“Better let the horses stay at the door, sir; the carriage may be useful,” suggested Copus.

“There’s no time to be lost, indeed,” replied the master; “but yet what would be the use of flying? We are safer here than on the road.”

“No, no; let us go, brother Ben—brother Thomas, I mean—for do you know that Fash-na-Cairn has vowed he’ll have your life?”

“Who the devil is Fash-na-Cairn? I never did him any harm.”

“But his clan has been opposed to Ben-na-Groich for hundreds of years. He’ll murder you—and me!—oh dear! oh dear! he’ll force me to be Mrs Fash-na-Cairn!” Here Miss Alice, overcome by her horrible imaginings, covered her face with her hands; but whether she wept or not history does not record.

“Will ye no let a poddy sleep, and be d—d till ye?” again screamed the shrill voice of Angus Mohr; “hoo mony mair o’ ye southron prutes is coming yammering to the door?”

No answer, apparently, was given to this inquiry, for it was renewed with bitterer tones than before.

“Fat’s a’ this o’t?—wi’ swords and targets, an’ the Stuart stripe in yer plaids. Are ye come to harry ta auld fat man? huigh! hurra! Cot, an Angus had a dirk himsell, he’d pit it up to the handle in ta fat cairl’s wame.”

While these words of encouragement or inquiry were issuing from the wrathful native, a hurry of steps was heard upon the stairs—the clank of steel, as if of the crossing of swords, sounded in the passage, and with a shout, Fash-na-Cairn! Fash-na-Cairn! the parlour door was burst open, and six wild figures in the full Highland costume rushed in upon the deliberations of the new chieftain and his household. One of the party seized the arm of Aunt Alice; another, with a flat-sided blow of his claymore, laid our heroic friend Copus quietly on the floor; a third took Jane Somers by the hand as she sat retired in a corner of the room, and kept guard over her during the whole of the scene; while the others placed themselves opposite the astonished Ben-na-Groich himself, and pointed their weapons at his throat without saying a word.

“What do you want, gentlemen?” said that individual, with a tremor in his voice that revealed the conflict within. “I’ll give you a cheque for as much as you require—fix your own price! What shall it be?”

“Revenge!” said a hollow voice, proceeding from the chief of the party. “I have you now in my power—the first time after a search of eight hundred years.”

“What have I done? I never did you a mischief; if I did, I’m willing to pay damages, assessed by your own surveyor.”

“Your ancestor, Fin of the crooked finger, stabbed my ancestor, Kenneth of the flat nose, as he dined with him in this hall in the reign of Fergus the First—give me back his blood.”

“Can’t, indeed—haven’t a drop of it, or any one else’s blood; but I will pay the worth of it—only spare my life.”

“Fash-na-Cairn may spare, but on one condition—you have a sister.”

“Oh no, indeed he hasn’t, sir,” said Miss Alice, “she died when she was quite a baby.”

“Speak, dog,” said the ruthless Fash-na-Cairn, kicking Copus as he lay on the carpet; “who is the sister of Ben-na-Groich?”

“That ’ere middle-aged lady with the red nose. That’s our Miss Alice.”

“She must be Fash-na-Cairn’s bride, or the wolf’s skin must cover Ben-na-Groich.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” sighed the disconsolate lady, “will nothing do but that?”

“Even that won’t save him—I see another maiden.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are quite welcome to Jane Somers,” said Miss Alice; “my brother will give his consent directly—won’t you, Thomas?”

“Say the word, and I give you the hand of friendship.”

“What word?” asked the sorely puzzled Ben-na-Groich; “I will say whatever is needful.”

“Does the maiden herself consent?—Bring hither the fair one of the hill.”

Jane Somers was brought forward by her guard.

“Now, Jane,” began the Chieftain, “this here gentleman, Mr Fash-na-Cairn, is anxious to marry some one of my family—are you disposed to save me from murder and robbery by giving him your hand?”

“To save you, my dear uncle, from anything unpleasant, there is no sacrifice I would not make.”

“There’s a dear, good girl,” cried the Chieftain, delighted. “Take her; you are very welcome; and when I get home, which will be in three days from this time, I will send you some marriage presents. If you have any fancy for this estate, you shall have it a bargain; in the mean time let the rest of us get into the carriage, and be off as fast as we can. Come, Copus, get up, you lazy hound—we must be off.”

“Off or not off, sir, I doesn’t budge a foot. I stays with my young missus.”

“Very well, only let us out of the house.” While preparations were making for a rapid retreat, one of the brigands went up to Jane Somers and whispered, “my carriage is waiting on the bridge. Lady Teysham, and the other ladies at my shooting-box, expect us every moment; so be under no alarm.”

Jane bowed her head and yielded to her destiny, and since that time has been as happy a specimen of the married life as is often to be met with. Ben-na-Groich, on finding out the hoax, was too much afraid of the ridicule of his friends to make it public; and to this hour, Aunt Alice tells the most wondrous tales of the lawlessness of the Highlands, and the blood-thirstiness and revenge characteristic of a Scottish Chieftain. “Only to think of people cherishing a resentment for nearly a thousand years, and only satisfying it at last by marriage or murder. Oh, Mrs Hobbins, never believe what people says when they talk to you about the foodle system—the starvation system would be a much better name for it, for the whole country is made of nothing but heath, and the gentlemen’s clothes is no covering from the cold; and besides all that, they are indelicate to a degree!”——

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

Footnote:

Transcriber’s Note:

Minor corrections have been made to correct obvious typesetters’ errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author’s word and intent.