Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XII Part 11

"Eh! What?" returned he, gradually uncoiling himself, till his little thick legs were stretched to their full length (shortness, I should say), and his sharp twinkling eyes stared full up in my face. "So it _is_! Give me your hand, my boy--who'd have thought it? How did you escape? Devil takes care of his own, eh?"

"So it seems, doctor," said I, laughing; "that accounts satisfactorily for _your_ appearance here."

"Ha, ha, ha! have me there--eh, Wentworth? Help me to take the stopper out of the bottle--that's a good fellow."

He raised himself on his elbow, turned his face to the sky, and held deep communion with _his_ pocket-companion; but, happening to cast his eyes upon _mine_, he started nimbly to his feet, and, edging close to my side, muttered, with great trepidation--

"Who's your friend, eh? Not a wrecker, I hope? Sad fellows those--cut-throats, and all that."

Having set the little gentleman's fears at rest on that score, we returned to the cottage, which was now crowded with survivors from the wreck, some dreadfully bruised, others only exhausted with cold and fatigue. We heard that several others had taken shelter in another cottage, about half-a-mile distant, and that a messenger had been despatched to a neighbouring town for medical a.s.sistance. It was found, on comparing notes, that only about fifty people were saved out of the crew of one hundred and twenty. Sad and silent were the greetings of the survivors; for the loud roaring of the wind, the rattling of the door and cas.e.m.e.nts, and the low, rumbling sound of the distant breakers, recalled but too forcibly the horrors of the scenes they had just witnessed, and the sad fate of their unfortunate shipmates. As soon as the little doctor was revived by the heat, and by a dose of the fisherman's restorative, he hastened to make himself useful in a professional way; and his little rosy cheeks and merry chuckling laugh had the effect of soon dispelling the gloom which hung over the party.

In a short time, we heard, in the intervals of the gale, the faint, distant sound of a horse's hoofs, galloping along the beach.

"There comes the young doctor, I'll take my 'davy," said the fisherman.

"Never knowed him let the gra.s.s grow under his horse's feet in time of need--blessings on his kind heart!" The door opened, and in walked the expected visiter. He was quite a youth in appearance, but tall, and of a most prepossessing exterior.

"I hope there has no serious accident happened, William."

"Serious enough, your honour," said the fisherman. "There's a fine ship stranded just below; many of the poor fellows on the beach are beyond the reach of your a.s.sistance; there is not so much as a broken bone here, however--nothing but wet clothes and bruises. But there's a lady in the other end of the house, doctor--you had better go to her first."

We were just going to knock at the door of Emily's room, when the fisherman's wife opened it, and on seeing me, exclaimed--

"Your wife has just wakened from a sound sleep, sir, and looks quite fresh and life-like."

I smiled at the good woman's mistake, which I did not see any occasion to rectify; but I followed the young doctor into the room. I saw in an instant that Emily had heard the woman's address to me; for as soon as her eye caught mine she blushed deeply, and averted her face. I almost flattered myself I heard a gentle sigh.

The young doctor, in the meantime, approached the bed, and was about respectfully to feel her pulse, when, all at once, to my great surprise, he exclaimed--

"Merciful Heaven! Emily, dear Emily!" And, without the slightest ceremony, he printed kiss after kiss upon her fair cheek. My first impulse was to spring forward to chastise him for his insolence; but I felt my limbs tremble under me. I staggered against the wall, hid my face in my hands, and absolutely groaned with anguish of spirit. There was an end to all my bright visions; I had flattered myself that the cup of happiness was just at my lips, and now it seemed to be dashed from them for ever. I had saved Emily only for the arms of a happy rival!

Such were the thoughts that flashed through my mind with the rapidity of lightning; and with them visions of ropes, and razors, and pistols. Two words of Emily dispelled them, and raised me again from the depths of despair into the seventh heaven of hope and happiness. These cabalistic words were--"Dear brother!" The young doctor now turned round to me, and said, hesitatingly--

"And this gentleman, Emily? Pray introduce me to him."

"Mr Wentworth, allow me to introduce to your notice and friendship, my brother, Edward Walford."

"Wentworth!" said young Walford; "there is surely some mistake here, Emily--I thought the woman called this gentleman your husband!"

"So she did, Edward," replied she, blushing; "but it was a mistake on her part, and not a surprising one. I am more astonished at _your_ ignorance of my affairs than at hers. You cannot have received my two last letters from the Cape."

She then informed him of the events which had taken place since she left Madras; spoke kindly and affectionately of her late husband, who, she said, had always behaved like a tender and considerate father to her; and expressed the warmest grat.i.tude to him for his liberal provision for her future welfare. She hinted delicately that, though she grieved for his loss as that of a dear and valued friend, her feelings towards him had been chiefly those of grat.i.tude and esteem. She gave a rapid and graphic sketch of the voyage, and ended with an account of the immediately preceding scenes of its fatal termination. Her cheek grew pale, and her voice trembled, as she detailed the horrors of the wreck.

"Although I had thought myself perfectly resigned," she said, "to what appeared to be my inevitable fate, yet, when that awful sea tore me away from the deck, I felt as if my last earthly hope was wrested from me; that moment, s.n.a.t.c.hed as it were from the confines of a violent and awful death, was crowded with the recollections of a lifetime, which flashed, with lightning-like rapidity, across my memory. I thought of all I had done and suffered, and then of the extinction of my fond hopes of meeting and benefiting those dearest to my heart. There was agony in the thought--I screamed, and became unconscious. The cold dashing of the sea, while it half-drowned, revived me from my fit. I was too faint and frightened to speak, but I was aware that Mr. Wentworth was beside me; I felt that I was saved, and I relapsed into unconsciousness. To this gentleman," she said turning her tearful eyes towards me, "am I indebted, under Heaven, for my escape from a watery grave. Oh, Mr. Wentworth! how can I ever adequately prove my grat.i.tude to you?"

"You owe me none," replied I. "The mere selfish impulses of our nature prompt us to endeavour to save what we value most. I _thought_ I loved you; but it was not till I saw you struggling in the waves that I knew how _very_ dear you were to my heart. Pardon my abruptness; if you think it presumption in a comparative stranger so _soon_ to talk of love, I will wait months, years--only speak one word, Emily--say, may I hope?"

She was silent, but her eyes filled with tears, and she looked beseechingly at her brother.

"I see how it is, Mr. Wentworth," said the doctor, laughing; "my sister deputes me to act as her interpreter. Her eyes say to you, as plain as they can speak (though you do not seem to understand their language), 'You saved my _life_--who has a better claim upon my hand and heart?' Am I right, Emily?" said he, putting her small fair hand into mine.

She made no reply, but gently returned the pressure of my hand, and looked up in my face with such a sweet smile, that I could not resist the temptation to imprint the first fond seal of love upon her glowing cheek.

"Come, Emily," said young Walford, "your _brother_ has given you to Mr.

Wentworth, and now your _doctor_ must take care of you for him. You are too weak yet to bear more excitement; we will leave you to your repose." He then took my arm, and bidding Emily adieu, we went into the other room, where we found the most exhausted of the party stretched on the floor in various att.i.tudes, giving audible notice that their lungs had not been materially injured by their late submersion; while the shuddering moans and convulsive starts of some of the number showed that fancy was busy within them, acting over again the dreadful scenes of the night.

When day had begun to break, the whole party hastened out to the beach.

Not a vestige remained of our unfortunate ship: the hull was completely broken up, and the sh.o.r.e was strewed for miles with portions of the wreck. We found Captain Darby, Wildman, and the survivors who had taken refuge in the other cottage, busily employed in the sad duty of collecting the dead bodies of their less fortunate shipmates. Young Walford and I had a long and interesting conversation together, in the course of which he told me that his mother and the rest of the family were living in the neighbouring town, in which he was practising as surgeon. He was obliged to return home immediately, he said, to attend to his professional avocations; and, leaving me to apologise to his sister when she awoke, he promised either to come or send for her as soon as possible. I returned to the cottage. Emily was sleeping, and remained for three or four hours in a sound slumber, from which she had only just awakened, when a post-chaise drove up to the door, a handsome middle-aged lady stepped out, and in a moment Emily was in the arms of her mother. For some time they embraced each other in silence; but their lips were moving, and the tears were streaming down their cheeks.

"Dear, dear mother!" at last sobbed Emily.

"Blessings on my darling!" replied she, holding Emily from her, and then hugging her to her heart; "let me look again on thy sweet face, my child!" she continued, gazing earnestly and affectionately at her, and then murmuring, "Oh, if I had lost you, Emily!" she again burst into an agony of tears. At last recollecting herself, she exclaimed, "Edward has told me all--where is _he_--where is the gallant man who saved your life?"

"This is Mr Wentworth," said Emily.

Mrs Walford took my hand in both hers, and pressed it to her heart, and, with a broken and trembling voice, she exclaimed--

"The blessing of a widowed mother be upon you, sir. You have saved my grey hairs from going down in sorrow to the grave."

I was greatly affected by her warm expressions of grat.i.tude, and by the almost maternal cordiality with which she urged me to accompany them home. This invitation, it may be readily supposed, I was not at all unwilling to avail myself of; and, as none of the party were enc.u.mbered with baggage, nothing having been saved from the wreck, we soon left the cottage, carrying with us the good wishes and blessings of its inmates, whom Mrs Walford had most liberally rewarded for their hospitality.

Three months afterwards, Emily Stacely became my wife; and, as I said before, sir, I owe the greatest blessing of my life to a storm and its consequences.

The steamboat soon afterwards entered the Mersey; and, when we parted on the quay at Liverpool, it was with mutual regret, and with a promise to renew our acquaintance as soon as possible. I have since had reason, like Mr Wentworth, to bless a "storm and its consequences;" for the next greatest blessing to a good wife is a good friend, and such he has ever proved himself to be, since our "stormy" meeting in the steamboat.

THE HEIR OF INSHANNOCK.

The ill-fated struggle of the partisans of the House of Stuart, in the year 1745, terminated, as our readers know, in the total ruin of almost all who were engaged in that unfortunate rebellion. The scaffold was deluged with the n.o.blest blood in Scotland; and even those who were so fortunate as to escape the axe of the executioner, became penniless wanderers in a foreign land, meeting with little sympathy, and still less relief.

Amongst those who preferred the risk of hanging in their own country, to the certainty of starvation in a foreign one, was Reginald, or, as he was usually called, Ra.n.a.ld Grahame of Inshannock--a gentleman who was distantly connected with the Viscounts of Dundee. His estates were extensive, although his rental was small. He resided in an old building called the Tower of Gloom, which stood on a ridge of a terrific defile overhanging Loch Lomond.

Great rewards were offered for his apprehension by the Duke of Argyle, who entertained towards him a very hostile feeling, not founded in any patriotic desire to put down a rebel, but from an old grudge, either real or imaginary, which the great M'Callum Mor was not disposed to stomach. Hitherto, every effort to capture Reginald had been fruitless; for, secure in the devoted attachment of his tenantry, and the difficulty of an approach to the tower, he laughed at the threats of the chief of the Campbells, although backed by formidable government proclamations. It was to this security that Reginald became a victim. In his earlier years he had been intimate with Donald Campbell of Dungyle, who, although the nominal proprietor of these lands, derived nothing from them, as they were burdened by what is called, in Scottish law-language, a wadset. Now, Donald found it somewhat inconvenient to live upon nothing, or next to it; and he thought it no bad speculation to exchange his nominal estate for a real one, by handing his friend Reginald over to the tender mercies of the ministers of George II.; and, in return, quietly taking his place in the Tower of Gloom.

Having thus made up his mind on the propriety of bettering his condition, and having reconciled his conscience to the betrayal of his friend, by a.s.suming that, as Reginald would, one day or other, be infallibly taken prisoner and executed, it was much better, although it might shorten his life a few weeks or months, that a friend rather than a stranger should get whatever recompense was to be got. Indeed, if any scruples still lurked in his breast, his duties as a citizen at once put an end to them, for, as he said, "a true patriot must sacrifice every private feeling to the public good." Influenced by these mixed considerations, he applied for, and obtained a promise, if he should be able to surprise the Tower of Gloom and its proprietor, that he would be rewarded with a gift of the forfeited estate of Inshannock.

Having made every arrangement, in the event of success, Donald Campbell, with a body of retainers, proceeded to the Tower of Gloom. Hiding his followers in a copse of wood in the immediate vicinity, Donald hastened to the abode of his friend, and, claiming his hospitality, was readily admitted as an inmate. The result may be easily antic.i.p.ated: Reginald found himself a prisoner, for the first time in his life. Resolved rather to perish than surrender, the unfortunate laird ran to an apartment overlooking the loch, and leaped from the window into the water. His false friend, seeing his desperate efforts, threw him a rope as if in kindness, to support him, while a boat came near.

"That rope was meant for my neck, and I leave it for a traitor's," were the last words that came from the lips of the betrayed one.

The pangs of remorse penetrated the heart of the insidious Campbell. He leaped himself into a boat, held out an oar toward his drowning friend, with real oaths of fidelity; but Reginald pushed it from him, and abandoned himself to death. The waters of the lake are singularly transparent near the rock on which the Tower of Gloom was perched; and Campbell beheld his victim gradually sinking, till he seemed to lie among the broad weeds under the waters. Once, only once, he saw, or thought he saw, him lift his hand as if to reach his; and that dying hand never left his remembrance.

Campbell having thus successfully accomplished the enterprise he had projected, applied for and obtained the reward he had stipulated for. He received a grant of the lands of Inshannock; and the long-wished-for Tower of Gloom came into his hands, together with the sum of money offered for the capture or death of Reginald. So far, therefore, as worldly matters went, Donald Campbell, Esq. of Inshannock, had no cause to complain. But he was far from happy, for he could not but reproach himself with the death of one who, trusting to his honour, had been basely betrayed; and those reasons of expediency which had satisfied him when he contemplated the deed, after its accomplishment lost all their previous efficacy. He had another and separate cause of distress; his only son, Roderick, a promising youth, above sixteen years of age, had suddenly disappeared in the year 1745, and no traces of him whatever could be found. Every effort had been made to discover his fate, but in vain; thus, although Donald Campbell was, apparently, a man of opulence, he was in reality a much less happy man than when he lived from hand to mouth, and knew not one day where he was to look for provision for the next.

Although this enterprise had been successful, Campbell did not reap all the fruits of his perfidy; for some of the remote portions of the Highland estate which he had procured a gift of from the crown, were altogether unproductive, the tenants refusing to recognise any other chief than the son of the deceased proprietor. William Grahame was, at the time of his father's death, a boy of fifteen. He had been removed from the Tower of Gloom by his mother's relations, about the time of the suppression of the rebellion, and placed by them in the Marischal College in the city of Aberdeen.

The lad, who had no great taste for cla.s.sical literature, was by no means comfortable, and longed to return to the purple heath of his native hills. So long as his father lived, William behaved himself with considerable propriety, and made some progress in his studies; but no sooner did the tidings arrive of the untimely fate of the ill-starred Reginald, than his son disappeared from the university, and the anxious search of his friends was unable to obtain any traces of his flight.

Some time afterwards, a body was found in the river Dee, in a state of great decomposition, which generally was supposed to be that of the young man, and was duly interred as the corpse of the last Grahame of Inshannock.