Rob Roy

by Walter Scott

  ‘Kinsman,’ she said, ‘you are welcome—and you too, stranger,’ she added, releasing my alarmed companion, who instinctively drew back and settled his wig, and addressing herself to me,—‘You also are welcome. You came,’ she added, ‘to our unhappy country, when our bloods were chafed, and our hands were red. Excuse the rudeness that gave you a rough welcome, and lay it upon the evil times, and not upon us.’ All this was said with the manners of a princess, and in the tone and style of a court. Nor was there the least tincture of that vulgarity, which we naturally attach to the Lowland Scottish. There was a strong provincial accentuation, but, otherwise, the language rendered by Helen MacGregor, out of the native and poetical Gaelic, into English, which she had acquired as we do learned tongues, but had probably never heard applied to the mean purposes of ordinary life, was graceful, flowing, and declamatory. Her husband, who had in his time played many parts, used a much less elevated and emphatic dialect,—but even his language rose in purity of expression, as you may have remarked, if I have been accurate in recording it, when the affairs which he discussed were of an agitating and important nature; and it appears to me in his case, and in that of some other Highlanders whom I have known, that, when familiar and facetious, they used the Lowland Scottish dialect—when serious and impassioned, their thoughts arranged themselves in the idiom of their native language; and in the latter case, as they uttered the corresponding ideas in English, the expression sounded wild, elevated, and poetical. In fact, the language of passion is almost always pure as well as vehement, and it is no uncommon thing to hear a Scotchman, when overwhelmed by a countryman with a tone of bitter and fluent upbraiding, reply by way of taunt to his adversary, ‘You have gotten to your English.’

  Be this as it may, the wife of MacGregor invited us to a refreshment spread out on the grass, which abounded with all the good things their mountains could offer, but was clouded by the dark and undisturbed gravity which sat on the brow of our hostess, as well as by our deep and anxious recollection of what had taken place on the preceding day. It was in vain that the leader exerted himself to excite mirth. A chill hung over our minds as if the feast had been funereal; and every bosom felt light when it was ended.

  ‘Adieu, cousin,’ she said to Mr. Jarvie, as we rose from the entertainment; ‘the best wish Helen MacGregor can give to a friend is, that he may see her no more.’

  The Bailie struggled to answer, probably with some commonplace maxim of morality; but the calm and melancholy sternness of her countenance bore down and disconcerted the mechanical and formal importance of the magistrate. He coughed,—hemmed,—bowed,—and was silent. ‘For you, stranger,’ she said, ‘I have a token, from one whom you can never——’

  ‘Helen,’ interrupted MacGregor, in a loud and stern voice, ‘what means this?—have you forgotten the charge?’

  ‘MacGregor,’ she replied, ‘I have forgotten nought that is fitting for me to remember. It is not such hands as these,’ and she stretched forth her long, sinewy, and bare arm, ‘that are fitting to convey love-tokens, were the gift connected with aught but misery.—Young man,’ she said, presenting me with a ring, which I well remembered as one of the few ornaments that Miss Vernon sometimes wore, ‘this comes from one whom you will never see more. If it is a joyless token, it is well fitted to pass through the hands of one to whom joy can never be known. Her last words were—Let him forget me for ever.’

  ‘And can she,’ I said, almost without being conscious that I spoke, ‘suppose that is possible?’

  ‘All may be forgotten,’ said the extraordinary female who addressed me,—‘all—but the sense of dishonour, and the desire of vengeance.’

  ‘seid suas!’ 1cried the MacGregor, stamping with impatience. The bagpipes sounded, and, with their thrilling and jarring tones, cut short our conference. Our leave of our hostess was taken by silent gestures; and we resumed our journey, with an additional proof on my part, that I was beloved by Diana, and was separated from her for ever.

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  Farewell to the land where the clouds love to rest,

  Like the shroud of the dead, on the mountain’s cold breast;

  To the cataract’s roar where the eagles reply,

  And the lake her lone bosom expands to the sky.

  OUR route lay through a dreary, yet romantic country, which the distress of my own mind prevented me from remarking particularly, and which, therefore, I will not attempt to describe. The lofty peak of Ben Lomond, here the predominant monarch of the mountains, lay on our right hand, and served as a striking land-mark. I was not awakened from my apathy, until, after a long and toilsome walk, we emerged through a pass in the hills, and Loch Lomond opened before us. I will spare you the attempt to describe what you would hardly comprehend without going to see it. But certainly this noble lake, boasting innumerable beautiful islands, of every varying form and outline which fancy can frame,—its northern extremity narrowing until it is lost among dusky and retreating mountains,— while, gradually widening as it extends to the southward, it spreads its base around the indentures and promontories of a fair and fertile land, affords one of the most surprising, beautiful, and sublime spectacles in nature. The eastern side, peculiarly rough and rugged, was at this time the chief seat of MacGregor and his clan, to curb whom a small garrison had been stationed in a central position betwixt Loch Lomond and another lake. The extreme strength of the country, however, with the numerous passes, marshes caverns, and other places of concealment or defence, made the establishment of this little fort seem rather an acknowledgment of the danger, than an effectual means of securing against it.

  On more than one occasion, as well as on that which I witnessed, the garrison suffered from the adventurous spirit of the outlaw and his followers. These advantages were never sullied by ferocity when he himself was in command; for, equally good-tempered and sagacious, he understood well the danger of incurring unnecessary odium. I learnt with pleasure that he had caused the captives of the preceding day to be liberated in safety; and many traits of mercy, and even generosity, are recorded of this remarkable man on similar occasions.

  A boat waited for us in a creek beneath a huge rock, manned by four lusty Highland rowers; and our host took leave of us with great cordiality, and even affection. Betwixt him and Mr Jarvie, indeed, there seemed to exist a degree of mutual regard, which formed a strong contrast to their different occupations and habits. After kissing each other very lovingly, and when they were just in the act of parting, the Bailie, in the fulness of his heart, and with a faltering voice, assured his kinsman, ‘that if ever an hundred pund or even twa hundred, would put him or his family in a settled way, he need but just send a line to the Saut-Market;’ and Rob, grasping his basket-hilt with one hand, and shaking Mr. Jarvie’s heartily with the other, protested, ‘that if ever any body should affront his kinsman, an he would but let him ken, he would stow his lugs out of his head, were he the best man in Glasgow.’

  With these assurances of mutual aid and continued goodwill, we bore away from the shore, and took our course for the south-western angle of the lake, where it gives birth to the river Leven. Rob Roy remained for some time standing on the rock from beneath which we had departed, conspicuous by his long gun, waving tartans, and the single plume in his cap, which in those days denoted the Highland gentleman and soldier; although I observe the present military taste has decorated the Highland bonnet with a quantity of black plumage, resembling that which is borne before funerals. At length, as the distance increased between us, we saw him turn and go slowly up the hill, followed by his immediate attendants or bodyguard.

  We performed our voyage for a long time in silence, interrupted only by the Gaelic chant which one of the rowers sung in low irregular measure, rising occasionally into a wild chorus, in which the others joined.

  My own thoughts were sad enough; yet I felt something soothing in the magnificent scenery with which I was surrounded; and thought, in the enthusiasm of the moment, that had my faith be
en that of Rome, I could have consented to live and die a lonely hermit in one of the romantic and beautiful islands amongst which our boat glided.

  The Bailie had also his speculations, but they were somewhat of a different complexion; as I found when, after about an hour’s silence, during which he had been mentally engaged in the calculations necessary, he undertook to prove the possibility of draining the lake, and ‘giving to plough and harrow many hundred, ay, many a thousand acres, from whilk no man could get earthly gude e’e now, unless ir were a gedd,1 or a dish of perch now and then.’

  Amidst a long discussion, which he ‘crammed into mine ear against the stomach of my sense,’ I only remember, that it was part of his project to preserve a portion of the lake just deep enough and broad enough for the purposes of water-carriage, so that coal-barges and gabbards should pass as easily between Dumbarton and Glenfalloch as between Glasgow and Greenock.

  At length we neared our distant place of landing, adjoining to the ruins of an ancient castle, and just where the lake discharges its superfluous waters into the Leven. There we found Dougal with the horses. The Bailie had formed a plan with respect to ‘the creature,’ as well as upon the draining of the lake; and, perhaps, in both cases, with more regard to the utility than to the practical possibility of his scheme. ‘Dougal,’ he said, ‘ye are a kindly creature, and hae the sense and feeling o’ what is due to your betters—and I’m e’en wae for you, Dougal, for it canna be but that in the We ye lead you suld get a Jeddart cast ae day, suner or later. I trust, considering my services as a magistrate, and my father the deacon’s afore me, I hae interest eneugh in the council to gar them wink a wee at a waur faut than yours. Sae I hae been thinking that if ye will gang back to Glasgow wi’ us, being a strong-backit creature, ye might be employed in the warehouse till something better suld cast up.’

  ‘Her nainsell muckle obliged till the Bailie’s honour,’ replied Dougal; ‘but teil be in her shanks fan she gangs on a causeway’d street, unless she be drawn up the Gallowgate wi’ tows, as she was before.’

  In fact, I afterwards learned that Dougal had originally come to Glasgow as a prisoner, from being concerned in some depredation, but had somehow found such favour in the eyes of the jailor, that, with overweening confidence, he had retained him in his service as one of the turnkeys; a task which Dougal had discharged with sufficient fidelity, so far as was known, until overcome by his clannish prejudices on the unexpected appearance of his old leader.

  Astonished at receiving so round a refusal to so favourable an offer, the Bailie, turning to me, observed that the ‘creature was a natural-born idiot.’ I testified my own gratitude in a way which Dougal much better relished, by slipping a couple of guineas into his hand. He no sooner felt the touch of the gold, than he sprung twice or thrice from the earth with the agility of a wild buck, flinging out first one heel and then another, in a manner which would have astonished a French dancing-master. He ran to the boatmen to show them the prize, and a small gratuity made them take part in his raptures. He then, to use a favourite expression of the dramatic John Bunyan, ‘went on his way, and I saw him no more.’

  The Bailie and I mounted our horses, and proceeded on the road to Glasgow. When we had lost the view of the lake, and its superb amphitheatre of mountains, I could not help expressing with enthusiasm, my sense of its natural beauties, although I was conscious that Mr. Jarvie was a very uncongenial spirit to communicate with on such a subject.

  ‘Ye are a young gentleman,’ he replied, ‘and an Englishman, and a’ this may be very fine to you; but for me, wha am a plain man, and ken something o’ the different values of land, I wadna gie the finest sight we hae seen in the Hielands, for the first keek o’ the Gorbals o’ Glasgow; and if I were ance there, it suldna be every fule’s errand, begging your pardon, Mr. Francis, that suld take me out o’ sight o’ Saint Mungo’s steeple again!’

  The honest man had his wish; for, by dint of travelling very late, we arrived at his own house that night, or rather on the succeeding morning. Having seen my worthy fellow-traveller safely consigned to the charge of the considerate and officious Maude, I proceeded to Mrs. Flyter’s, in whose house, even at this unwonted hour, light was still burning. The door was opened by no less a person than Andrew Fairservice himself, who, upon the first sound of my voice, set up a loud shout of joyful recognition, and without uttering a syllable, ran up stairs towards a parlour on the second floor, from the windows of which the light proceeded. Justly conceiving that he went to announce my return to the anxious Owen, I followed him upon the foot. Owen was not alone,—there was another in the apartment, —it was my father.

  The first impulse was to preserve the dignity of his usual equanimity,—‘Francis, I am glad to see you.’—The next was to embrace me tenderly,— ‘My dear—dear son!’— Owen secured one of my hands, and wetted it with his tears, while he joined in gratulating my return. These are scenes which address themselves to the eye and to the heart, rather than to the ear.—My old eye-lids still moisten at the recollection of our meeting; but your kind and affectionate feelings can well imagine what I should find it impossible to describe.

  When the tumult of our joy was over, I learnt that my father had arrived from Holland shortly after Owen had set off for Scotland. Determined and rapid in all his movements, he only stopped to provide the means of discharging the obligations incumbent on his house. By his extensive resources, with funds enlarged, and credit fortified, by eminent success in his continental speculation, he easily accomplished what perhaps his absence alone rendered difficult, and set out for Scotland to exact justice from Rashleigh Osbaldistone, as well as to put order to his affairs in that country. My father’s arrival in full credit, and with ample means of supporting his engagements honourably, as well as benefitting his correspondents in future, was a stunning blow to MacVittie and Company, who had conceived his star set forever. Highly incensed at the usage his confidential clerk and agent had received at their hands, Mr. Osbaldistone refused every tender of apology and accommodation; and, having settled the balance of their account, announced to them, that, with all its numerous contingent advantages, that leaf of their ledger was closed for ever.

  While he enjoyed this triumph over false friends, he was not a little alarmed on my account. Owen, good man, had not supposed it possible that a journey of fifty or sixty miles, which may be made with so much ease and safety in any direction from London, could be attended with any particular danger. But he caught alarm, by sympathy, from my father, to whom the country, and the lawless character of its inhabitants, were better known.

  These apprehensions were raised to agony, when, a few hours before I arrived, Andrew Fairservice made his appearance, with a dismal and exaggerated account of the uncertain state in which he had left me. The nobleman with whose troops he had been a sort of prisoner, had, after examination, not only dismissed him, but furnished him with the means of returning rapidly to Glasgow, in order to announce to my friends my precarious and unpleasant situation.

  Andrew was one of those persons who have no objection to the sort of temporary attention and woful importance which attaches itself to the bearer of bad tidings, and had therefore by no means smoothed down his tale in the telling, especially as the rich London merchant himself proved unexpectedly one of the auditors. He went at great length into an account of the dangers I had escaped, chiefly, as he insinuated, by means of his own experience, exertion, and sagacity.

  ‘What was to come of me now, when my better angel, in his (Andrew’s) person, was removed from my side, it was,’ he said, ‘sad and sair to conjecture; that the Bailie was nae better than just naebody at a pinch, or something waur, for he was a conceited body—and Andrew hated conceit—but certainly atween the pistols and the carabines of the troopers, that rappit aff the tane after the tother as fast as hail, and the dirks and claymores o’ the Hielanders, and the deep waters and weils o’ the Avondow, it was to be thought there wad be a puir account of the young gentleman.’
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  This statement would have driven Owen to despair, had he been alone and unsupported; but my father’s perfect knowledge of mankind enabled him easily to appreciate the character of Andrew, and the real amount of his intelligence. Stripped of all exaggeration, however, it was alarming enough to a parent. He determined to set out in person to obtain my liberty, by ransom or negotiation, and was busied with Owen till a late hour, in order to get through some necessary correspondence, and devolve on the latter some business which should be transacted during his absence; and thus it chanced that I found them watchers.

  It was late ere we separated to rest, and, too impatient long to endure repose, I was stirring early the next morning. Andrew gave his attendance at my levee, as in duty bound, and, instead of the scarecrow figure to which he had been reduced at Aberfoil, now appeared in the attire of an under-undertaker, a goodly suit, namely, of the deepest mourning. It was not till after one or two queries, which the rascal affected as long as he could to misunderstand, that I found out he ‘had thought it but decent to put on mourning, on account of my inexpressible loss; and as the broker at whose shop he had equipped himself, declined to receive the goods again, and as his own garments had been destroyed or carried off in my honour’s service, doubtless, I and my honourable father, whom Providence had blessed wi’ the means wadna suffer a puir lad to sit down wi’ the loss; a stand o’ claes was nae great matter to an Osbaldistone, (be praised for’t!) especially to an auld and attached servant o’ the house.’