第 十九 章 · THE HOUSE OF FEAR

. THE HOUSE OF FEAR

Night fell as we were walking, and the clouds, which had broken up in

the afternoon, settled in and thickened, so that it fell, for the

season of the year, extremely dark. The way we went was over rough

mountainsides; and though Alan pushed on with an assured manner, I could

by no means see how he directed himself.

At last, about half-past ten of the clock, we came to the top of a brae,

and saw lights below us. It seemed a house door stood open and let out a

beam of fire and candle-light; and all round the house and steading

five or six persons were moving hurriedly about, each carrying a lighted

brand.

“James must have tint his wits,” said Alan. “If this was the soldiers

instead of you and me, he would be in a bonny mess. But I dare say he’ll

have a sentry on the road, and he would ken well enough no soldiers

would find the way that we came.”

Hereupon he whistled three times, in a particular manner. It was strange

to see how, at the first sound of it, all the moving torches came to

a stand, as if the bearers were affrighted; and how, at the third, the

bustle began again as before.

Having thus set folks’ minds at rest, we came down the brae, and were

met at the yard gate (for this place was like a well-doing farm) by

a tall, handsome man of more than fifty, who cried out to Alan in the

Gaelic.

“James Stewart,” said Alan, “I will ask ye to speak in Scotch, for here

is a young gentleman with me that has nane of the other. This is him,”

he added, putting his arm through mine, “a young gentleman of the

Lowlands, and a laird in his country too, but I am thinking it will be

the better for his health if we give his name the go-by.”

James of the Glens turned to me for a moment, and greeted me courteously

enough; the next he had turned to Alan.

“This has been a dreadful accident,” he cried. “It will bring trouble on

the country.” And he wrung his hands.

“Hoots!” said Alan, “ye must take the sour with the sweet, man. Colin

Roy is dead, and be thankful for that!”

“Ay” said James, “and by my troth, I wish he was alive again! It’s all

very fine to blow and boast beforehand; but now it’s done, Alan; and

who’s to bear the wyte[21] of it? The accident fell out in Appin--mind ye

that, Alan; it’s Appin that must pay; and I am a man that has a family.”

[21] Blame.

While this was going on I looked about me at the servants. Some were on

ladders, digging in the thatch of the house or the farm buildings,

from which they brought out guns, swords, and different weapons of

war; others carried them away; and by the sound of mattock blows from

somewhere farther down the brae, I suppose they buried them. Though they

were all so busy, there prevailed no kind of order in their efforts; men

struggled together for the same gun and ran into each other with their

burning torches; and James was continually turning about from his talk

with Alan, to cry out orders which were apparently never understood. The

faces in the torchlight were like those of people overborne with hurry

and panic; and though none spoke above his breath, their speech sounded

both anxious and angry.

It was about this time that a lassie came out of the house carrying

a pack or bundle; and it has often made me smile to think how Alan’s

instinct awoke at the mere sight of it.

“What’s that the lassie has?” he asked.

“We’re just setting the house in order, Alan,” said James, in his

frightened and somewhat fawning way. “They’ll search Appin with candles,

and we must have all things straight. We’re digging the bit guns and

swords into the moss, ye see; and these, I am thinking, will be your ain

French clothes. We’ll be to bury them, I believe.”

“Bury my French clothes!” cried Alan. “Troth, no!” And he laid hold upon

the packet and retired into the barn to shift himself, recommending me

in the meanwhile to his kinsman.

James carried me accordingly into the kitchen, and sat down with me at

table, smiling and talking at first in a very hospitable manner. But

presently the gloom returned upon him; he sat frowning and biting his

fingers; only remembered me from time to time; and then gave me but a

word or two and a poor smile, and back into his private terrors. His

wife sat by the fire and wept, with her face in her hands; his eldest

son was crouched upon the floor, running over a great mass of papers and

now and again setting one alight and burning it to the bitter end; all

the while a servant lass with a red face was rummaging about the room,

in a blind hurry of fear, and whimpering as she went; and every now and

again one of the men would thrust in his face from the yard, and cry for

orders.

At last James could keep his seat no longer, and begged my permission to

be so unmannerly as walk about. “I am but poor company altogether, sir,”

says he, “but I can think of nothing but this dreadful accident, and the

trouble it is like to bring upon quite innocent persons.”

A little after he observed his son burning a paper which he thought

should have been kept; and at that his excitement burst out so that it

was painful to witness. He struck the lad repeatedly.

“Are you gone gyte?”[22] he cried. “Do you wish to hang your father?” and

forgetful of my presence, carried on at him a long time together in the

Gaelic, the young man answering nothing; only the wife, at the name of

hanging, throwing her apron over her face and sobbing out louder than

before.

[22] Mad.

This was all wretched for a stranger like myself to hear and see; and

I was right glad when Alan returned, looking like himself in his fine

French clothes, though (to be sure) they were now grown almost too

battered and withered to deserve the name of fine. I was then taken out

in my turn by another of the sons, and given that change of clothing of

which I had stood so long in need, and a pair of Highland brogues made

of deer-leather, rather strange at first, but after a little practice

very easy to the feet.

By the time I came back Alan must have told his story; for it seemed

understood that I was to fly with him, and they were all busy upon our

equipment. They gave us each a sword and pistols, though I professed my

inability to use the former; and with these, and some ammunition, a bag

of oatmeal, an iron pan, and a bottle of right French brandy, we were

ready for the heather. Money, indeed, was lacking. I had about two

guineas left; Alan’s belt having been despatched by another hand, that

trusty messenger had no more than seventeen-pence to his whole fortune;

and as for James, it appears he had brought himself so low with journeys

to Edinburgh and legal expenses on behalf of the tenants, that he could

only scrape together three-and-five-pence-halfpenny, the most of it in

coppers.

“This’ll no do,” said Alan.

“Ye must find a safe bit somewhere near by,” said James, “and get word

sent to me. Ye see, ye’ll have to get this business prettily off, Alan.

This is no time to be stayed for a guinea or two. They’re sure to get

wind of ye, sure to seek ye, and by my way of it, sure to lay on ye the

wyte of this day’s accident. If it falls on you, it falls on me that am

your near kinsman and harboured ye while ye were in the country. And if

it comes on me----” he paused, and bit his fingers, with a white face.

“It would be a painful thing for our friends if I was to hang,” said he.

“It would be an ill day for Appin,” says Alan.

“It’s a day that sticks in my throat,” said James. “O man, man, man--man

Alan! you and me have spoken like two fools!” he cried, striking his

hand upon the wall so that the house rang again.

“Well, and that’s true, too,” said Alan; “and my friend from the

Lowlands here” (nodding at me) “gave me a good word upon that head, if I

would only have listened to him.”

“But see here,” said James, returning to his former manner, “if they lay

me by the heels, Alan, it’s then that you’ll be needing the money. For

with all that I have said and that you have said, it will look very

black against the two of us; do ye mark that? Well, follow me out, and

ye’ll, I’ll see that I’ll have to get a paper out against ye mysel’;

have to offer a reward for ye; ay, will I! It’s a sore thing to do

between such near friends; but if I get the dirdum[23] of this dreadful

accident, I’ll have to fend for myself, man. Do ye see that?”

[23] Blame.

He spoke with a pleading earnestness, taking Alan by the breast of the

coat.

“Ay” said Alan, “I see that.”

“And ye’ll have to be clear of the country, Alan--ay, and clear of

Scotland--you and your friend from the Lowlands, too. For I’ll have to

paper your friend from the Lowlands. Ye see that, Alan--say that ye see

that!”

I thought Alan flushed a bit. “This is unco hard on me that brought him

here, James,” said he, throwing his head back. “It’s like making me a

traitor!”

“Now, Alan, man!” cried James. “Look things in the face! He’ll be

papered anyway; Mungo Campbell’ll be sure to paper him; what matters

if I paper him too? And then, Alan, I am a man that has a family.” And

then, after a little pause on both sides, “And, Alan, it’ll be a jury of

Campbells,” said he.

“There’s one thing,” said Alan, musingly, “that naebody kens his name.”

“Nor yet they shallnae, Alan! There’s my hand on that,” cried James, for

all the world as if he had really known my name and was foregoing some

advantage. “But just the habit he was in, and what he looked like, and

his age, and the like? I couldnae well do less.”

“I wonder at your father’s son,” cried Alan, sternly. “Would ye sell the

lad with a gift? Would ye change his clothes and then betray him?”

“No, no, Alan,” said James. “No, no: the habit he took off--the habit

Mungo saw him in.” But I thought he seemed crestfallen; indeed, he was

clutching at every straw, and all the time, I dare say, saw the faces of

his hereditary foes on the bench, and in the jury-box, and the gallows

in the background.

“Well, sir,” says Alan, turning to me, “what say ye to that? Ye are here

under the safeguard of my honour; and it’s my part to see nothing done

but what shall please you.”

“I have but one word to say,” said I; “for to all this dispute I am a

perfect stranger. But the plain common-sense is to set the blame where

it belongs, and that is on the man who fired the shot. Paper him, as ye

call it, set the hunt on him; and let honest, innocent folk show their

faces in safety.” But at this both Alan and James cried out in horror;

bidding me hold my tongue, for that was not to be thought of; and asking

me what the Camerons would think? (which confirmed me, it must have been

a Cameron from Mamore that did the act) and if I did not see that the

lad might be caught? “Ye havenae surely thought of that?” said they,

with such innocent earnestness, that my hands dropped at my side and I

despaired of argument.

“Very well, then,” said I, “paper me, if you please, paper Alan, paper

King George! We’re all three innocent, and that seems to be what’s

wanted. But at least, sir,” said I to James, recovering from my little

fit of annoyance, “I am Alan’s friend, and if I can be helpful to

friends of his, I will not stumble at the risk.”

I thought it best to put a fair face on my consent, for I saw Alan

troubled; and, besides (thinks I to myself), as soon as my back is

turned, they will paper me, as they call it, whether I consent or not.

But in this I saw I was wrong; for I had no sooner said the words, than

Mrs. Stewart leaped out of her chair, came running over to us, and wept

first upon my neck and then on Alan’s, blessing God for our goodness to

her family.

“As for you, Alan, it was no more than your bounden duty,” she said.

“But for this lad that has come here and seen us at our worst, and seen

the goodman fleeching like a suitor, him that by rights should give his

commands like any king--as for you, my lad,” she says, “my heart is wae

not to have your name, but I have your face; and as long as my heart

beats under my bosom, I will keep it, and think of it, and bless it.”

And with that she kissed me, and burst once more into such sobbing, that

I stood abashed.

“Hoot, hoot,” said Alan, looking mighty silly. “The day comes unco soon

in this month of July; and to-morrow there’ll be a fine to-do in Appin,

a fine riding of dragoons, and crying of ‘Cruachan!’[24] and running of

red-coats; and it behoves you and me to the sooner be gone.”

[24] The rallying-word of the Campbells.

Thereupon we said farewell, and set out again, bending somewhat

eastwards, in a fine mild dark night, and over much the same broken

country as before.