by Charles Gibson, author of "Robin Gray," "Queen of the Meadow," etc.
As published in Strange Doings in Strange Places (Cassell & Company, Ltd.; 1890), originally published in Cassell's Saturday Journal.
I.
"What use will she be to ye? What can she do on a farm? I can see naething but that she'll sit in the parlour and play on the pianny, and maybe whiles look in at the byre to please you an' file her silk gown. Syne she'll be whisking ye aff to Edinburgh an' to London to waste your siller in senseless diversions whilst the farm is neglected, an' ruin will come to you before you ken what you are about; for she has neither siller nor sense to back ye up when the day o' reckonin' comes. Ye are clean demented, Gordon Stuart, to think o't."
It was the passionate utterance of a passionate woman who believed what she was saying, whilst she was striving to conceal the bitterness of disappointed hopes,
"All, the same, Nell, I mean to marry her," answered the young farmer, with an uneasy laugh at his cousin's fervent arguments against the step he was about to take. He felt that she had some common sense on her side; but what has common sense to do with love?
"Is that your last word on the matter?" asked Nell, looking at him with a strange brightness in her dark eyes.
"That is my last word. I have asked her; she has said 'yes;' and so as soon as we can get matters in order, we'll be married, and I'm looking to you to help me to put the house in a fit state for the hame coming."
There was a start of indignation in Nell's eyes, and she drew a long breath in the effort to control the angry words which almost escaped her.
"I'm just trying to say," she proceeded, with a slight huskiness of voice, but quietly enough, "what I think your father and mither, an' my father and mither would have said had they been wi' us now. Do you think this lass—she's just a doll—that has been brought up in the towns amid a' their frivolities, will be content to bide up yonder at Glamis, an' be satisfied with the cracks of our neebor farmers in place o' the kind of chatter she's accustomed to?"
"She has been contented enough to remain with her mother at Hawthorne Cottage for the last three years without showing any sign of longing for the pleasures of the towns."
"Ay, that's because you have been philanderin' about her a' the time, and she doesna let you see what she's thinking about. It's my opinion, Gordon, it's just because o' the gentle folk she is kin wi' that you are blindin' yoursel' to what maun be the upshot o' sic a marriage. Weel, weel, I have said my say; but ye'll rue the day, Gordon, that you neglected my warning."
"You'll change your mind, Nell, when you see us happily settled at Glamis," he answered as cheerily as might be in the circumstances.
Gordon Stuart, or Glamis, as he was usually called, in accordance with the custom of giving farmers the names of their holdings, went on his way in an uncomfortable state of mind. It was not the first time that his cousin, Nell Paterson, had disturbed him by the suggestion of thoughts which he could not share, of a future relationship between them closer than that of cousins. But she had never before so determinedly—it seemed to him almost fiercely—manifested her belief that she had a claim upon him.
They had been brought up together, and their parents were convinced that by-and-by the farms of Glamis and Kildonan, which "marched" with each other under the shadow of the Grampians, would be amalgamated in the union of Nell and Gordon.
Then came a time when an epidemic of typhoid swept over the district, and after it had passed they were orphans. She Nell was tall, well formed, and much physical exercise had given her the strength of a man. was handsome; all the farm people said—
"She's a braw lass, and just daft about young Glamis. But it's a mortal pity she's sae short in the temper. I'm thinkin' there's a bee in her bonnet some way."
And during the last three years she had shown signs of curious abstraction. For days she would be silent and scarcely notice what was going on. When the grieve, David Laidlaw, came to her for orders, she, whose large, dark eyes had always looked straight into the face of the person who spoke to her, would gaze vacantly over his shoulder, and answer indifferently—
"Do as you like, Davie. I'm weary and canna be fasht thinkin' about it!"
This apathetic state was followed by periods of feverish activity which, for a time, restored her to something like her ordinary condition. When David Laidlaw had observed these changes, he said, with confidential gravity, to his wife—
"I'm feart there's something wrang wi' the mistress. I hope she's no gaun to lose her rizzon like her grandfather."
II.
Hawthorne Cottage stood about a quarter of a mile from the village. Behind it were fertile plains stretching to the base of the Grampians, and in front the ground rose to the more moderate heights of another range of hills, from the top of which the turbulent northern sea flashed upon the gaze.
To this place Mrs. Ramsay had retired on the death of her husband, who had been a captain in the Scots Greys. The scion of a very impoverished branch of an ancient family, he had succeeded, chiefly by means of life insurance, in securing a small income for his widow. Minnie was a bright, blue-eyed girl, with fair hair, lithe, graceful, and active—no doll, as Nell believed her to be—although slim in figure. Her frame was of that construction which, in a man, is usually called "wiry," and she was capable of enduring more fatigue than people who might look ever so much stronger.
She took her life cheerfully: there was no sighing after the flesh pots of dinner parties and dances she had known whilst her father lived, and she took it still more cheerfully after she had met Gordon Stuart at a tea party at the Manse. She was settling her mother comfortably in a big arm chair before a blazing fire, when there was a knock at the outer door.
"That's Gordon," she said, with a quick brightening of the face. "Now, are you quite cosy, and will you be able to read to yourself until I come back?"
"Oh, yes!" answered the mother, smiling; "I suppose the light will hold good for an hour or two, and if it gets dark I can call for Janet to bring the lamp."
Minnie laughed at this often-repeated bit of playful satire, kissed her mother, and hastened to the parlour where Gordon was waiting.
It was the meeting of lovers whose course of true love has so far run smooth. When the customary preliminaries were over, Gordon spoke.
"I have come to say 'good-bye' for a few days."
"Oh! Where are you going?"
"No great distance; only to a farm about ten miles beyond Braemar to see some horses. I shall be badly in want of horses in the spring, and this is a good chance for a bargain. So I have ordered the gig to be ready at six to-morrow."
"The gig! Are you going to cross the hills at this season? Why not go by train to Ballater, and then drive?"
"That would not do, for I must have a look at the shorthorns I have wintered with Jock Mackay at Brig o' Dar."
She shuddered as she remembered the place. The Brig o' Dar was better known in the district as the Deil's Brig, owing to the number of accidents which had occurred at it.
"Oh, don't go that way, Gordon! The sight of the place, even in summer, alarmed me, and in this weather—don't go!"
He laughed reassuringly.
"Have no fear, Minnie. I'll be thinking of you all the time, so that there will be no doubt of my carefulness. I shall be away only for a little while—five or six days at the most."
"I am not exactly nervous, but I don't want you to go away just now—especially as old Davie Laidlaw told me we were sure to have a bad storm before long."
"Never heed auld Davie," was the laughing reply. "He is always prophesying bad weather. Now let us talk about something more interesting," he continued. "Let us talk about the arrangements for our wedding. Of course you will have Cousin Nell for your bridesmaid?"
He put the question tentatively, as if not quite sure how the suggestion would be received, although he had prefaced it with "of course."
She looked up with a cheerfully assenting smile on her glowing cheeks.
"Certainly, if she will agree."
"I am sure she will, and I am sure she would feel sore hurt if she was not asked."
"I will write to her to-night, and send the letter up first thing in the morning."
"That's a good lass." And he paid her in lovers' currency for so readily complying with his wish.
After this there was much happy talk, and they did not observe how time passed until Minnie heard her mother calling from the next room—
"Janet! Janet! Fetch the lamp!"
The lovers started to their feet, laughing, and slightly ashamed of their selfishness. So they went in together to the mother with the light, and were received with a smiling shake of the head.
"You need not apologise, bairns. I did not expect you sooner, and was not wearying."
* * * * *
On the following morning Nell received a very kindly letter from Minniè, telling her all about the arrangements for the wedding, and asking her to be the bridesmaid.
Nell was in the byre attending to a sick cow when the letter was handed to her by a loon from the village. She stepped out into the roadway to read it. When she had done so, she slowly refolded the paper and placed it carefully in her pocket. There was a cold, hard expression on her darkened face as she muttered to herself—
"In spite of all, it shall not be."
III.
Five days passed, and the great storm predicted by "Auld Davie" had not yet burst upon the land. There were frequent showers of snow, and the plains and hills were white, but the ordinary farm work went on with little interruption. Davie Laidlaw was able to supply the sheep with plenty of "neeps" (turnips) and the cattle with plenty of fodder, but he missed Nell's supervision and advice, although he had often fretted under them when they were freely given.
"I'm no easy in my mind about the mistress," he said to his wife one evening when he returned from a hard day's work. "She's in ane o' the queerest tantrums I ever saw her in. She tak's nae heed o' onything that's gauin on, and is awa' up to the hills on her shelt nearly every day and a' day. I canna make out what she's thinkin' o' or what she's doin'. I wuss Glamis was hame again that I could get him to speak to her."
Minnie had received no reply to her letter, but supposed that Nell was waiting an opportunity to answer it in person. She would have felt more comfortable if some sign of acceptance, or even of refusal, had been made more promptly. Although they did not meet often, Minnie, with woman's quick instinct in such matters, had guessed Nell's secret. For a time the discovery made her unhappy, and that rendered Gordon miserable. For once love was logical, and Minnie decided that there was no reason why they should be wretched because Nell had made a mistake. So she had said "yes" to his appeal, and in May they were to be united.
In the gloaming of the sixth day after Gordon's departure Nell appeared at Hawthorne Cottage. She wore a close-fitting ulster and a man's soft cap. Outside the snow was falling in thick flakes, and, although she had shaken herself well in the porch, she was still covered with it.
Janet, the middle-aged domestic of the Ramsays', hastily closed the door behind the visitor to keep the snow out. Nell would not go beyond the passage.
"I'm in ower great haste to take off my things, Janet," she explained, "and in ower great a mess to go into the parlour. Tell your young mistress I want to speak a word wi' her."
Minnie came from her mother's room, holding a lighted candle. She advanced with quick steps to greet her visitor warmly, but she was checked and frightened by the strange expression on Nell's face.
"What has happened?" she asked, trembling. "Is Gordon ill?"
"He has got hurt at the Brig o' Dar. I am going to him to see what can be done for him, and thought you would like to come with me."
Minnie almost dropped the light from her hand. The mention of the Brig o' Dar filled her with terror.
"Can we reach him on such an evening as this?"
"I dinna ken, but I'm to try, whether you go with me or no. You can have my shelt at ony time and I'll take the mare. he's sure o' foot The gig would be no use going up the hills on a night like this. Are you coming or are you feart?"
"Who told you this?"
"The message cam' to me, and I was to bring it to you, as it was thought that it would come more lightly from me than another. Are you coming?"
Minnie recovered from the shock which the news had caused her, and replied, steadily—
"I will go. If he is in pain, I must be with him."
She was soon ready, and in a few words to her mother explained that Gordon had met with an accident, and she might not return till the morning, so that no anxiety was to be felt about her absence. Then she rejoined Nell, who still remained in the hall. The gig was at the door, for, although it was useless for ascending the hills, it could still pass between the village and Kildonan.
Arrived at the farm, Minnie was surprised that Nell drove to the stable, unharnessed the horse, and allowed the animal to find its own stall.
There was no one about the place, and Nell showed no sign of an intention to enter the house. The shelt--a shaggy, good-natured Shetland pony, which sniffed discontentedly at the weather as it was led out of the stable--and another pony were ready saddled.
"There was no time to waste," said Nell, sharply, "so I tell't the grieve to hae the beasts ready. He ought to hae been here, but we canna wait for him. I'll help ye on."
And with the strength of a man she lifted Minnie into the saddle before she could offer any opposition. Luckily the shelt was a quiet, steady-going brute, or he might have resented this sudden imposition of a burden.
"Ye need have no fear," said Nell, when she had seated herself on her own pony. "I'll hold the leading rein I had tacked on for the purpose."
They passed up the mountain, through the white loud of snow, without another word. Speech was, indeed, impossible, for their mouths were muffled up to protect them from the swirling snowflakes, and Minnie was too eager to get on to waste time in conversation.
Nell was "dour;" her head bent eagerly forward as if seeking for some landmark to guide them aright. But even the poles planted at intervals to mark the roadway were obscured by the blinding white cloud of snow. After four hours of travel, Minnie became aware that they had begun a steep descent, and her heart throbbed with mingled emotions of fear and joy: fear that they were descending to the Brig o' Dar; joy that on the other side was the farmhouse in which Gordon was lying.
They went down and down through the thick snow, the horses stumbling at times over unseen stones, but still keeping their feet.
Minnie was too much excited to feel cold; and, besides, she was warmly clad; for in addition to the usual winter garments she had put on a large plaid. At the point where she had expected to see the deep gorge, which was spanned by the Deil's Brig and the steep height beyond, she saw what appeared to be a broad, black plain, surrounded by high white mountains. In the centre of the plain there rose some tall, dark, massive object.
Nell pulled up sharply, drew the muffler from her mouth, and spoke hoarsely.
"I hae missed the road a'thegither; an' I thought I was so sure o't! We are ten miles or more from where we should hae been enow. This is Loch Dowie, and yon' thing" (pointing to the dark object in the middle of the loch)—"yon' thing is the Auld Tower o' the Mackays'."
The Auld Tower of Loch Dowie, as it was called, stood on a little island. It had been the stronghold of a branch of the clan Mackay, whose chief lived much after the fashion of Rob Roy. But the clan had been long ago scattered, and the tower left to fall into ruins. Anglers visited the place in summer, and a few adventurous tourists, who sought their pleasure far out of the beaten tracks, found their way hither. In winter no one approached it except shepherds in search of stray sheep, and they had reported such strange stories of mysterious lights seen in the Auld Tower, and of the uncanny sounds heard coming from it, that Loch Dowie had an eerie reputation and was avoided as much as possible, even in daylight, by the farmers and cottars of the district. They were not in the least relieved of their superstitious dread of the place when a sharp "gauger body" discovered that the tower had been for years the haunt of a thriving gang of smugglers, who had there worked a secret still on a somewhat extensive scale.
Minnie had never been to Loch Dowie, but she had heard the weird stories associated with it, and had been interested in listening to them as well as amused by the awe with which they inspired the country folk. She experienced no sense of awe.
So, although she was dismayed and distressed when Nell told her where they were, it was not because she was afraid of brownies or bogles, but because she knew that she was far away from Gordon, who was at that moment, perhaps, in his pain, calling out for her.
"Let us turn back at once," she said, promptly.
"Turn back!" ejaculated Nell, with a sound in her throat that was like a half-suppressed laugh of contempt or scorn. "Look there," she went on, waving her hand in the direction they had travelled, which now seemed to be an impenetrable white mass. "Do ye think we can get through that? An' if we could, what better would we be? There's no' a house or shielin' within five mile o' us."
"Then what are we to do?" was the despairing inquiry.
"We'll hae to bide till the snaw stops, an' the moon shines or daylight comes."
"Stay here till daylight? We cannot. We should die in the snow."
"We'll no bide here. We's get to the tower yonder, where the whusky carlies hae made cosy corners for theirsel's, that will shelter us brawly. There is aye a boat ready somewhere about belangin' to the carlies or the gaugers. I think there will be ane hereabout. Come!"
Nell had dismounted and turned her pony loose.
Minnie hesitated. "But what about the poor ponies?" she asked, bewildered and puzzled beyond measure by the strange conduct and manner of her companion.
"The beasts will take care o' themsel's," answered Nell as she lifted Minnie out of the saddle; "an' we hae to take care of oursel's."
She kept firm hold of Minnie's hand, drawing her to the margin of the loch, then a little way along the side till they came to a small inlet overhung with mountain ash and fir trees. Underneath their shade lay a boat which they had shielded from the storm of snow.
"Come in," said Nell, authoritatively; "I can row, an' we'll be in good quarters soon."
She pushed the boat out of its hiding-place into the loch; there was a slight crackling as if ice were beginning to form, but it offered little impediment. Nell placed the oars in the rowlocks, and pulled with a vigour which soon brought them to the islet. She jumped out and pulled the boat up whilst she stood knee deep in water.
"I'll lift ye out," she said, as Minnie, having advanced to the prow, was wondering how she was to land. With an impatient movement Nell lifted her on to the pebbly shore, and then with a deliberate rush into the water pushed the boat off so that the current caught it and drifted it off towards the opposite shore before Minnie had recovered her breath or was able to comprehend what Nell was doing. But, as the latter with dripping garments came up to where she stood, and the boat disappeared, Minnie realised that the only means of communicating with the shore had been wantonly cut off, whilst there could be no doubt that it had been done purposely.
"What have you pushed the boat away for?" she cried in consternation.
"Ye needna fash to ken yet: bide a wee," answered Nell; and it seemed as if there was a note of malicious triumph in her voice. At the same time she began to speak in broader dialect than she generally used although she had always expressed contempt for "fine English," as she designated the speech of those who ceased to speak in the homely Doric. She pardoned it only in Gordon. "Come awa. Let's gang ben to the carlies' quarters, where we's be safe frae the snaw."
She gripped Minnie by the arm so strongly that resistance would have been in vain. Then she dragged her through the ruins, as if accustomed to the way, until they stood in a place of utter darkness, but completely sheltered from the snow and wind.
A new horror flashed upon Minnie's dazed and bewildered brain. Had Nell's jealousy and disappointment indeed wrought her into such a degree of frenzy that she meditated murder? Finding her arm released, Minnie stood quite still in the darkness, with heart palpitating painfully, but ready to defend herself as best she could from any sudden attack in whatever form it might come. The darkness was horrible. The wild, swirling snowstorm outside would have been infinitely preferable to this suspense in the black chamber, that she began to feel was like a tomb.
"There sud be lichts here," muttered Nell, evidently groping about. "I put them here mysel' yesterday--ay, here they are."
A match was struck, and the light showed two common stable lanterns standing in a recess in the wall which had been made by the tumbling out of a large stone. When the lanterns were lit Nell turned with a gloating laugh to her companion, and with a mocking obeisance said—
"Welcome, Mistress Gordon Stuart that was to hae been! Welcome to your bridal chaumer! Sit ye doon, sit ye doon, an' mak' yoursel' at hame, for this is the gate to your lang hame!"
The latter words were uttered with a weird solemnity. Then she suddenly sat down on a stone, with hands clasped round her knees, thus drawing the wet garments close to her, and gave vent to hysterical laughter. The light of the lanterns fell full upon her face--the once beautiful face, but now so distorted with mad hate that it was unlike anything it had ever appeared before in her most violent fits of passion.
Minnie remained quiet, although her heart was quaking, for she knew now that she was at the mercy of a mad woman--a woman mad with jealousy and hate, and possessed of great physical strength. But she was a brave girl, and had learned somewhere that the best way to soothe a maniac was to appear to agree with his or her humour of the moment. Remonstrance of any kind was out of the question. So she replied with a calmness that surprised herself in after thought of the scene--
"Very well, I will sit down, for I am weary, and will be glad of a little rest whilst we wait for a chance of getting on our way."
"Our journey ends here," said Nell, rocking herself to and fro. "Did you think I brocht you here to let ye awa again? Na, na! He says he winna hae me, an' I say he shanna hae you. So we are here to dee thegither--a' for him. Hearken, do ye no hear the storm? It will no be ower for a week or mair. There's not a sowl ud venture here in sic a storm, an' afore onybody can come, you an' me will be frozen an' starved to death. That's what I brought ye here for."
"But Gordon--?"
Nell laughed again hysterically, drew the wet garments around her, and glared at the calm face of the girl before her.
"He's a' richt. I tell't ye a lee. Naething has happened till him. He's enjoying himsel', an' he'll come back looking for you, but he'll no find ye. He winna hae me that was born for him, an' I say he sanna hae you! Na, na, you an' me are here to dee thegither for him. It was me--me that placed the boat whar we found it; me--me that had the lichts ready so that I might see ye dee--for dee ye sall!"
Nell's eyes gleamed in an ecstasy of triumph, whilst Minnie, with wise thought of the position of affairs, began to pace restlessly about the place. To remain. still would mean certain death; and despite the cruel fate the mad woman had so cunningly planned for her, she could not help thinking of how much more speedily Nell must succumb if she persisted in sitting there in her water-drenched clothes.
But what possibility was there of escape from this desolate place? Nell seemed to divine her thought, and answered it.
"Ye needna think there's ony chance for ye gettin' awa from me. Naebody would seek us here, an' naebody kens you are wi' me. I sent a' my folk frae the steadin' for the nicht, an' before the mornin' comes you an' me will be stark dead. Ay, ye may try to keep life in ye by stampin' about, but it's o' nae use. The sleep will come--the Sleep o' Death. What for do ye no thank me? If ye cared for him as I do, ye weed be proud to dee for him as I am."
For more than two hours, whilst her mind was distracted by the horrible position in which she was placed, Minnie was compelled to listen to the demoniac gibing and gibberish of her betrayer. The cold was penetrating to her bones, despite all efforts to keep the blood in circulation by such active movement as she was capable of making.
Suddenly Nell's tongue stopped: and when Minnie looked at her she was leaning with her back against the wall, with glassy eyes wide open and staring vacantly before her.
Was she dead? This was an additional horror to the poor girl--to be imprisoned here with a corpse! This seemed to be the last weight that would drag down the balance of her own reason.
She bent over the silent form, chafed the cold hands, and called loudly to her. But there was no response. The heart was still beating faintly, so life was not extinct. She was exhausted—in a state of stupor--but not dead.
Thank God for that!
So Minnie took off the plaid which had been such a safeguard for herself, and carefully wrapped it round her enemy.
Then she took one of the stable lanterns, and made her way out of the Auld Tower. The snow had ceased: the air was clear, and there was a keen frost.
She hastened to the edge of the loch and touched the water with her foot. Then a thrill of joy, hope, and thankfulness quickened the blood and stirred the heart.
The loch was freezing fast, and in a few hours she would be able to cross to the mainland!
She hurried back to the dark chamber of the tower, which was to have been her tomb; but she went with feelings of joyful hope that she would be able to save the woman who had intended to destroy her and to die with her. The plaid had been useful, for Nell was warmer and breathing more regularly than when she had left her. Minnie tried again to rouse her, but without effect. the plaid more closely round the inert form, so that its warmth might preserve life; and her own life was preserved by these exertions, combined with the frequent journeys to the edge of the loch to discover how the freezing of the water progressed.
* * * * *
She never knew how she had crossed the thin ice to the land; she only remembered that when she had toiled to the snowy hill-top she was in Gordon's arms; next that she was lifted into a cart of straw, wrapped round with rugs, and whisky and water poured down her throat. Next she had revived sufficiently to give an account of Nell's position, and she too was rescued, but without regaining consciousness.
The explanation was simple. Gordon had returned on the evening which Nell had chosen for her exploit. Learning from Mrs. Ramsay that Minnie, believing he had met with an accident as Nell Paterson had said, had gone to see him, he had at once hastened to the farmhouse of Kildonan. Finding no one there he sought Davie Laidlaw. That worthy told him of his suspicion about the state of his mistress's mind, about the frequent journeyings to Loch Dowie, and about the strange dismissal of everybody from Kildonam on this particular afternoon.
"Then we must go to Loch Dowie," said Gordon, resolutely, "and we will go with the cart."
He did not choose to explain his reason for the singular determination, but Davie quite approved of it, and the result showed that the arrangement was the best that could have been made.
Nell was placed in a lunatic asylum, where she died on the day that Gordon and Minnie Ramsay were married.
The will she had prepared left everything she possessed to Gordon, so that the farms of Glamis and Kildonan are united, as the old folk had wished.
And in spite of poor Nell's desperate attempt to mar their happiness she is remembered with sad yet loving feelings.