_VII. -- Hannah of the Highlands: or, The Laird of Loch Aucherlocherty_
"Sair maun ye greet, but hoot awa!
There's muckle yet, love isna' a'--
Nae more ye'll see, howe'er ye whine
The bonnie breeks of Auld Lang Syne!"
THE simple words rang out fresh and sweet upon the morning air.
It was Hannah of the Highlands. She was gathering lobsters in
the burn that ran through the glen.
The scene about her was typically Highland. Wild hills rose on
both sides of the burn to a height of seventy-five feet, covered
with a dense Highland forest that stretched a hundred yards in
either direction. At the foot of the burn a beautiful Scotch
loch lay in the hollow of the hills. Beyond it again, through
the gap of the hills, was the sea. Through the Glen, and close
beside the burn where Hannah stood, wound the road that rose again
to follow the cliffs along the shore.
The tourists in the Highlands will find no more beautiful spot
than the Glen of Aucherlocherty.
Nor is there any spot which can more justly claim to be historic
ground.
It was here in the glen that Bonnie Prince Charlie had lain and
hidden after the defeat of Culloden. Almost in the same spot the
great boulder still stands behind which the Bruce had laid hidden
after Bannockburn; while behind a number of lesser stones the
Covenanters had concealed themselves during the height of the
Stuart persecution.
Through the Glen Montrose had passed on his fateful ride to
Killiecrankie; while at the lower end of it the rock was still
pointed out behind which William Wallace had paused to change
his breeches while flying from the wrath of Rob Roy.
Grim memories such as these gave character to the spot.
Indeed, most of the great events of Scotch history had taken
place in the Glen, while the little loch had been the scene of
some of the most stirring naval combats in the history of the
Grampian Hills.
But there was little in the scene which lay so peaceful on this
April morning to recall the sanguinary history of the Glen. Its
sides at present were covered with a thick growth of gorse,
elderberry, egg-plants, and ghillie flower, while the woods about
it were loud with the voice of the throstle, the linnet, the
magpie, the jackdaw, and other song-birds of the Highlands.
It was a gloriously beautiful Scotch morning. The rain fell
softly and quietly, bringing dampness and moisture, and almost a
sense of wetness to the soft moss underfoot. Grey mists flew
hither and thither, carrying with them an invigorating rawness
that had almost a feeling of dampness.
It is the memory of such a morning that draws a tear from the eye
of Scotchmen after years of exile. The Scotch heart, reader, can
be moved to its depths by the sight of a raindrop or the sound of
a wet rag.
And meantime Hannah, the beautiful Highland girl, was singing.
The fresh young voice rose high above the rain. Even the birds
seemed to pause to listen, and as they listened to the simple
words of the Gaelic folk-song, fell off the bough with a thud
on the grass.
The Highland girl made a beautiful picture as she stood.
Her bare feet were in the burn, the rippling water of which laved
her ankles. The lobsters played about her feet, or clung
affectionately to her toes, as if loath to leave the water and be
gathered in the folds of her blue apron.
It was a scene to charm the heart of a Burne-Jones, or an Alma
Tadema, or of anybody fond of lobsters.
The girl's golden hair flowed widely behind her, gathered in a
single braid with a piece of stovepipe wire.
"Will you sell me one of your lobsters?"
Hannah looked up. There, standing in the burn a few yards above
her, was the vision of a young man.
The beautiful Highland girl gazed at him fascinated.
He seemed a higher order of being.
He carried a fishing-rod and basket in his hand. He was dressed
in a salmon-fishing costume of an English gentleman. Salmon-fishing
boots reached to his thighs, while above them he wore a
fishing-jacket fastened loosely with a fishing-belt about his waist.
He wore a small fishing-cap on his head.
There were no fish in his basket.
He drew near to the Highland girl.
Hannah knew as she looked at him that it must be Ian McWhinus, the
new laird.
At sight she loved him.
"Ye're sair welcome," she said, as she handed to the young man the
finest of her lobsters.
He put it in his basket.
Then he felt in the pocket of his jacket and brought out a
sixpenny-piece.
"You must let me pay for it," he said.
Hannah took the sixpence and held it a moment, flushing with true
Highland pride.
"I'll no be selling the fush for money," she said.
Something in the girl's speech went straight to the young man's
heart. He handed her half a crown. Whistling lightly, he strode
off up the side of the burn. Hannah stood gazing after him
spell-bound. She was aroused from her reverie by an angry voice
calling her name.
"Hannah, Hannah," cried the voice, "come away ben; are ye daft,
lass, that ye stand there keeking at a McWhinus?"
Then Hannah realised what she had done.
She had spoken with a McWhinus, a thing that no McShamus had done
for a hundred and fifty years. For nearly two centuries the
McShamuses and the McWhinuses, albeit both dwellers in the Glen,
had been torn asunder by one of those painful divisions by which
the life of the Scotch people is broken into fragments.
It had arisen out of a point of spiritual belief.
It had been six generations agone at a Highland banquet, in the
days when the unrestrained temper of the time gave way to wild
orgies, during which theological discussions raged with unrestrained
fury. Shamus McShamus, an embittered Calvinist, half crazed perhaps
with liquor, had maintained that damnation could be achieved only by
faith. Whimper McWhinus had held that damnation could be achieved
also by good works. Inflamed with drink, McShamus had struck
McWhinus across the temple with an oatcake and killed him. McShamus
had been brought to trial. Although defended by some of the most
skilled lawyers of Aucherlocherty, he had been acquitted. On the
very night of his acquittal, Whangus McWhinus, the son of the
murdered man, had lain in wait for Shamus McShamus, in the hollow of
the Glen road where it rises to the cliff, and had shot him through
the bagpipes. Since then the feud had raged with unquenched
bitterness for a century and a half.
With each generation the difference between the two families became
more acute. They differed on every possible point. They wore
different tartans, sat under different ministers, drank different
brands of whisky, and upheld different doctrines in regard to
eternal punishment.
To add to the feud the McWhinuses had grown rich, while the
McShamuses had become poor.
At least once in every generation a McWhinus or a McShamus had been
shot, and always at the turn of the Glen road where it rose to the
edge of the cliff. Finally, two generations gone, the McWhinuses
had been raised to sudden wealth by the discovery of a coal mine on
their land. To show their contempt for the McShamuses they had left
the Glen to live in America. The McShamuses, to show their contempt
for the McWhinuses, had remained in the Glen. The feud was kept
alive in their memory.
And now the descendant of the McWhinuses had come back, and bought
out the property of the Laird of Aucherlocherty beside the Glen.
Ian McWhinus knew nothing of the feud. Reared in another atmosphere,
the traditions of Scotland had no meaning for him. He had entirely
degenerated. To him the tartan had become only a piece of coloured
cloth. He wore a kilt as a masquerade costume for a Hallowe'en
dance, and when it rained he put on a raincoat. He was no longer
Scotch. More than that, he had married a beautiful American wife,
a talcum-powder blonde with a dough face and the exquisite rotundity
of the packing-house district of the Middle-West. Ian McWhinus was
her slave. For her sake he had bought the lobster from Hannah.
For her sake, too, he had scrutinised closely the beautiful Highland
girl, for his wife was anxious to bring back a Scotch housemaid with
her to Chicago.
And meantime Hannah, with the rapture of a new love in her heart,
followed her father, Oyster McOyster McShamus, to the cottage. Oyster
McOyster, even in advancing age, was a fine specimen of Scotch manhood.
Ninety-seven years of age, he was approaching the time when many of his
countrymen begin to show the ravages of time. But he bore himself
straight as a lath, while his tall stature and his native Highland
costume accentuated the fine outline of his form. This costume
consisted of a black velvet beetle-shell jacket, which extended from
the shoulder half-way down the back, and was continued in a short kilt
of the tartan of the McShamuses, which extended from the waist half-way
to the thigh. The costume reappeared again after an interval in the
form of rolled golf stockings, which extended half-way up to the knee,
while on his feet a pair of half shoes were buckled half-way up with a
Highland clasp. On his head half-way between the ear and the upper
superficies of the skull he wore half a Scotch cap, from which a tall
rhinoceros feather extended half-way into the air.
A pair of bagpipes were beneath his arm, from which, as he walked, he
blew those deep and plaintive sounds which have done much to imprint
upon the characters of those who hear them a melancholy and resigned
despair.
At the door of the cottage he turned and faced his daughter.
"What said Ian McWhinus to you i' the burnside?" he said fiercely.
"'Twas nae muckle," said Hannah, and she added, for the truth was
ever more to her than her father's wrath, "he gi'ed me saxpence for
a fush."
"Siller!" shrieked the Highlander. "Siller from a McWhinus!"
Hannah handed him the sixpence. Oyster McOyster dashed it fiercely
on the ground, then picking it up he dashed it with full force
against the wall of the cottage. Then, seizing it again he dashed
it angrily into the pocket of his kilt.
They entered the cottage.
Hannah had never seen her father's face so dour as it looked that
night.
Their home seemed changed.
Hannah and her mother and father sat down that night in silence to
their simple meal of oatmeal porridge and Scotch whisky. In the
evening the mother sat to her spinning. Busily she plied her work,
for it was a task of love. Her eldest born, Jamie, was away at
college at Edinburgh, preparing for the ministry. His graduation day
was approaching, and Jamie's mother was spinning him a pair of
breeches against the day. The breeches were to be a surprise.
Already they were shaping that way. Oyster McShamus sat reading the
Old Testament in silence, while Hannah looked into the peat fire and
thought of the beautiful young Laird. Only once the Highlander spoke.
"The McWhinus is back," he said, and his glance turned towards the old
flint-lock musket on the wall. That night Hannah dreamed of the feud,
of the Glen and the burn, of love, of lobsters, and of the Laird of
Loch Aucherlocherty. And when she rose in the morning there was a
wistful look in her eyes, and there came no song from her throat.
The days passed.
Each day the beautiful Highland girl saw the young Laird, though her
father knew it not.
In the mornings she would see him as he came fishing to the burn. At
times he wore his fishing-suit, at other times he had on a
knickerbocker suit of shepherd's plaid with a domino pattern
_neglige_ shirt. For his sake the beautiful Highland girl made
herself more beautiful still. Each morning she would twine a Scotch
thistle in her hair, and pin a spray of burdock at her heart.
And at times he spoke to her. How Hannah treasured his words. Once,
catching sight of her father in the distance, he had asked her who
was the old sardine in the petticoats, and the girl had answered
gladly that it was her father, for, as a fisherman's daughter, she
was proud to have her father mistaken for a sardine.
At another time he had asked her if she was handy about the work of
the house. How Hannah's heart had beat at the question. She made up
her mind to spin him a pair of breeches like the ones now finishing
for her brother Jamie.
And every evening as the sun set Hannah would watch in secret from
the window of the cottage waiting for the young Laird to come past in
his motor-car, down the Glen road to the sea. Always he would
slacken the car at the sharp turn at the top of the cliff. For six
generations no McWhinus had passed that spot after nightfall with his
life. But Ian McWhinus knew nothing of the feud.
At times Oyster McOyster would see him pass, and standing at the
roadside would call down Gaelic curses on his head.
Once, when her father was from home, Hannah had stood on the
roadside, and Ian had stopped the machine and had taken her with him
in the car for a ride. Hannah, her heart beating with delight, had
listened to him as he explained how the car was worked. Had her
father know that she had sat thus beside a McWhinus, he would have
slain her where she sat.
The tragedy of Hannah's love ran swiftly to its close.
Each day she met the young Laird at the burn.
Each day she gave him the finest of her lobsters. She wore a new
thistle every day.
And every night, in secret as her mother slept, she span a new
concentric section of his breeches.
And the young Laird, when he went home, said to the talcum blonde,
that the Highland fisher-girl was not half such a damn fool as she
seemed.
Then came the fateful afternoon.
He stood beside her at the burn.
"Hannah," he said, as he bent towards her, "I want to take you to
America."
Hannah had fallen fainting in his arms.
Ian propped her against a tree, and went home.
An hour later, when Hannah entered her home, her father was standing
behind the fireplace. He was staring fixedly into the fire, with the
flint-lock musket in his hands. There was the old dour look of the
feud upon his face, and there were muttered curses on his lips. His
wife Ellen clung to his arm and vainly sought to quiet him.
"Curse him," he muttered, "I'll e'en kill him the night as he passes
in his deil machine."
Then Hannah knew that Oyster McShamus had seen her with Ian beside
the burn. She turned and fled from the house. Straight up the road
she ran across towards the manor-house of Aucherlocherty to warn
Ian. To save him from her father's wrath, that was her one thought.
Night gathered about the Highland girl as she ran. The rain clouds
and the gathering storm hung low with fitful lightning overhead.
She still ran on. About her was the rolling of the thunder and the
angry roaring of the swollen burn. Then the storm broke upon the
darkness with all the fury of the Highland gale. They sky was rent
with the fierce play of the elements. Yet on Hannah ran. Again and
again the lightning hit her, but she ran on still. She fell over
the stones, tripped and stumbled in the ruts, butted into the
hedges, cannoned off against the stone walls. But she never
stopped. She went quicker and quicker. The storm was awful.
Lightning, fire, flame, and thunder were all about her. Trees were
falling, hurdles were flying, birds were being struck by lightning.
Dogs, sheep and even cattle were hurled through the air.
She reached the manor-house, and stood a moment at the door. The
storm had lulled, the rain ceased, and for a brief moment there was
quiet. The light was streaming from the windows of the house.
Hannah paused. Suddenly her heart misgave her. Her quick ear had
caught the sound of a woman's voice within. She approached the
window and looked in. Then, as if rooted to the spot, the Highland
girl gazed and listened at the pane.
Ian lay upon a sofa. The _neglige_ dressing-gown that he wore
enhanced the pallid beauty of his face. Beside him sat the
talcum-powder blonde. She was feeding him with chocolates. Hannah
understood. Ian had trifled with her love. He had bought her
lobsters to win her heart, only to cast it aside.
Hannah turned from the window. She plucked the thistle from her
throat and flung it on the ground. Then, as she turned her eye,
she caught sight of the motor standing in the shed.
"The deil machine!" she muttered, while the wild light of Highland
frenzy gathered in her eye; then, as she rushed to it and tore the
tarpaulin from off it, "Ye'll no be wanting of a mark the night,
Oyster McShamus," she cried.
A moment later, the motor, with Hannah at the wheel, was
thundering down the road to the Glen. The power was on to the
full, and the demented girl clung tight to the steering-gear as
the machine rocked and thundered down the descent. The storm was
raging again, and the thunder mingled with the roar of the machine
as it coursed madly towards the sea. The great eye of the motor
blazed in front. The lurid light of it flashed a second on the
trees and the burn as it passed, and flashed blinding on the eyes
of Oyster as he stood erect on the cliff-side below, musket in
hand, and faced the blazing apparition that charged upon him with
the old Highland blood surging in his veins.
It was all over in a moment--a blinding flash of lightning, the
report of a musket, a great peal of thunder, and the motor bearing
the devoted girl hurled headlong over the cliff.
They found her there in the morning. She lay on her side
motionless, half buried in the sand, upturned towards the blue
Highland sky, serene now after the passing of the storm. Quiet
and still she lay. The sea-birds seemed to pause in their flight
to look down on her. The little group of Scotch people that had
gathered stood and gazed at her with reverential awe. They made
no attempt to put her together. It would have been useless. Her
gasoline tubes were twisted and bent, her tank burst, her
sprockets broken from their sides, and her steering-gear an utter
wreck. The motor would never run again.
After a time they roused themselves from their grief and looked
about for Hannah. They found her. She lay among the sand and
seaweed, her fair hair soaked in gasoline. Then they looked
about for Oyster McShamus. Him, too, they found, lying half
buried in the grass and soaked in whisky. Then they looked about
for Ellen. They found her lying across the door of the cottage
half buried in Jamie's breeches.
Then they gathered them up. Life was not extinct. They chafed
their hands. They rubbed their feet. They put hot bricks upon
their stomachs. They poured hot whisky down their throats. That
brought them to.
Of course.
It always does.
They all lived.
But the feud was done for. That was the end of it. Hannah had
put it to the bad.
