Rensselaer Republican, Volume 24, Number 12, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 November 1891 — The Heir of Linne. [ARTICLE]

The Heir of Linne.

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

CHAPTER 111. MOTHER AST) SON. Following the rude couutrv road, the two came out upon the open upland moor —a wild stretch of peat moss oovered with blooming heather. The road now followed the side of a brawling mountain stream, with gleaming shallows and nut-brown pools, into which, here and there, the rowan or mountain ash shook its scarlet berries and dipped its tasselled hair. Inland rcfce a line of low, heather-clad lulls. An angle of the road now shut out of sight the moonlit summer sea. The air was warm and scented with heather and thyme. All was so still and silent thatthe voice of the burn was distinctly heard, mingled with the faint, far-off cries of sheep upon the hills. About a mile inland, on the, very edge of the water, were some halfdozen detached cottages, built, of stone quarried from the moss and roofed with straw. Each had a little kail-yard or kitchen-garden closed in by a stone wall. Towards one of the smallest of these cottages—a plain, whitewashed building of one story — Robin now led the way, and saw, as he approached the garden, a woman seated on a stool, spinning on an old fashioned spinning-wheel. “Are you there, Robin?” she cried as he ran towards her. ‘'l was wondering what kept you so long away.” Then, perceiving Willie the Preacher. she added, with sigh—“l’m glad Robin found you, sir. I was wearing to speak with.you, ’* She was a pale, clear-complexioned woman of six or seven and twenty, dressed in the petticoat and short gown of the Scottish peasant. Her face was gentle and beautiful, but marked with lines of sorrow; her vpipe low and musical, with just a trace of local accent. Macgillvray approached her, lifting his hat, as to a lady, and gently took her hand. “What is it, Lizzie, my woman?” he asked; adding, as he turned aside her head to conceal the fast-spring-ing tears, “Courage, Lizzie! Whatever the trouble is, I’m here to teach you how to thole it. She was about to answer him, but f lanced nervously at the boy, who ad crept to her side, and was playing with the wool upon the wheel. “Robin, my lad,” said Willie, “run down to the pool yonder, and see if the trout are rising. I'll maybe have a cast with the rod before I take the road.” With a smile and a nod, Robin ran down towards the burn, leaping over mossy stones and through deep clumps of heather. Directly he was out of hearing, the woman covered her face with hear apron, rocked herself to and fro, and sobbed convulsively. “I see what it is, Lizzie,” cried Willie, placing his hand upon her shoulder. “’Tis just the pld trouble: but dry your eyes, and take counsel with one you ken to be your friend. I saw him this very afternoon,” he continued, after a pause, yonder in the town. ” She threw the apron off her face, and looked up, with flushed cheeks. “Him? Do you mean ——” “Whom should I mean but the lord of Linne? He’s back from Edinburg at last.”

“And what then, sir?" criecl the woman, with a despairing gesture, “I wrote to him; I have, his answers. He will never keep his word. And now my mind is made up. I cattnot bide here. It is a hopeless, senseless dream. I must thole ray sorrow and Robin must thole his shame, in the land across the sea. ’ “Bide yet bide. His heart may turn.” “Never, sir, never. He is hard as his own gates tone, and cruel as the grave. See here, sir,” —taking a fj&per from her bosom —“I have a etter from my sister in Canada bid'Jing me come to her with my boy. 1 shall be happier there where none keus me. If 1 died here where my heart was broken, I could never rest in peace, even in the kirkyard.” ‘‘Canada’s a long road,” muttered Willie, thoughtfully. “Have you money to take you there,?” “No, sir; but I’ll beg my way. or die upon the road, rather than rest here. Think of all that I havesufferoil since ray boy was born! Think of what folk have said, how even my own kith ahd ‘kin have cast me off And now I have no one left, and no friend in all the world but you!” “Is it me?” returned Willie, who during the above speech had been muttering wildly to himself. “A drunken ne’er-do-well, that should have been a shining light and an example! ‘Ah, Lizzie, woman, I wish I was a decent man. for' ypur sake. But bide a bit! Hooly and fairly! I’ll tackle the liard myself! 11l speak the words o’ wisdom to him that is the father of your child!” “He heeds neither ihan aor God,” Mid Lizzie, sadly. “I have pleaded my sett for many along year sir, and what have I gained?” Here Robin ran back, flushed a«d panting, and reported that the pool was smooth as glass, but that the trout were rising everywhere in the moonlight, os “thick as bubbles on the broth.” Willie nodded, and he would postpone his fishing till a more convenient opportunity. •“Will you come in, sir?” said Lizte, rising, “and take something?”

BOOK THE FIRST. THE LAIRD OP UNNE.

Willie shook his head. ;“No, I’ll be taking the road. I’m bound for Castle Hunger!” 1 ~ “For the laird’s? To-night!” cried the woman. “Night or morning, what? I’ll say my say before another sun has risen.” “Oh, sir, take care! It’s ill provoking an angry man!” “It’s ill provoking a man that has the gift tongues and, maybe o’ prophecy," cried Willie, with a curious laugh. “I fear but one sinner on God’s earth, and that Willie Macgill vray! Lizzie, woman, when I whiles take a look into the depths o’ my own sinful soul, I’m sickened and afraid! But the laird o’ Linnet the miserful carle of Castle B unger! I’ll make him bold out his hand like a frightened school-1 add ie , and take the tawse, ere I have done with him! Though he sits like Dives at the feast (a fine feast o’ pease-brose and cold woier. I’m thinking!), I’ll come upon him like Lazerus from thegrave, and claim his kinsman’s share!” Here the boy, who had been listening to this impassioned speech, delivered in Willie’s finest preaching mood, said^quietlv—“You’re no’ sober yet, Willie!” “Hush, Robin!” cried his mother. “Let him speak, let him speak!” said Willie. “Words o’ wisdom often come from the mouth of the child!” Placing his hand on the boy’s flaxen he, liecontined — “Hearken now to me, Robin! Whatever should obme to ye, whether you dwell on land or sea, honor and love the mother that bore you as the one thing holy next to God! The sons of Hagar loved their mother; Cain himself bowed down before his mother’s grief. Holy, holy, holy is the light of a mother's love! Even Willie McGillvray kens that! His own mother died blessing her ragged raving, drunken, good-for-nothing son; but she lives yet, watching him out o’ yon starry casement, and whites weeping sore as she sees him yielding like a brute beast to the curse o’ driuk.” So saying, he patted the boy’s head kindly, and turning to Lizzie, wrung her hand in farewell. “Bid a wee!” he cried. “I’ll beard the lion in his den, and maybe bring good news.” And he strode away into the night leaving his banner of prophecy lying in the garden, Mother and child entered the. cottage. a “but” and a “ben,” consisting of two rooms; one a rude kitchen containing two press beds in the wall, the other a small sleeping chamber. A fire was burning on the hearth, and an old-fash-ioned oil lamp swinging from the rafters of the kitchen. A plain wooden dresser, with a few earthenware dishes, stood in one corner. Everythiug was bright and clean, despite thg indications of axtreme poverty.

As he ate his poor supper of milk and porridge. Robin prattled garrulously of Willie’s adventures in the town; while bis mother, seated by the fire in an old arm-chair of black bog oak. listened sadly, with her cheek resting on her hand. Presently the woman said—“Do you say your prayers every night, Robin, as I taught you?" “Ay, mither!” “Never forget to pray for Mr. Macgill vray . Ho is a good man and our best frierd in all the world.” “I ken that, mither,” replied the boy. There was a pause, broken again by the woman —■' '“Robin!” “Weel, mither?” “Would you like to sail far out yonder across the sea, and to see the strange land where my sister Marion bides with her good man? They tell me it’s a bonnie place, far bonnier than Scotland, Robin.” “I would like fine to be going yonder,” replied the boy. “I would like fine to be a sailor, and to live in a niuckle ship upon the sea.” Then she told him of her plans, and drew so bright a picture of the laud in the west, that he became all eagerness and delight. Standing by her side, and leaning his golden head upon her shoulder, he listened openmouthed, his face all sunny expectation. B\--and-by, looking up into his mother’s face, he said — “Does mv faithcr bide there? Will I ever see hijp, ndther?” A shadow fell upon the woman's face, and her lips trembled, as she answered — “Your father is dead to you and me, Robin. I’m thinking we shall never see his face. But if you have no father, you me!” He threw his arms round her neck, and kissed her fondly. “You love me. Robin?” He did not answer, but softly passed his little hand over her cheek till it grew wet with her falling tears. “ “Mither, what hils you? What makes you greet?” “My boy, my boy!” she cried,holding him in her arms, and kissing him passionately, “if I greet, ’tis not for sorrow. The Lord has taken JjjJ tha world from,me, but I have still my son!” Ever since the boy could remember, he bad lived with his mother in that cottage by the river side. Nine years before the period at which my story opens, the place had been the •“ *■ '. “ •*, t-

home of Donald Campbell, a widowed shepherd, whose only daughter Lizzie had gone into service at Castle Linne. Campbell was of Highlander extraction, and, though his station in life was numble, a man of some \ little education, and he had at one time been a small farmer on his own account,somewhere up in the north. Coming south with his daughter he bad settled on the Linne estates and found employment under a Lowlander who farmed a large stretch of moorland. Lizzie, an exceedingly pretty girl, had been taken in at the Castle as a sort of a superior servant, and she had lived there not unhappily until one day she announced to her father her intention of taking a situation in the city of Glasgow. After some hesitation Campbell suffered her to depart. She was absent for months, then one winter night she reappeared at the cottage, bringing with her an infant child. What took place at the interview between father and daughter no one knew; that it was wild and stormy may be guessed; but the upshot was Lizzie remained at home, a broken spirited and sorrowful woman. It was told about that she had married in the south and her husband had deserted her, but many refused to accept a story so favorable to the poor girl’s reputation. Three men only in the district knew the truth—Donald Campbell, William Macgillvray and John Mossknow, the laird of Linne, My tale is in need of no mystery to sharpen its interest or point a moral, and what those three men knew may be briefly and freely told. Mossknow, a man of gloomy character and a bachelor, had been fascinated by the gentle Highlander girl whom chance had brought into his house, and after a long and secret courtship had seduced ner under promise of marriage. The only inmates of the Castle, save herself, were an aged housekeeper and a man servant, who acted as butler, gardener. groom and general factotum. For it was not without reason that Castle Linne had earned its popular nickname of Castle Hunger. Mossknow spent much of his time from home and when at home was parsimonious to a degree. Though not a rich man in a modern sense, he owned a large extent of land, which had been in the family for many generations; but his name was a byword in the district for mean thrift bordering on penury. The beggar avoided his gates as if the castle wdk plague haunted; the poor and wretched never sought his sympathy or charity. Yet he was a good looking man, not without his fascinations, as poor Lizzie Campbell discovered. There was an impressive, old fashioned grandeur about his menage, though it was maintained at little expense. Rare old family silver adorned a board which was no better provided than that of some poor farmer. The shabbily grand family livery adorned the person of the old retainer, who haggled over the price of a sheep’s head and went to market with a few silver pieces, like any poor peasant. Mossknow himself, riding through his domains on a poor nag, had the dark and reserved air of a prince and master of men. He had few friends and no familiars. People said that though he pinched himself at home he spent large sums at the gaming table in London, but that was mere hearsay. With all his faults and all his eccentricities, he was looked upon with a certain respect, for was he not the hereditary lord of Castle Linne? Be that as it succeeded inovercoming the scruples of Lizzie Campbell, who, as soon as she discovered her condition, went south at the master’s expense under pretense of taking a situation. Up to the moment when her child was born she sincerely believed that Mossknow ! would make her his wife. Before long, however, she discovered the truth —that her betrayer had no intention of keeping his word. Even then, however, she hoped against hope, and for her own sake and that of her child concealed the secret of the child’s parentage. Four years afterward her father died and she was left alone, her only friend and confidante being the eccentric mendicant preacher, Willie Macgillvray. Macgillvray had been her father’s friend. He had, appeared in the district about the time w.hen she first took service at the Castle, and had soon made himself notorious. Having no home of his own he had wandered from farmhouse to farmhouse, from cottage to cottage, and sometimes for days together he was the guest of Donald Campbell. Then, as mysteriously as he came, he disappeared; but rumors reached the place of his eccentric performances in distan't parts of Scotland. After that he returned from time to time; wild and ragged as ever. Roaming one day in Edinburg he saw Mossknow and Lizzie Campbell in company, and speedily discovered their secret; and no sooner had the girl returned to her fathers cottage than too. full Of sorrow and indignation, When the old man died he followed him to the grave; and there, under the open sky, beneath the pouring rain, discoursed with strauge eloquence in the verv teeth of the officiating minister. From that time forth he was a constant visitor at the cottage. "" T~~

Thus it happened that he became the first friend and chief companion of Lizzie's son. He taught him not only bow to write and read, but how to fly a kite and tie a fly, and how to swim in the sea. Lying out in the deep heather cn the hillside, be read to the boy out of strange, forbidden books —the poems of Shelley and Byron, t Owen,s “New Moral World,*’ and Bible. His speech was a strange compound

of heresy and religious enthusiasm.' The child listened to him in delighted wonder, for his talk had aIT the charms of a fairy tale. All this time the habit of drinking elung to him. Every now and then he had an outbreak; more than once he became acquainted with the interior of the town jail, whither he Was committed for disorderly conduct. But with all this be was a highly popular And influential character, as we have seen.