Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume VIII Part 28

"Well, call upon me there to-morrow forenoon. Ask for Mr M'Donald. I wish to speak further with you."

The boy promised, and Mr M'Donald rode off.

Now, it would not be easy for us to say what were the latter's intentions regarding the little barelegged boy; and for this simple reason--that he did not well know himself. He had, however, taken a fancy to the boy--that is certain--and felt a disposition to do him a service, although he had not yet thought of what nature this should be, or how it was to be done. He had, in truth, no definite views on the subject; but he had not ridden far, when these began to a.s.sume something of a tangible shape, and this was, to take the boy into his service as a personal attendant, provided his parents should agree to it.

True to his appointment, little Duncan waited next day on Mr M'Donald, his face well washed, and his hair carefully combed over his forehead.

"Ah, Duncan, are you there?" said the latter, on his entering the apartment where he was. "I'm glad to see you. You said yesterday, Duncan, that you would like to go abroad."

"Weel wad I like that, sir," replied the little bare-breeched Highlander, "if my faither could spare me."

"Did you speak to your father on the subject, Duncan?"

"I tell't him that I met you, sir, and what you said."

"Ay; and what did he say, my little fellow?"

"He said, sir, 'The shentleman's been shoking you, Duncan; but ye may go down to Blackhouse, as he pade you, and see what he has to say.'"

And Duncan looked at Mr M'Donald as if he would be glad himself to know whether there was anything of a joke in the matter. Indeed, it was for this purpose that he repeated his father's words, cunningly availing himself of them to elicit the information he wanted.

"Joking you, Duncan!" repeated Mr M'Donald, smiling. "By no means; and of this I'll soon convince both you and your father."

Having said this, he took up his hat and stick, and desired the boy to conduct him to his father's.

The house was one of the poorest cla.s.s; and it was evident, from everything within and around it, that it was a hard struggle with its occupants to make, as the saying has it, "the two ends to meet."

Having found Duncan's father, Mr M'Donald explained to him his views regarding his son. These were readily acceded to by both the boy's parents, who, though they sorely grudged to part with their little Duncan, yet saw that it might be for his advantage, and therefore felt themselves called on to sacrifice their own feelings in a case which seemed to involve his future welfare. At this interview it was settled, in short, that he should enter the service of Mr M'Donald, and of course leave the country with him when he went.

Three days after this, Duncan bade farewell to his parents and the home of his childhood. His patron was about to set out for Greenock, and there to embark for Jamaica. The parting was a bitter one. His father clasped him in his arms; and, while those tears, which no danger to himself, and no sufferings merely his own, could ever have drawn from him, streamed down his rugged cheeks, he fervently and solemnly prayed, in Gaelic--in his own impressive language--for a blessing on his child.

"When I have had such a parting as this, Duncan," he said, afterwards--"and many of them I've had with my brethren, and with more remote but still dear friends--it was the honour of our country and our name that caused the separation. They had girded on the sword, and went to seek distinction in the ranks of war, and on the field of battle.

They went to be soldiers, Duncan; and I could wish that you had been now following their footsteps. But it may be better as it is. Your days may be more, though your reputation should be less. A different destiny seems meted out for you."

But it was in the case of his mother that the parting of little Duncan was most affecting. She held the boy to her bosom, as if she meant that he should never again leave it, and loaded him with all the tender epithets which her memory could supply, and with which the Gaelic language so much abounds. On exhausting these, she proceeded to deplore the approaching separation from her child, in that affecting strain, at once metaphorical and poetical, peculiar to her country on such and similar occasions.

"This day, my Duncan," she said, "the light of the sun is obscured to your mother's eyes, and he s.h.i.+nes not as he did before. The green woods have lost their verdure, and the once sparkling waters of the fountain their brightness. A dark cloud is on the face of the sun, that will long, long remain, though none but your mother's eye will see it; a blight, that she alone can perceive, is on the lovely woods of Ardmoran; and, pure though the waters of the fountain may appear to others, to her, Duncan, they will henceforth seem soiled and discoloured."

Such was the figurative language in which Duncan's mother went on to describe her feelings as they were, and as she antic.i.p.ated they would be; and such was the strain in which she deplored the impending separation from her child.

But this could be but of short duration. The moment of final separation arrived, and Duncan hastened to rejoin his master, who was about to embark in a small sailing vessel (there being then no steamboats on the Clyde) for Greenock.

On going up the river, the boy was observed by the captain of the vessel leaning over the side, and gazing with the most earnest attention at something on the sh.o.r.e. The man's curiosity was excited by the circ.u.mstance, and he asked him what he was looking at so intently.

"Oh, sir," replied Duncan, with great simplicity of manner, "I'm looking at yon beautiful hoose yonder," pointing to a handsome house that stood amidst an embowering wood on the face of a gentle acclivity. "It's the bonniest I ever saw."

"Yes, my man, it's a very fine house," replied the skipper. "Should you like to live in such a house as that?"

The boy looked up in his face and smiled--"That I would, sir; and, if I had plenty of money, I would buy't, for I have never seen such a pretty place."

"Why, man," replied the good-natured seaman, "perhaps you may be able to buy it yet, or at least as good."

Duncan smiled, and shook his head; but, from this moment, the vision of that house took possession of the boy's fancy, by one of those unaccountable and uncontrollable emotions of the mind, which all must have felt in particular instances; and, as long as he lived, he never forgot it. It haunted him in his sleep, and was the frequent resting-point of his memory, when far away in a foreign land. It was, indeed, a boyish fancy; but it was one of those enduring ones that no vicissitudes of after-life have power to efface, but that, on the contrary, grow the brighter, the further they are removed by distance or by time.

Shortly after arriving in Greenock, Duncan's nether man was arrayed, for the first time, in a pair of inexpressibles and the kilt thrown aside.

To these were added a trim short coat, ornamented with the M'Donald livery; and a smart hat, adorned with a gold band--and thus was the first step of Duncan's metamorphosis completed.

For some time, the trousers bothered him a good deal as they felt extremely tight and uncomfortable--not allowing his limbs that freedom of motion which they enjoyed in such perfection beneath the airy envelopes of the kilt; but he in time got used to them, and even allowed latterly that they were a very good contrivance.

Previous to this, however--that is, previous to striking the kilt--Duncan had made several excursions around the town, his master having left him in the hands of the tailor, and gone to see some friends in Glasgow, where he meant to spend a day or two before embarking. One of these excursions included a visit to that paradise of a place that had caught his eye in coming up the Clyde. It was only three or four miles distant; and he found it, on a nearer inspection, all that his fancy had conceived it from a more distant view. But Duncan's curiosity prompting him to venture farther into the enclosed grounds than was permitted to strangers, he was seen by one of the guardians of the place; and his kilt not increasing the man's notions of his respectability, or of the innocency of his intentions, he gave him chase, with a loud whoop and holloa. Duncan saw the enemy approaching, and took to his heels, and finally succeeded in clearing the outermost fence, just in time to save himself from a good drubbing.

This incident, on which he had by no means calculated, disturbed his ideas of his Elysium a little, and convinced him that the beauties he so much admired were not at all intended for the enjoyment of such poor little ragged rascals as himself--that they were reserved for the great and the wealthy alone.

Some days after this, Duncan embarked, with his master, for Jamaica, where they arrived safely, at the end of about the usual period consumed in that voyage. And with this event the first act of our little drama closes. The curtain is dropped, and a distinct division in the story is marked. A brief interval, and the curtain is again raised; but by no means so brief is the time that elapses in the progress of our tale--for this is no less than thirty years.

It was, then, on a fine summer day, precisely thirty years after Duncan M'Arthur had embarked with his master for Jamaica, that a splendid carriage, with servants in livery, was seen rolling along the Gourock road. On coming opposite a certain gate, which led to a handsome house on the face of a low hill (it was the same house which had so much taken the fancy of the little barelegged Highland boy thirty years before), the carriage stopped, and the gentleman who occupied it, seemingly attracted by a large board suspended from a tree, stepped out and read on the latter--"This house and adjoining property on sale."

Having obtained this piece of information, he opened the gate, and walked leisurely up towards the house, carefully examining the grounds as he went along. On arriving in front of the mansion, he was accosted by a feeble old man, who approached him with the most profound respect; and, bowing low, inquired if he wished to inspect the premises. The stranger looked hard for some seconds at the querist, without making any reply; but at length answered, "Yes, my honest man, I do wish to look at the premises. The house and grounds are on sale, I see."

"They are, sir," replied the old man--"and a bonny spot it is."

"The place certainly looks very well," replied the gentleman. "Is the house in good repair?"

"Excellent, sir. The factor, Mr M'Ausline, keeps a' in guid order, baith without and within; kennin it's the only way to bring a customer."

"Ah! he's right there."

The stranger, conducted by the old man, now went through every room in the house, and examined them with a care and minuteness that showed he entertained serious intentions regarding the property. The house inspected, he proceeded to the garden, looked into all the outhouses, and made a general survey of the grounds in the immediate neighbourhood of the house. This done, he slipped a crown-piece into the old man's hand, and returned to his carriage, which was waiting him where he had left it.

On the next day, the very same carriage of which we have spoken drew up before Mr M'Ausline's door; and the lackey having rung the bell, and ascertained that that person was within, the same gentleman who had occupied it on the preceding day jumped out, and entered the house.

On being ushered into the apartment in which Mr M'Ausline was--

"You have, sir, I believe," he said, "the management of the sale of Bellevue House and grounds?"

"I have, sir."

"Well, Mr M'Ausline, I have been looking at them; and if you and I can come to terms, it is not unlikely that I may become the purchaser."

Mr M'Ausline bowed.

"What is the upset price, sir?"

"Twenty-five thousand pounds, sir."

"A long price."

"Why, sir, it's well worth the money," said the factor.