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Part Fourth.

A week had come and gone, and Mr. Renwick was still our guest. What was the business atween himsel' an’ my faither naebody kent but their twa selves. Many were the private confabs they held; but nothing was said afore folk. I got to hae a likin' for the auld gentleman—he was aye sae canty and pleasant-mannered. An' I may say that the likin' was mutual. Maggie he kind o' endured; but I was his constant companion whenever I could spare time frae my household duties. I mind one mornin' he bade me pit on my hood, and gang wi' him to the shaw at the heed o' the Birkburn. I was only owre weel pleased to be awa' frae Maggie, who seemed to be gettin' mair masterful an camstairy, the nearer she approached the time o' her flittin. That is just one o' the days I will never forget. Mr. Renwick and mysel' went gaily up the wee glen, stopping now an' again to listen till the chant o' the mavis and the cooin' o’ the cushie-doo, while I pu'd deadmen's bells—that's foxglove ye ken—an’ the bonnie hare-bells frae the mossy banks where they nestled. An' he tauld me that in thae far lands where he had spent maist pairt o' his life, there were nae sic sweet-voiced birds, nor ony flowers to equal the spontaneous beauties o' the auld country. His words had a sough o' tender music in them when he went on to express his delight at bein' amang auld sights and sounds again. He said, his one prayer had page 21 been no for gold or gear, but to be permitted to come back to the hame o' his forbears, afore he was ca'd awa. Mony a time sin-syne the same longin' for hame has taken hold o' mysel'; but eh! I hae my children round me, an' my dear auld guidman by my side, and puir Mr. Renwick had neither wife nor wean to bear him company in his wanderings.

I felt convinced that the stranger to whom I was sae powerfully attached kent mair o' the country than he eared to let out. For ac thing he asked at me, was the auld “muckle rowan” still standin'. Now there was only the one, and that was in a neuk no aften frequented. An' when I said—” Aye,“—he didna inquire the way, but went straight till't like one weel acquent wi' the place. But maist extraordinar' o’ a', he ca'd my attention to some letters carved in the trunk o' the tree, sae faintly visible that I hadna noticed them afore, aften as I had gathered berries frae the branches. There they were—” D. R. C.“—The last letter couldna be seen till I had rubbed aff some o' the moss that covered it. “An’ what do they stan' for?” quo' I.

“Well,” he said, “they may be the initials o' Donald Roy, the last laird o' Craigha'; but some say they were placed there lang-syne by a ne'er-do-weel callant, wha brought shame on hunsel and a belonging to him, an' had just sufficient sense to flee awa to the utter-most ends o' the earth, an' obliterate himsel' an’ his shame frae a' human remembrance.”

What could I say? The words “Puir fallow!” just dropped frae my lips without any intervention o' my ain.

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Mr. Renwick turned on me wi' sic’ a sudden jerk that it gart me jump. “Can ye feel ony pity for siccan a wretch?” quo he—wi’ thae shairp een o' his keekin straight through me.

I lookit him in the face an' answered—” Aye, ‘deed can I. I hae nae dout the ‘wretch’ as ye ca' him, suffered far mair than thae whose pride he laid laigh, aiblins by ane semple act o' wrong-doin'; an' it wad hae been muckle mair to their credit as douce Christian folk if they had ta'en the misguided creature by the han' and held him wi' the steadfast grip o' love an' kindness, to save him frae black despair, and bring him back intil the fauld o' righteousness.”

Mr. Renwick gave me such a look as an affectionate parent might bestow on a well-lo'ed child. “Janet,” quo he, “Your mither must hae been a gude woman.”

Aften an' aften hae I thocht upon thae words. “Your mither must hae been a gude woman!” I hope my sons will keep it in mind when they seek mither's for their ain weans. Eh! but it's an awfu' responsibility a man puts on himsel' when he undertakes to provide a mither for his children. Many dinna find it out till it's too late, and the mischief is past mendin'. An' owre aften the warld, the flesh, an' the deevil hae the makin' o’ the contract.

There were twa things needed explanation in Mr Renwick's words. Firstly, how did he ken sae weel to find thae letters in the muckle rowan; an' secondly, in what way had he gotten sic a insight intil their meaning? These questions darted through my mind as soon as my temporary excitement passed owre; an' I must hae shown my thochts in my face. My faither page 23 aften said I couldna' keep a secret by ony possibility, for it came out in big print on my countenance, which, he said,—half daffin', half earnest—was like a horn' lantern showin' a glimmer o' the licht within. Mr. Renwick pit his arm on my shouther in his faitherly way, an' quo he—” Dinna mention onything o' what I hae said to ye till I gae awa.” I pledged my word I would be as silent as the mools. “But,” said I, “there's just ae' think I would be thankfu' to hae made plain to me, and that is—wha was Donald Roy, an' what is the Craigha' that ye spak' o'?”

“Eh!” quo he, seemingly greatly surprised at my ignorance; “Do ye no ken the tradition o' the house? Surely ye maun hae heard o' the auld prophecy:—

When the linn shall be a loch,
An’ the loch shall be a linn,
The laird o' Craigie house,
Craigha’ shall shelter in.”

“No, indeed,” quo I, “but I have aften been tauld o' anither—

When the burnie rin's owre the mountain tap,
An’ the linn than the loch is higher,
The stot shall stable in Craigielinn's house,
An’ the laird shall lie out in the byre.”

“My faither,” I said, “aften dings it intil us, no that he thinks onything o't, but just to exemplify the foolishness o' human beings tryin' to raise the veil o' futurity. ‘I'm the last Cranston o' Craigielinn, says my faither, ‘an’ there's nae sign o' me lyin' out in the byre.’ But I ken its only a fule-verse. What should make the burn rin owre the tap o' the mountain, an how is't possible for the linn to raise aboon the loch?”

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“Aye,” quo Mr. Renwick, “that's sae. But I must inform you that Craigicha' an’ the byre are the same, which makes the last line o' each version o' the prophecy rin alike ye'll observe. There's no difference atween lyin' in the byre, an' shelterin’ in Craigieha'.”

In order that ye may understand this, I must tell ye that just ayont the house, on a steep knowe, commanding a fine view o' the strath, there were the remains o' what had once been a considerable mansion. The only pairt standing was a big hall, wi' a stane floor, an' amazin’ thick walls, in which sma' narrow windows were set at distant an' regular intervals. These were less for givin' licht, it seemed, than for observation an' defence, in the quarrelsome auld days when the hall was set up. The roof was quite gone, but the place made a snug byre for the kye an' was sae used by us. At one end there was a round tower, over an arch which opened on the hall, an' up in the tower there was a covered chamber, which had been a favourite neuk o' mine in wet weather, but just then it was filled wi' odds an' ends o' a’ sorts. This auld ruin was Craigicha' the ancient place o' the Roys, as I learned frae Mr. Renwick, who further tauld me that a' the country round was at one time held by a family o' that name. But it seems that when strife arose atween the king and the people, these Roys took up arms on the wrang side, an' gettin’ the warst o' the argument, their heritage passed away frae them an' fell into possession o' the Craustons. By the “wrang side.” I mean the losin' side, for that's aye in the wrang. The Roys fought for their king; and, a Cranston though I am, my sympathies gae wi them. page 25 We are a' leal subjects o' Queen Victoria now, as is nae mair than fittin'. There's no a man in a' braid Scotland that wadna dee for her; But, eh! there's mony a heart that warms till our ain Stuarts yet, though they're a' dead an' gane lang syne. Weel, when Donald Roy, the last o' his race, was hunted like a tod frae his bield, he prophesied that evil should licht on them to whom house an' lands had been gifted. He said the rivers an' the mountains wad bear testimony against the reivers o' his patrimony,—and that a Cranston should never dee a natural death within the walls o' Craigha'. I ‘m no a believer in the power o' mortal man to ca' the vengeance o' Heaven on his fellow creatures; but strange eneuch, Robert Cranston, the first laird o' that name, was killed by a stane that fell on him as he passed aneath a broken arch. His son swore an awfu' oath that the curse o' Roy should nae mair prevail, for he would destroy the den that had sheltered the ungodly race, as he ca'd them. Sae he pulled down maist o' the auld place, an' wi’ the stones o' Craigha’ he set up the house o' Craigielinn. I hae heard it said, that one day an auld woman, who had been a retainer—some would hae it she was the foster-mother—o’ Donald Roy, cam till the new house when the mason-folk were biggin o't, an' stretching out her bird-like claws, she skirled oot the prophecy I hae writ doun. Folk were awfu superstitions in thae days; an I'm wae to confess that my forbear seized upon the puir auld creature, whose only fault was bein' leal to her chief, an' bindin’ her hand and foot, tumm'led her owre intil the loch aboon the linn. An' because she couldna swim, a' bound as she page 26 was—the right hand till the left tae, and the right tae till the left airm—it was accounted a righteous deed; for they said that her drounin' was proof that she was in league wi' the deil.

Eh, bairns! it's richt to be thankfu' that the livin' generation is mair enlightened in regard o' sic things; but wha kens if they that come after us may not be warranted in entertaining the like pity for our ain ignorance that we hae for the darkness o' them that went afore us.

When Mr. Renwick had done, he pit baith his hands on my shouthers, garrin' me look straight intil his een, an' in a maist emphatic manner he said—” Janet lassie, I ken I'm richt in trustin' ye. That bonnie face o' yours gies a warrant o' fidelity and truth. (He said that.) Bide ye canny an' dinna mention onything.”

I just said, “Aye! aye!”—Nae mair. But he was a man o' large experience, an' he understood me at once. Scoffers are fond o' sayin’ women canna keep a secret. Can they no?—Let them that think sae haud till their opinion. A' the better for the lassies, say I.