Late one evening, as I was seated on my accustomed stone, my attention was slightly diverted from the sea by the sight of a man descending the crag above me, in rather a perilous manner. With one end of a rope coiled round his body, and the other fastened to a stake driven into the summit of the rock, he let himself half-way down the terrible height. One foot now rested on a projecting point, one hand held the rope, and hanging thus midway in the air, he seemed busy searching in the crevices of the rock, for the eggs of water-fowl. This dangerous trade I had seen frequently plied on this coast, so that I should scarcely have regarded the man if he had not turned, from time to time, as if to watch me. When he saw that he had fixed my eye, he threw down, as I thought, a white stone, which fell nearly at my feet. I stooped to examine it; the man waited till he saw it in my hands, then coiled himself swiftly up his rope to the summit of the rock, and disappeared. I found a paper tied round the stone, and on this paper, in a hand-writing that seemed to be feigned, were written these words:—
“Your life and caracter, one or t’other—say both, is in danger. Don’t be walking here any more late in the evening, near them caves, nor don’t go near the old abbey, any time—And don’t be trusting to Joe Kelly any way—Lave the kingdom entirely; the wind sarves.
“So prays your true well-wisher.
“P.S. Lave the castle the morrow, and say nothing of this to Joe Kelly, or you’ll repent when it’s all over wid you.”
I was startled a little by this letter at first, but in half an hour I relapsed into my apathy. Many gentlemen in the country had received anonymous letters: I had been tired of hearing of them during the rebellion. This, I thought, might be only a quiz, or a trick to hurry me out of the kingdom, contrived by some of those who desired my absence. In short, the labour of thinking about the matter fatigued me. I burned the letter as soon as I got home, and resolved not to puzzle or plague myself about it any more. My steward’s answer came the next morning from England; Kelly made no difficulty, when I ordered him to be ready to set out in three days. This confirmed me in my opinion that the letter was malicious, or a jest. Mr. M’Leod came to take leave of me. I mentioned the circumstance to him slightly, and in general terms: he looked very serious, and said, “All these things are little in themselves, but are to be heeded, as marking the unsettled minds of the people—straws that show which way the wind blows. I apprehend we shall have a rough winter again, though we have had so still a summer. The people about us are too hush and too prudent—it is not their natures—there’s something contriving among them: they don’t break one another’s heads at fairs as they used to do; they keep from whiskey; there must be some strong motive working this change upon them—good or bad, ‘tis hard to say which. My lord, if we consider the condition of these poor people, and if we consider the causes—”
“Oh! for Heaven’s sake, do not let us consider any more about it now; I am more than half asleep already,” said I, yawning; “and our considering about it can do no good, to me at least; for you know I am going out of the kingdom; and when I am gone, M’Leod, you, in whom I have implicit confidence, must manage as you always used to do, you know, and as well as you can.”
“True,” said M’Leod, calmly, “that is what I shall do, indubitably; for that is my duty, and since your lordship has implicit confidence in me, my pleasure. I wish your lordship a good night and a good journey.”
“I shall not set out in the morning; not till the day after to-morrow, I believe,” said I; “for I feel consumedly tired to-night: they have plagued me about so many things to-day; so much business always before one can get away from a place; and then Joe Kelly has no head.”
“Have a care he has not too much head, my lord, as your anonymous correspondent hints—he may be right there: I told you from the first I would not go security for Joe Kelly’s honesty; and where there is not strict honesty, I conceive there ought not to be implicit confidence.”
“Oh, hang it! as to honesty, they are none of them honest; I know that: but would you have me plague myself till I find a strictly honest servant? Joe’s as honest as his neighbours, I dare say: the fellow diverts me, and is attached to me, and that’s all I can expect. I must submit to be cheated, as all men of large fortunes are, more or less.”