Giles turned and ran down the glen, saw his charge safely deposited in the carriage, and, mounting beside the coachman, drove more leisurely to the Tower.
Before they had been very long away, the chaise arrived from Portoran. The infant’s sufferings were abated; it had sunk into a troubled, exhausted sleep. Mr. Lumsden filled the chaise immediately with the feebler members of the houseless community. It was arranged that the rest should walk to Portoran—it was twelve miles—a weary length of way, where the minister pledged himself they should find accommodations. Big Duncan and Roderick Macalpine voluntarily remained in the glen, to protect the household goods of their banished people.
The chaise had driven off—the pedestrians were already on the high road. Duncan and Roderick, wrapped in their plaids, had seated themselves by the peat-fire in Duncan’s roofless dwelling.—The stern composure upon the faces of these two men, lighted by the red glow of the fire, as they sat there in the rapidly darkening twilight, told a tale of the intense excitement of that day, and now of the knawing sorrow, the weight of anxiety that possessed them. Mr. Lumsden stood at the door, his pony’s bridle in his hand.
“Mind what I have said,” he cried, as he left them. “Keep up your hearts and do not despair. You will not need to leave the country—you will find friends—only keep up your hearts and be strong. God will not forsake you.”
They returned his good-night with deep emotion. This peaceful glen, that yesternight had slept beneath the moonbeams in the placid sleep of righteous and honorable labor—strange policy that could prefer some paltry gain to the continuance of the healthful homejoy of these true children, and heirs of the soil!
The two Macalpines sat together in silence, their eyes fixed on the red glow of the fire before them. By-and-by Roderick’s gaze wandered—first to the numberless little domestic tokens round, which spoke so pitiful a language—the basket of cakes was still on the table, the “big wheel” at which Jean Macalpine had been spinning so busily on the previous night, stood thrust aside in the corner. His eyes stray further—through the vacant window-frame he saw, upon the other side of the Oran, his own roofless house; he saw the cradle from which his child had been hurriedly snatched, lying broken within; he saw the household seat in which, only some five winters since, he had placed bonnie Jeanie Macalpine, a bride then, the mother of three children now. His hearth was black—his house desolate—Jeanie and her heart failed him: “Oh, man! Duncan!” exclaimed poor Roderick, as he hid his face in his hands in an agony of grief.
Big Duncan Macalpine’s dark eyes were dilated with the stern and passionate force of his strong resolution; his clear, brave, honest face was turned steadfastly towards the fire.
“Roderick,” he said, emphatically, “I daurna trust mysel to look about me. Keep your eyes away from the ruined houses—look forward, man. Have I no my ain share? is my house less desolate than yours?”
In the meantime, Giles Sympelton had arrived with his charge at the Tower; and having seen the sick youth placed in a warm room, with kindly hands about him, and the old people settled comfortably by the great kitchen fire, was finally solacing himself after the labors of this strangely exciting day, at Mrs. Catherine’s well-appointed dinner-table, with Mrs. Catherine herself opposite him. She was singularly kind. In spite of much temptation, and many bad associates, Giles Sympelton had remained unsophisticated and simple. The fear of ridicule, which might in other circumstances have induced him to resist the attractions of this stately old lady, with whom he had been brought so strangely in contact, was removed from the lad now—he gave way to the fascination. With natural naivete and simplicity, he told her his whole brief history; how of late he had written very seldom to his father; how he had become disgusted with Fitzherbert, and disliked Gillravidge, and was so very sorry for “poor Sutherland;” how he vowed never to enter Lord Gillravidge’s house again, if “that noble fellow, Macalpine,” were turned out of his; and, finally, how determined was he to keep his vow—to send for his servant, and his possessions, and to go into Portoran that very night: he was resolved not to spend another night in Strathoran.
“I have houseroom for you,” said Mrs. Catherine. “Let your servant bring your apparel here—I am not straitened for chambers. You have done good service to the Macalpines, as becomes a young heart. I rejoice to have you in my house. You should send for your man without delay.”