Campbell replied that since he found that her love to him was still unaltered, he would become more reconciled to his hard fate; that her kind and loving words had infused him with fresh hopes; that her father, in the natural course of things, before many years had passed away, would go to his fathers, and that till that event took place he would patiently wait for his loving Mary. He then handed her the ring which he intended to place on her finger on the day of her nuptials, saying, ‘Take this and keep it till we meet again.’
She took the ring with mingled feelings of joy and sorrow—of joy, because she could look at it as a memento of their engagement; of sorrow, because it would remind her of an absent lover. After looking intensely at it for some time she carefully placed it in her bosom, saying, ‘I, too, will give you a pledge of our betrothal, it was intended to be worn on your breast at our wedding,’ and she then handed him a knot of blue ribbon, made by herself, and having both their initials wrought in it with golden silk thread. Taking a parting embrace of each other, they wept long and bitterly, and with heavy hearts separated, it might be, for ever.
During this conversation they sat on the south side of an elevated spot overlooking Loch-Seaforth, and when they parted she went direct to Marrig House, while he went in the direction of Stornoway, with the view of procuring employment as a seaman on board some vessel. Many a look did he give towards Marrig, between Athline, at the head of Loch-Seaforth, and Araidh Bhruthaich, the Shealing of the Ascent, in Lochs, made famous in local tradition as the place where the Irish plunderers lifted Donald Cam Macaulay’s cattle in his absence while he was away on business at the Flannel Isles, and for which act they paid with their lives; for Donald overtook them at Loch-Seaforth, and slew every one of them.
Stornoway is twenty-six miles north of Marrig; and though the evening was far advanced ere Campbell left, he arrived at the capital of the Lews before many of the good citizens had retired for the night. One would have thought that, after travelling upwards of fifty miles that day, he would have slept pretty soundly; but such was not the case. The thought of what had occurred at Marrig disquieted his mind so much, that it almost became unhinged. Sleep, usually the sweet and refreshing balm to the weary traveller, left him to writhe on a sleepless pillow. No wonder, then, that the first peep of daylight found him in the neighbourhood of the old castle of Stornoway—then the seat and stronghold of the once famous Chief of Siol Thorcuil—sauntering on the sandy beach, and peering out into the placid blue water of the bay, in the hope of descrying some ship to take him away from the scene of his present sorrow. He did not long look in vain, for he soon noticed a vessel lying some distance off; and presently a small boat coming for a supply of water left her for the shore. The ship, which had shortened her cable before the boat had put off, he found, was bound for Holland.
‘Short of men?’ exclaimed Campbell, as the boat touched the beach.
‘Would ship one good hand,’ one of the sailors replied.
‘All right; here he is,’ responded Campbell, who, as soon as the casks were full, accompanied the sailors to the vessel. He was engaged at once; the ship weighed anchor, and proceeded to sea. Campbell having now left the Hebrides, we shall return to Harris and note affairs at Marrig.
Several years had passed away before Mary Macleod thoroughly recovered from the effects of the shock produced by her bitter disappointment. She mourned long and sorrowfully for her absent lover, and feared she would never see him more. Her lamentations were so pitiful, she grew so terribly thin and wan, that her father was sorely grieved that he could not undo what he had done. ‘Woe to me,’ he often exclaimed, ‘for killing my daughter. She is rapidly sinking to an untimely grave.’ Although some of Mary’s former admirers returned with the full ardour of their love as soon as Campbell had left the island, and pressed their suits with renewed zeal, she politely but firmly rejected their proposals, with the saying, ‘I am not yet a widow.’
Five years had now almost passed away since Mary Macleod and Archie Campbell parted, and still no tidings reached her of his whereabouts. She knew not whether he was dead or alive. At that time some of the sailors belonging to a large ship which came into Loch-Seaforth for shelter called one evening for milk at Marrig House; and in conversation with them it transpired that their vessel, then in Loch-Seaforth, was the identical ship in which Campbell sailed from Stornoway five years before; that he never left her until he was accidentally drowned in the Bay of Biscay four years afterwards; that, by his kind and obliging manner, he became a general favourite with all his comrades, all of whom deeply lamented his loss. This unexpected intelligence acted upon the forlorn and broken-hearted maiden as if struck by lightning. She uttered a wild and piercing scream, and fell fainting on the floor. During the excitement that followed the sailors made their exit, and proceeded to their ship, which weighed anchor next morning and disappeared; so that the fair maiden had now lost further opportunity of obtaining any additional information she might desire about her lover. Sad and melancholy as she had been hitherto, she was now depressed and cheerless in the extreme. Refusing to be comforted, she moaned and sighed day and night for weeks and months together. Nothing apparently could rouse her spirits from the deep melancholy which had taken possession of her. She continued thus for nearly two years, during which time she was all but a hermit. She was often visited, it is true, during those solitary years by many admirers, who used all the fair words at their command to press their suit upon her, but she invariably answered that she ‘did not yet tire of her widow’s weeds.’ Eventually, however, she became gradually more cheerful, and took some pleasure in society; and ultimately went and sang and danced at local balls and other fashionable gatherings as in days long gone by.
Of all Mary Macleod’s admirers Macleod of Hushinish was her greatest favourite; and some three years after she obtained intelligence of Campbell’s death, she consented to become his wife, with the full consent of the father and other relations, and the day of their espousal was fixed. The preparations for the wedding, which was to be on a grand scale, were necessarily extensive. The liquors consisted of whisky, rum, gin, and brandy. The marriage ceremony was, according to the usual custom, to be performed in her father’s house, whither the officiating clergyman had been invited several days previously. For some days prior to the marriage a strong gale of wind blew from the south, and the barometer gave every indication of its continuance. This proved a fortunate circumstance for the bride’s father, whose stock of gin and brandy had become somewhat limited at the very time when it was most required; for, two days previous to that of the marriage, a foreign vessel had put into Loch-Seaforth to shelter from the storm, and from this ship he procured an addition to the necessary supply of spirits. On account of the liberal terms on which the captain supplied him, Fear Mharig invited him and the first mate to the wedding. The captain—a middle-aged burly man, with a well tanned face—was, as became his position, dressed in a suit corresponding to his rank; but the mate, who seemed about thirty years of age, with brown, but well-fared face, of ordinary height and handsome figure, was dressed in the garb of an ordinary seaman.