GRACE CAMERON.
In the centre of a remote glen or strath, in the West Highlands of Scotland, stands the old mansion-house of the family of Duntruskin. At the time of the rebellion of 1745-6, this house was the residence of Ewan Cameron, Esq., a gentleman of considerable landed property and extensive influence in the country. Mr Cameron was, at the period of our story, a widower, with an only child. This child was Grace Cameron, a fine, blooming girl of nineteen, with a bosom filled with all the romance and high-souled sentiment of her mountain birth and education. In the commotions of the unhappy period above alluded to, Mr Cameron, although warmly attached to the cause of the Pretender, took personally no active part; but he assisted in its promotion by secret supplies of money, proportioned in amount to his means. In the result of the struggle—which, although he was not yet aware of it, had already arrived at a consummation on Culloden Muir—neither he nor his daughter had anything to fear for themselves; but this did not by any means relieve them from all anxiety on the momentous occasion. The father had to fear for many dear and intimate friends, and the daughter for the fate of a lover, who were in the ranks of the rebel army. This lover was Malcolm M'Gregor of Strontian—a warmhearted, high-spirited young man, the son of a neighbouring tacksman, to whom Grace had been long attached, and by whom she was most sincerely and tenderly loved in return. M'Gregor at this period held a captain's commission in the service of the Prince, and had distinguished himself by his bravery in the various contests with the royal troops that had occurred during the rebellion.
Having given this brief preliminary sketch, and advising the reader that the precise period at which our tale opens is on the second day after the battle of Culloden, and the locality a certain little parlour in Duntruskin House, we proceed with our story. Seated in this little parlour, on the day in question, Grace Cameron—occasionally employing her needle, but more frequently pausing to muse on the absent, to reflect on the past, or to anticipate the future—awaited, with intense anxiety, some intelligence regarding the movements and fortunes of the rebel army, with whose fate she deemed her own connected, since it was shared by one who was dearer to her than all the earth besides.
Grace did not expect any special communication on this important subject; but she knew that common fame would soon bring a rumour of every occurrence of consequence which should take place at this interesting crisis. With this expectation, she anxiously watched from her window the approach of every stranger to the house; and, when one appeared, was the first to meet and to question him regarding the events of the day. At length a report reached her, in which all agreed—for her informers had differed widely in others—that a great event had taken place, that a sanguinary battle had been fought; but, this admitted, the usual discrepancies and contradictions followed. Some declared that the Prince's army was defeated, and that a number of his leading men had been killed and taken prisoners; others, with equal confidence, asserted that the rebels were victorious, and that the king's troops were flying in all directions. Elated and depressed by turns by these conflicting rumours, Grace awaited, in dreadful anxiety, some certain intelligence regarding what had taken place. It was while in this state of mind, and while gazing listlessly, and almost unconsciously, from her little parlour window on the wide prospect which it commanded, that her eye was suddenly riveted on one particular spot. This was an abrupt turn in the great road leading to Inverness, which passed Duntruskin House at the distance of about half-a-mile, and from which, at this moment, the sun's rays were suddenly reflected, in bright, brief, and frequent flashes, as if from many surfaces of polished steel. Grace's heart beat violently; for she instantly and rightly conjectured that the dark body which now gradually, but rapidly, came in sight, and from which the coruscations which had first attracted her attention emanated, was composed of armed men; but whether they were rebels or king's troops, the distance prevented her from ascertaining. In this state of doubt, however, she did not long remain. Their rapid approach soon showed her that they were a party of royalist dragoons—a circumstance which threw her into the utmost terror. Nor was this feeling lessened by her perceiving them leave the highway, and make directly for the house. On seeing this, Grace, in the greatest alarm, hastened to seek out her father, whom she found busily engaged in writing, and utterly unconscious of the threatened visit. When informed of it, his countenance became pale, and his whole frame agitated; for he dreaded that his secret connection with the rebels had been discovered, and that he was now about to be apprehended; and these were also the fears of his daughter. Without saying a word, however, in reply to what had just been communicated to him, Mr Cameron threw down his pen, started hastily to his feet, and hurried to the window, beneath which, so rapid had been their motions, the troopers were already drawn up. The commander of the party—for there was only one officer—was a little thickset man, about forty-two years of age, with a red, florid, vulgar countenance, expressive at once of gross sensuality, much indulgence in the bottle, and a total absence of all feeling. In the manner of his dress he evidently affected the military dandy: his shirt neck reached nearly to the point of his nose; his gloves were of the purest white; a showy silk handkerchief was carelessly thrust into his breast, with just enough left projecting to indicate its presence. Notwithstanding this display of finery, however, and in despite of a splendid uniform made after the smartest military fashion of the time, Captain Stubbs was still exceedingly unlike a gentleman, and still more unlike a soldier. The first he was not, either by birth or education; the latter he had neither talents nor energy of character sufficient ever to become. The absence, however, of these qualities in Captain Stubbs was amply supplied by others. He was vain, irascible, conceited, and cruel; brutal and overbearing in his manners; and coarse and utterly regardless of the feelings of others in his language. He was, moreover, both an epicure and a glutton; and, to complete his very amiable character, a most egregious coward.
Having drawn up his party in front of the house as already mentioned, Captain Stubbs, before dismounting, threw a scrutinising glance at several of the windows of the building, as if to ascertain what sort of quarters he might expect—a point with him of the last importance. In the course of this brief survey, his eye alighted on that occupied by Mr Cameron and his daughter, whom he saluted with an insolent and familiar nod. In the next instant he was at the door, where he was met by Mr Cameron himself, with a countenance strongly expressive of the alarm and uncertainty which he felt, and could not conceal, regarding the issue of the interview now about to take place.
On their meeting—"Ha," said Stubbs, addressing the latter, "you are, I presume, Mr—Mr——Hang me, I forget your name, sir! Mine, sir, is Captain Stubbs, of the —— regiment of dragoons. I find your name is in my list of—of"—here the captain (who had by this time been conducted to the dining-room), perfectly indifferent as to the particular of finishing his sentence, began to pull off his gloves, and to detach his spurs from his boots, with the air of one who is determined to be quite at home—"of—of," he continued to repeat, with the utmost disregard of ordinary politeness, and with the most profound contempt for the feelings of his host, who, taking alarm at the ominous hiatus, which he fully expected would be filled up by his being ranked amongst the proscribed, waited patiently and meekly the conveniency of Captain Stubbs—"of—of," repeated the captain slowly, after having divested himself of his accoutrements, and otherwise prepared himself for an hour or two's enjoyment—"of the friends of the government," he at length said; and the words instantly relieved both his host and his daughter from the most dreadful apprehensions. "So I have just beat you up," continued Captain Stubbs, "en passant, as 'twere, to tell you of the total defeat of the rebels, at a place called Culloden, and to have a morsel of dinner—eh, old boy?—and an hour or two's quarters for the men and horses."
"Much obliged for the honour," replied Mr Cameron, ironically, and accompanying the expression with a polite and formal bow; but, at the same time, cautiously guarding against any expression of his real feelings on this occasion, amongst which was a strong inclination to kick the redoubted Captain Stubbs to the door. His prudence, however, prevented him embroiling himself in this or any other way with a visiter who had the means of retaliation so much in his power.
Immediately after making the announcement above recorded, Captain Stubbs added, "And now, Mr—A—a——Pray, what the devil's your name, sir?"
"My name, sir," replied the party interrogated, "is Cameron—Ewan Cameron."
"Ah! Cameron—ay, Cameron," repeated Captain Stubbs, knitting his brows, and endeavouring to look very dignified. "Why, then, sir, I want some brandy and water; and pray, see that some of your fellows look after my horses." Having been provided with, and having swallowed a very handsome modicum of the beverage he had called for, Captain Stubbs went on—"I say, Cameron, can any of your brutes, your Hottentots, prepare me a fowl, à la Condé?"