“Oh, by all means give Helen an opportunity of making friends with real bogies, and in Glen Bogie they must be genuine,” answered Mrs Hardy. “Besides, I cannot help thinking that there really was some ghastly tragedy enacted about here in which the Campbells were concerned. Glen Bogie may be the very spot.”
“Oh, I hope so,” exclaimed Helen, turning quite pale.
Suddenly Donald checked the pony’s pace, and his own half-dancing ambling steps, as, after passing a few thatched cottages roughly built of stone, they came in sight of a moderately-sized house, with wings added apparently as they were required; out-buildings and farm-house, surrounded by stately beech and spreading gene or wild cherry-trees. Immediately in front of the house, which, like most Highland mansions, was slated and white-washed, a lawn, shaded by fine trees, sloped towards the lake, where two boats were moored close to a boat-house; while the adjoining portion of the slope was laid out in a garden, now basking in the sunshine.
“Tread lightly, Sandie; there’s sorrow and pain at hand,” said Donald, in a tone so mournful and different from the wild, half-scoffing manner he had before adopted, that a thrill of apprehension ran through the whole party. “There’s sorrow yonder in the house of Glennaclach, and no cheering welcome for the Sassenach strangers.” His keen wandering glance had discovered one of the boats now moored to the shore, rowed hastily across the loch a few minutes before, and two figures hurrying up from it to the house. One of these he knew to be the only doctor in the glen. There were other signs of alarm and confusion; servants hastening to and fro, cottagers meeting and pausing as if to ask questions; and with all his wildness, half of which was but assumed to excite an interest which flattered his weak intellect, poor Donald was an acute observer, and sincerely attached to the family of the laird of Glennaclach, so that he readily took alarm. To the travellers, not perceiving the tokens by which he formed his suggestion, it had all the effect of the supernatural.
“Go you forward alone, Misther Hardy,” said Donald, addressing him for the first time; “and if there’s a welcome for you, come back and fetch the ladies, and,”—here he designated Bayntun by a certain contemptuous turn of the chin towards him.
“But why should you doubt it, Donald?” asked Hardy.
“Go you forward, Misther Hardy, or I maun go myself,” repeated Donald impatiently, and holding the pony firmly, as if determined that he at least should not proceed.
To humour him, Hardy followed his directions, but as he neared the house, a sound fell upon his ear which alarmed him; a boyish voice uttered a suppressed moan of intense suffering, repeated, yet apparently controlled by an effort. Seeing him pause, one of the group of people who stood with grief and terror in their countenances outside the door came towards him.
“Make haste, sir, if you are a doctor and can do him any good. He is not dead, though I never thought to hear the sound of his voice again when the tree gave way with him, and I saw the bonnie lad go down over the crags like a stane.”
“What has happened?” inquired Hardy. “I am no doctor, but I will gladly give any help I can.”