CHAPTER XIX

THE HOUSE OF FEAR

Night fell as we were walking, and the clouds, which had broken up in
the afternoon, settled in and thickened, so that it fell, for the
season of the year, extremely dark. The way we went was over rough
mountainsides; and though Alan pushed on with an assured manner, I could
by no means see how he directed himself.

At last, about half-past ten of the clock, we came to the top of a brae,
and saw lights below us. It seemed a house door stood open and let out a
beam of fire and candle-light; and all round the house and steading
five or six persons were moving hurriedly about, each carrying a lighted
brand.

“James must have tint his wits,” said Alan. “If this was the soldiers
instead of you and me, he would be in a bonny mess. But I dare say he’ll
have a sentry on the road, and he would ken well enough no soldiers
would find the way that we came.”

Hereupon he whistled three times, in a particular manner. It was strange
to see how, at the first sound of it, all the moving torches came to
a stand, as if the bearers were affrighted; and how, at the third, the
bustle began again as before.

Having thus set folks’ minds at rest, we came down the brae, and were
met at the yard gate (for this place was like a well-doing farm) by
a tall, handsome man of more than fifty, who cried out to Alan in the
Gaelic.

“James Stewart,” said Alan, “I will ask ye to speak in Scotch, for here
is a young gentleman with me that has nane of the other. This is him,”
he added, putting his arm through mine, “a young gentleman of the
Lowlands, and a laird in his country too, but I am thinking it will be
the better for his health if we give his name the go-by.”

James of the Glens turned to me for a moment, and greeted me courteously
enough; the next he had turned to Alan.

“This has been a dreadful accident,” he cried. “It will bring trouble on
the country.” And he wrung his hands.

“Hoots!” said Alan, “ye must take the sour with the sweet, man. Colin
Roy is dead, and be thankful for that!”

“Ay” said James, “and by my troth, I wish he was alive again! It’s all
very fine to blow and boast beforehand; but now it’s done, Alan; and
who’s to bear the wyte[21] of it? The accident fell out in Appin--mind ye
that, Alan; it’s Appin that must pay; and I am a man that has a family.”

[21] Blame.

While this was going on I looked about me at the servants. Some were on
ladders, digging in the thatch of the house or the farm buildings,
from which they brought out guns, swords, and different weapons of
war; others carried them away; and by the sound of mattock blows from
somewhere farther down the brae, I suppose they buried them. Though they
were all so busy, there prevailed no kind of order in their efforts; men
struggled together for the same gun and ran into each other with their
burning torches; and James was continually turning about from his talk
with Alan, to cry out orders which were apparently never understood. The
faces in the torchlight were like those of people overborne with hurry
and panic; and though none spoke above his breath, their speech sounded
both anxious and angry.

It was about this time that a lassie came out of the house carrying
a pack or bundle; and it has often made me smile to think how Alan’s
instinct awoke at the mere sight of it.

“What’s that the lassie has?” he asked.

“We’re just setting the house in order, Alan,” said James, in his
frightened and somewhat fawning way. “They’ll search Appin with candles,
and we must have all things straight. We’re digging the bit guns and
swords into the moss, ye see; and these, I am thinking, will be your ain
French clothes. We’ll be to bury them, I believe.”

“Bury my French clothes!” cried Alan. “Troth, no!” And he laid hold upon
the packet and retired into the barn to shift himself, recommending me
in the meanwhile to his kinsman.

James carried me accordingly into the kitchen, and sat down with me at
table, smiling and talking at first in a very hospitable manner. But
presently the gloom returned upon him; he sat frowning and biting his
fingers; only remembered me from time to time; and then gave me but a
word or two and a poor smile, and back into his private terrors. His
wife sat by the fire and wept, with her face in her hands; his eldest
son was crouched upon the floor, running over a great mass of papers and
now and again setting one alight and burning it to the bitter end; all
the while a servant lass with a red face was rummaging about the room,
in a blind hurry of fear, and whimpering as she went; and every now and
again one of the men would thrust in his face from the yard, and cry for
orders.

At last James could keep his seat no longer, and begged my permission to
be so unmannerly as walk about. “I am but poor company altogether, sir,”
says he, “but I can think of nothing but this dreadful accident, and the
trouble it is like to bring upon quite innocent persons.”

A little after he observed his son burning a paper which he thought
should have been kept; and at that his excitement burst out so that it
was painful to witness. He struck the lad repeatedly.

“Are you gone gyte?”[22] he cried. “Do you wish to hang your father?” and
forgetful of my presence, carried on at him a long time together in the
Gaelic, the young man answering nothing; only the wife, at the name of
hanging, throwing her apron over her face and sobbing out louder than
before.

[22] Mad.

This was all wretched for a stranger like myself to hear and see; and
I was right glad when Alan returned, looking like himself in his fine
French clothes, though (to be sure) they were now grown almost too
battered and withered to deserve the name of fine. I was then taken out
in my turn by another of the sons, and given that change of clothing of
which I had stood so long in need, and a pair of Highland brogues made
of deer-leather, rather strange at first, but after a little practice
very easy to the feet.

By the time I came back Alan must have told his story; for it seemed
understood that I was to fly with him, and they were all busy upon our
equipment. They gave us each a sword and pistols, though I professed my
inability to use the former; and with these, and some ammunition, a bag
of oatmeal, an iron pan, and a bottle of right French brandy, we were
ready for the heather. Money, indeed, was lacking. I had about two
guineas left; Alan’s belt having been despatched by another hand, that
trusty messenger had no more than seventeen-pence to his whole fortune;
and as for James, it appears he had brought himself so low with journeys
to Edinburgh and legal expenses on behalf of the tenants, that he could
only scrape together three-and-five-pence-halfpenny, the most of it in
coppers.

“This’ll no do,” said Alan.

“Ye must find a safe bit somewhere near by,” said James, “and get word
sent to me. Ye see, ye’ll have to get this business prettily off, Alan.
This is no time to be stayed for a guinea or two. They’re sure to get
wind of ye, sure to seek ye, and by my way of it, sure to lay on ye the
wyte of this day’s accident. If it falls on you, it falls on me that am
your near kinsman and harboured ye while ye were in the country. And if
it comes on me----” he paused, and bit his fingers, with a white face.
“It would be a painful thing for our friends if I was to hang,” said he.

“It would be an ill day for Appin,” says Alan.

“It’s a day that sticks in my throat,” said James. “O man, man, man--man
Alan! you and me have spoken like two fools!” he cried, striking his
hand upon the wall so that the house rang again.

“Well, and that’s true, too,” said Alan; “and my friend from the
Lowlands here” (nodding at me) “gave me a good word upon that head, if I
would only have listened to him.”

“But see here,” said James, returning to his former manner, “if they lay
me by the heels, Alan, it’s then that you’ll be needing the money. For
with all that I have said and that you have said, it will look very
black against the two of us; do ye mark that? Well, follow me out, and
ye’ll, I’ll see that I’ll have to get a paper out against ye mysel’;
have to offer a reward for ye; ay, will I! It’s a sore thing to do
between such near friends; but if I get the dirdum[23] of this dreadful
accident, I’ll have to fend for myself, man. Do ye see that?”

[23] Blame.

He spoke with a pleading earnestness, taking Alan by the breast of the
coat.

“Ay” said Alan, “I see that.”

“And ye’ll have to be clear of the country, Alan--ay, and clear of
Scotland--you and your friend from the Lowlands, too. For I’ll have to
paper your friend from the Lowlands. Ye see that, Alan--say that ye see
that!”

I thought Alan flushed a bit. “This is unco hard on me that brought him
here, James,” said he, throwing his head back. “It’s like making me a
traitor!”

“Now, Alan, man!” cried James. “Look things in the face! He’ll be
papered anyway; Mungo Campbell’ll be sure to paper him; what matters
if I paper him too? And then, Alan, I am a man that has a family.” And
then, after a little pause on both sides, “And, Alan, it’ll be a jury of
Campbells,” said he.

“There’s one thing,” said Alan, musingly, “that naebody kens his name.”

“Nor yet they shallnae, Alan! There’s my hand on that,” cried James, for
all the world as if he had really known my name and was foregoing some
advantage. “But just the habit he was in, and what he looked like, and
his age, and the like? I couldnae well do less.”

“I wonder at your father’s son,” cried Alan, sternly. “Would ye sell the
lad with a gift? Would ye change his clothes and then betray him?”

“No, no, Alan,” said James. “No, no: the habit he took off--the habit
Mungo saw him in.” But I thought he seemed crestfallen; indeed, he was
clutching at every straw, and all the time, I dare say, saw the faces of
his hereditary foes on the bench, and in the jury-box, and the gallows
in the background.

“Well, sir,” says Alan, turning to me, “what say ye to that? Ye are here
under the safeguard of my honour; and it’s my part to see nothing done
but what shall please you.”

“I have but one word to say,” said I; “for to all this dispute I am a
perfect stranger. But the plain common-sense is to set the blame where
it belongs, and that is on the man who fired the shot. Paper him, as ye
call it, set the hunt on him; and let honest, innocent folk show their
faces in safety.” But at this both Alan and James cried out in horror;
bidding me hold my tongue, for that was not to be thought of; and asking
me what the Camerons would think? (which confirmed me, it must have been
a Cameron from Mamore that did the act) and if I did not see that the
lad might be caught? “Ye havenae surely thought of that?” said they,
with such innocent earnestness, that my hands dropped at my side and I
despaired of argument.

“Very well, then,” said I, “paper me, if you please, paper Alan, paper
King George! We’re all three innocent, and that seems to be what’s
wanted. But at least, sir,” said I to James, recovering from my little
fit of annoyance, “I am Alan’s friend, and if I can be helpful to
friends of his, I will not stumble at the risk.”

I thought it best to put a fair face on my consent, for I saw Alan
troubled; and, besides (thinks I to myself), as soon as my back is
turned, they will paper me, as they call it, whether I consent or not.
But in this I saw I was wrong; for I had no sooner said the words, than
Mrs. Stewart leaped out of her chair, came running over to us, and wept
first upon my neck and then on Alan’s, blessing God for our goodness to
her family.

“As for you, Alan, it was no more than your bounden duty,” she said.
“But for this lad that has come here and seen us at our worst, and seen
the goodman fleeching like a suitor, him that by rights should give his
commands like any king--as for you, my lad,” she says, “my heart is wae
not to have your name, but I have your face; and as long as my heart
beats under my bosom, I will keep it, and think of it, and bless it.”
And with that she kissed me, and burst once more into such sobbing, that
I stood abashed.

“Hoot, hoot,” said Alan, looking mighty silly. “The day comes unco soon
in this month of July; and to-morrow there’ll be a fine to-do in Appin,
a fine riding of dragoons, and crying of ‘Cruachan!’[24] and running of
red-coats; and it behoves you and me to the sooner be gone.”

[24] The rallying-word of the Campbells.

Thereupon we said farewell, and set out again, bending somewhat
eastwards, in a fine mild dark night, and over much the same broken
country as before.