THE LAIRD OF KINLOC H. BY ELIZABETH YOUATT. "There is not a ruin old and grey, E. V. Grace Hamilton (so runs the legend) was the prettiest girl in all Scotland; and appears to have been by no means unaware of this important fact. Report said that she was to be married to her cousin Dugald, the Laird of Kinloch; but al- The bells were ringing merrily as he entered though his attentions were evidently far from the village. "Can they have heard of my good disagreeable, no engagements existed between fortune, and are thus celebrating my return?" them beyond the gratification they always ex- thought the Laird, in his joyous exultation. But perienced in each other's society. Grace was so just then a gay wedding party emerged from the young, and her cousin so confident in an affec-old kirk, and came towards the spot where he tion that had perhaps, after all, more of imagina- sat reining in his impatient steed. tion than reality in it, that he put off the important question from day to day, thinking, man like, it was but to ask and be accepted, until it was too late. also, and struck with remorse, or conscious of the vainness of his plans, made all haste to facilitate the departure of his guest, who started with a light heart for his native home. Summoned away tend the death-bed of an aged relative in England, the young Laird had only time to forward a hastily written note, accompanied by a bouquet of flowers, to his fair cousin; who placed them in her bosom, with many tears and kisses. His friend and schoolfellow, John Drummond, went with him the first few stages, to whom he opened his heart freely; declaring his long and passionate love, and that none but Grace Hamilton should be Lady of Kinloch. at a few hours' notice to at "That is supposing she should be willing to accept the honour intended her." Oh, I have no fear of that!" replied Dugald, with a light and merry laugh. Drummond laughed too, and there was a sneer on his proud lip. Dugald's relative did not long survive; but months passed away before he could get all settled to return to Scotland, during which he put off writing from time to time, preferring to tell Grace himself the good news of his increased wealth, and that without her it would be valueless indeed. It chanced that the lawyer at whose house Dugald resided during his abode at the metro polis had an only daughter, not pretty, but gentle-eyed and sweet-tempered, with a voice like music; and it was more than whispered that it was on her account that the settlements were so long delayed, in hopes that she might win the Laird. If it were so, poor Edith was no party in a scheme by which her happiness was wrecked for ever. Dugald noticed at length that she looked pale and sad, but never guessed the and after a time her father observed it truth; "What, Dugald! can it be possible!" exclaimed one of the guests, a distant relative of his own. "We should have written to ask you to the wedding, but no one knew where you were to be found. But it matters not since you have arrived in time after all. Here, Grace, the Laird of Kinloch has returned." Dugald hastily dismounted from his horse, and the crowd falling back a little, the two cousins stood face to face. The bride trembled at first, turning as pale as her white robe; but presently recovering her usual composure, welcomed him back with a sunny smile and outstretched hand. Poor Dugald! he saw only the glittering ring upon that slender finger-the proud look, half mockery, half defiance of her bridegroom, John Drummond; and turning away without a word, rode desolate and grief-stricken to his lonely home, where he flung himself down and wept like a child. But ever from that day the fountain of his tears seemed frozen up. The change of years swept over him all at once; and he came forth again into the world, a stern and gloomy misanthrope--grey-headed, heart-seared, and reckless what became of him. Many attempts were made to bring about a reconciliation between the two families; while others, exasperated by Drummond's treachery to their kinsman, would fain have had the matter adjusted by the sword. Poor Grace trembled when these reports reached her. And then came the certain intelligence that Dugald had rejected their counsel with a proud scorn; his very words being repeated with a fearful exactness-" She is not worth risking one's life for; and I am well rid of both mistress and friend." The young bride bowed down her head in tearless agony; she dared not weep, for Drum fierce hatred towards his kinsman, with which he watched over his infancy. mond's eyes were ever upon her with a stern and watchful vigilance. Perhaps he suspected, what was indeed the real truth, that Grace had always The Lady of Kinloch never exchanged a word loved her cousin; and it was this which had made with her beautiful rival; but nevertheless they him repeat, with a thousand exaggerations, the always looked kindly at each other when they Laird's too confident assurance that he had but chanced to meet. And there was a world of to ask and have; so skilful in working upon her hidden sympathy between these two heart-broken woman's pride-her wounded affection; and so women that dared not betray itself in words, careful to gain every intelligence of his acquaint- Grace Drummond was also a mother, and Edth ance with, or love, as he more than hinted, for wept when the child died; and was careful not the gentle Edith, which had so long detained him to take her own blooming boy to any place where from his home. What was Grace to do? She the sight of him might remind the bereaved had no reason to distrust him. Could it be that parent of her loss and so rejoiced when she she had indeed given away her heart unasked, heard some time afterwards that another little and that the gift had been despised? At this girl had been given to gladden their lonej time not a word nor a line came from Dugald― | hearth. only a flying rumour set about by Drummond, of his approaching marriage with Edith Grey. And in a moment of weakness and despair, of womanly retaliation, she yielded her hand to his too successful rival. Had Dugald suspected aught of this, it might have softened his heart towards her; but he never did until long after she was in her grave. Within a brief period of his departure from London, the Laird returned abruptly to his old quarters. Edith was watering a little flower he had given her; and burst into tears upon seeing him so changed. "You are ill," said she, anxiously. "And does that grieve you?" Soon after the young Laird had attained s ninth year, a fever broke out in the village, të which his gentle mother fell a sacrifice, with many others, and among them John Drun mond. But Dugald scarcely missed her in his joy that the child was spared. Neither did the early death of her husband serve to soften the violence of his feelings towards poor Grace who was thus left with her little girl wholly u provided for. "She will wish now," said he, bitterly, "that she had accepted the Laird of Kinlochonly for his gold!" Fresh attempts were made about this time to bring the cousins together, but without success; "Oh, yes, indeed! But my father will be so and Dugald even went so far at length ato glad to see you again." "Not when he knows that I am come to steal away his treasure," said the young Laird, with a mocking sneer. But Edith's eyes were cast down and she saw it not; while the words made her heart throb with a wild hope. Dugald drew her gently towards him, and felt a strange triumph, wholly unmingled with pleasure, in winning from her the artless confession of her long concealed attachment. In less than a month after this interview the gentle Edith became Lady of Kinloch; and started with him for her new home, full of a thousand joyful anticipations of future happiness. Dugald had never told her, and the young bride was too timid to inquire into the cause of his evident uneasiness and frequent fits of gloomy despondency; believing in the sanguine trustfulness of her affectionate nature that it would soon pass away; that she could win him to brighter thoughts, or at least share and soften this heavy affliction, whatever it might be, by her ready sympathy. Too soon did she learn the real truth, that her husband's heart never had been, and never could be hers; and yet she could not recal her own, but clung to him still with a patient meekness, a loving tenderness, that all his harshness and unkindness could not dim or wear out. Poor thing! she had a weary life of it, but she never complained. The birth of a young heir, within a year after their marriage, completed the triumph of Dugald, by cutting off all chance of the Drummond family succeeding to the estate; and many were the mingled feelings of natural affection for the boy, and forbid her name being mentioned in his presente Years passed away, bringing with them le of change in that quiet place. The young Lad was a general favourite; he had all his mother's sweetness of disposition and sanguine trusta! ness of heart, and seemed doomed, like her, t sorrow and disappointment. Never very strong he had of late evinced such evident tokens of health as to awaken many an anxious fear in the breast of his father, whose tenderness filled hir. with hope and joy. "Is there nothing that I can do for you, son ?" asked he, one evening as they sat together. "Oh, yes, if you would!" replied Per eagerly." It is in your power alone to give me life and happiness." "If I would?" repeated Dugald half reproach fully. Percy, my very existence is bound up in yours. She, you know who I mean, must neve: inherit Kinloch!" "There is no fear of that—Grace Drummond is dying!" "But she has a daughter," said the stern old man, in the same unmoved tone. "Yes, good and beautiful as an angel!" "Ah! you have seen her?" Aye, and love her above the whole world! Father, give her to me, and let all enmity be buried in the grave of her unfortunate parents The Laird's face was fearful to look up but still more fearful was it to hear the torrent of passionate words which burst forth like a lava flood. Percy was glad to escape from his presence; and as he went forth into the bright su shine, other and less gloomy thoughts succeeded, "He has no one but me," reasoned the young hair. "That he loves me I am certain; and after a time he will love her also, for my sake. Oh, who can help loving dear Gracy!" Scarcely conscious whither he was bending his steps, he soon found himself on the road to her humble dwelling, and entered as usual unannounced. Gracy was kneeling beside the bed, and springing up at the sound of his voice, flung herself weeping upon his bosom. "I am so glad you are come !" exclaimed she. "I have only you now, Percy! Oh, my mother! my poor mother!" Touched by her loneliness, by her innocent affection, the young Laird pressed her to his breast, and vowed to be everything to her henceforth; while Gracy believed him, and suffered herself to be soothed and comforted. Mrs. Drummond was buried in the old graveyard of her native place; the broken heart and weary spirit had found rest at last. Percy half hoped that this sad event would have had some effect upon his stern parent; but in vain, the old man remained wholly unmoved amid the general sorrow. It was in vain also that he attempted to renew a conversation which the Laird looked upon as a fearful dream. "It may be," thought Percy," that he is too proud ever to give his consent to our union; but when once over will be easily won to forgive us." How apt we are in believing what we hope. Gracy was but seventeen when she married her cousin, as she always called him; and Percy, scarcely three years older. The ceremony took place at a remote village some miles off, from whence they immediately returned to Kinloch. Knowing the violence of his father's disposition, and half dreading its first wild outbreak, Percy left his young bride at a neighbouring cottage, while he went forward alone, promising to return for her very soon. And so he did, much sooner than Gracy expected; but his face was pale, and his slight form quivered with emotion. "Gracy," said he, in answer to her eager questioning, "I have no father!" We are both equally parentless, and must henceforth live for one another !" "Is that difficult?" asked the young wife, elinging to him. "And can you bear poverty and hardship for years-perhaps for ever?" "Yes, anything with you! Indeed, Percy, all this grieves me only for your sake. I am used to suffering and privation. Besides, he may forgive us after a time." Never!" was the gloomy reply. "He never forgives !" Gracy shuddered; it was a sad bridal, and sadder days to come. Once again the peace-makers sought to interfere between father and son, but with no better success. And although the estate itself must necessarily belong to Percy upon the old Laird's death, many weary years of struggling poverty might intervene; and he dared not wish it otherwise. Too proud to accept the scanty, but kindly offerings of his friends and kinsmen, and despairing of any reconciliation being effected, Percy, some six months after his marriage, went to England in search of employment; Gracy, at his earnest request, remaining in the vicinity of Kinloch, for his heart yet clung to the stern old man who had ever been kind to him. "If he could but see her!" thought the fond husband. "Oh, if they could but meet!" This separation was a hard trial for both of them, but it seemed to be for the best. The consciousness of how much depended upon his exertions, together with the total change of air and scene, gave Percy new strength; and when he returned for a few weeks after the birth of his first child, every one noticed what a fine, handsome looking man he had grown. proud Gracy was of him; she could scarcely bear to part with him again; but the term of his absence was already expired, and he dared not exceed it. How "Bear it a little longer, dearest!" whispered he, soothingly. "Who knows what may come to pass? I never receive a letter from you but I wonder whether it contains a forgiveness. The child may be a new link of sympathy between us. Any how, I shall soon have earned sufficient for our humble wants, and will return to live and die among my own people in my native land.” Long did Gracy ponder over her husband's parting words-"The child may be a new link of sympathy between us"-and blamed herself for having made so few efforts to win him back to the home and rank of which love for her had deprived him. And one summer day, without saying a syllable to any one, she took her boy in her arms, and went straight to Kinloch, and into the very presence of its stern owner. Poor Gracy! it was a vain trial, and cost her many and bitter tears; but she never told Percy of it for fear of grieving him. The old domestic who had admitted her lost a situation which he had held for five-and-twenty years, and was turned out a beggar in his declining age. But he never complained; declaring that the smiles and caresses of the infant, who took to him wonderfully, more than made amends for all, and so remained with them in her humble home until better days came round. Kinloch, at the time of which we write, was fast mouldering away. That part in which the Laird resided had been rebuilt, and its modern and comfortable appearance contrasted strangely with the more ancient portion of the castle. A lover of the picturesque would have found much cause for discontent in so incongruous a mixture; and the utilitarian in his turn have wondered why those tottering and even dangerous ruins were left to cumber the ground. Very sweet and solemn it was to see the moonlight shining through the broken arches on a winter's night; but in the home part, where one looked naturally for something more of life and social happiness-for the glimmering of household lamps, flitting from window to window-for the smilingly towards its grandfather, the fading sunlight still glistening upon its golden hair. And now the old man knew that it was an angel he had seen, sent in that likeness to preserve him; and falling upon his knees, returned thanks to God. fire-light leaping up merrily on the wide hearth, the very moonbeams fell cold and mockingly. A high ivy-grown wall ran along the east side of the castle, skirting a narrow path, where the Laird was wont to pace up and down by the hour together; it had been a favourite spot with him from a child, and led to the castle gate, a Great was the terror and excitement of the short distance from which stood the little cot- domestics of Kinloch when they missed the old tage where Gracy had taken up her abode. Laird, and remembered having last seen him Here it was that the old man came in thought-walking, as was his wont in the narrow garden, ful mood one still summer evening. His step was feeble and tottering, and his white hair waved to and fro in the soft wind. How often had he walked there when a child; or in after years, heedless of the lapse of time, with his cousin Grace Hamilton, weaving ivy-wreaths for that fair brow, prophetic of the dark shadow to come. Here also had he watched the bounding footsteps of the youthful Percy, the sole idol of his heart and home. Poor Edith! she did not even mingle in his dreams; he had forgotten her; and yet she loved and clung to him to the last. The sun was just setting, and as Dugald looked thoughtfully up, he distinctly saw standing upon the wall immediately between him and its parting rays, the form of his little grandson, whom he had unavoidably encountered more than once in his walks, and recognised in an instant, its golden hair glittering in the sunlight. The child seemed to know him also, and beckoned smilingly. Shuddering at the perilous situation of the unconscious infant, the Laird involuntarily turned away, lest it should fall from that giddy height and be dashed to pieces before his very eyes. A sudden revulsion of feeling stole over his heart-a strange pity for that little child, and indignation against the carelessness of those who had the charge of it; and, prompted by an irresistible impulse, he quickened his feeble steps, and passing through the half-ruined gate-way, without daring to look again, stood a few moments afterwards in the presence of his daughter your voice." What child?" asked Gracy, shuddering; for she feared that he was going mad. "Your own; you have suffered him to wander away, and I saw him but now on the high wall yonder; but remember to speak gently; one false step and he is lost!" Gracy uncovered the little cot by her side, and pointed to her sleeping boy. But before either could speak again there was a heavy crash, like an earthquake, and the old ivy-grown wall fell with a loud noise, choking up the narrow garden with stones and rubbish ; while the child, startled by the sound, awoke and stretched out its arms now completely blocked up with stones. Friends and kinsmen poured in at the first rumour of the sad accident, and a diligent search was immediately commenced among the rubbish for the dead and mangled body which they expected every moment to encounter. Some said it was a judgment on him for his harshness; but God is ever more merciful than men. Others even rejoiced for his son's sake; while one or two went at length to break the news to Percy's young wife, the future Lady of Kinloch. What a scene presented itself upon entering her humble abode! There was the missing Laird seated comfortably in an arm-chair, with his little grandchild on his knees, and Gracy nestling fondly at his feet, holding his withered hand in both of hers. The men withdrew in silence and unperceived, and went thoughtfully back to announce the good news of the Laird's safety; and when they told what else they had seen, it seemed good news indeed; although they were curious to know how the reconciliation so long despaired of had been brought about. That night the old man learned for the first time how well and vainly he had been beloved, together with the arts that had been used to separate them; and how his sweet cousin Grace had died at length broken-hearted, and yet blessing and forgiving him, and at peace with all the world. Dugald dared not curse the destroyer of them both; he cursed only his stern relentless cruelty, and bowing down his grey head, wept in his vain agony and remorse. Gracy spoke lovingly to him, with a voice and smile so like her mother, that he could almost have fancied she had come back again; and when he was a little more composed, accompanied him at his own request back to Kinloch. No word was uttered as they entered the long-deserted halls; the little golden-haired child clinging to the hand of its aged grandfather; but there were tears in every eye, and deep repressed sobs spoke their welcome home. Gracy tried to smile as she looked round upon the kind and sympathizing group, but ended by weeping also. That night, when the household assembled for family prayer, the old Laird repeated to them with much solemnity the singular interposition of Providence to which he owed his present safety, and was heard and believed with an earnest and simple faith. After which they all knelt down and prayed; none present got that scene. ever for The heir of Kinloch was speedily summoned back to a home which wanted only his presence to render it the brightest and happiest in all Scotland. Many prophesied that the little golden-haired child would not live long; but he grew up nevertheless to man's estate, and was remarkable only for the depth and fervour of his religious sentiments. During his lifetime the few remaining ruins of Kinloch were razed to the ground, and a small church built where the old ivy-grown wall used to stand, in memory of the tradition of his childhood. Such is the legend of Kinloch related to this day by the simple inhabitants of the place, with a touching solemnity deeply expressive of their own faith in its truthfulness. LYRA. BY THE AUTHOR OF "TITIAN." Still-still, fair Lyra! pour along And if no instant burst of praise For Flattery's honeyed words will throng While Admiration-eye and ear- And thus, my Lyra! pour along To her vermeil lip of Júly Me obeyinge (oft unrulie), Violet and folded rose She prest-and then they sought repose, But, O strange surprise! O feare! Our hearts bode some cominge ill, I cried-" For thee, sweete sainte! their lives they've given; Mortals, they must die, ere taste of Heaven!"' REMINISCENCES OF NORTH WALES. 46 No. II. THE RUINED TOWER. BY F. ENOCH. I stood upon the ruined to'r Stood 'neath the banner at the gate, Beaumaris-on thy ruined form Wild flowers bloom, and ivy clings; Gone the inspired notes that gush'd From Freedom's glowing fonts alone; Tomb of the bards!-how like art thou Embosom'd in a scene so rare! As the wave's song-whose tide's as strong * Tradition describes this castle as the site of the massacre of the bards." |