Blair Collection > Celtic monthly > Volume 1, 1893

(II K UKLTIC .MONTH LV
he thought of her or not, it would, lie hard to
say. Mairi had been an inmate of his home,
attending upon him night and day, as no other
would have done, bearing with his ill-temper
and passion with a patience that was almost
angelic, for more than seven years now. So
far as was known, she was his only near living
relation, and would have probably been his hen-
had he died intestate. Now that she had dis-
appeared, there was really no relative entitled
to the money he had amassed. The lands would
pass to the heir-at-law ; but the private fortune
of the Laird of Balmayne was no inconsiderable
one.
.Six months had passed since Mairi Stuart's
disappearance. It was a wild, wet day in
December, and the tierce winds driving in from
the Cromarty Firth carried with them a blind-
ing, slashing rain through the valley in which
Balmayne lay. Far oft' the terrible Aultgradh
was roaring and hissing in its narrow bed. It
was the last day of the old year, which was
dying slow and dying hard. In his own cham-
ber alone sat Nicol Adam, brooding over his
smouldering lire, and listening to the wild
tempest, as it shrieked, like a lost spirit, over
the tomb of the year. Balrnayne's face was
gloomy, and the look in his sunken eyes was a
strange, wandering one. Presently he muttered
aloud —
"1 hear them calling on me — Allan Roy and
Janet ; they're calling from the Aultgradh,
' Balmayne ! Balmayne ! come to meet us in
the dark cave ! Come ! come ! ' I must
away ; if I stay here much longer they'll come
to drag me hence. . . . Allan had a son — ay, a
fine boy ; Ronald, he called him; and he lives
still, they say. . . . Aye, he doesn't know 'twas
1 killed* his father; the fool! . . . Who spoke
of him! Was it Mairi? She's gone to him;
she'll not get a penny of my money — not a
penny ! Let her starve . . . and Allan Roy's
son with her.''
Thus muttering, the old man rose and paced
the room with a hasty, uneven step. The mad-
ness that had attacked his brain had been com-
ing on for months now — the result of his wild,
and sinful, and vicious life ; but none knew of
it sa\e his constant attendant, Angus Mae-
dougall, and he knew it was an aberration which
might pass from him at any time.
The old man paused presently, exclaiming
" There it is again ! I must go — I must ! "
He left the room with hasty strides, and in
the hall armed himself with a stout staff, and
put on an old hat and overcoat. Then, un-
noticed by all but one, he went out into the
storm.
It was still the afternoon, but the twilight
was coming down quickly. Struggling in the
teeth of the storm, the "Id man gained the low
pathways which led upwards by the Aultgradh
(the Black River). Here the wind was less
felt, and he could pursue his course with less
difficulty, still impelled onwards by these nivs
terious voices of the long-since dead whom he
had wronged so foully. But as he began to
ascend the sloping pathway, the terrific gusts
of wind almost threw him oft' his feet He
planted his staff more firmly in the ground, and
hurried on. Presently he gained the point
before alluded to, guarded by a slim barricade
of wood. Leaning upon this, one could catch
a glimpse of the fearful abyss below — the black
thread of deep river, churned now into a white
foam, rushing through the rocky gully of smooth
black rock; the bare, leafless trees growing
above, their naked boughs tossing wildly in the
wind like weird gigantic arms, and the moan
among them like that of lost spirits from below.
It was an awful, and terrifying place. The old
man crept toward the wooden fence, a slow
horror growing in his eyes, yet his steps sure
and cautious. His madness was not that of
self-destruction. He little guessed that the
destroyer was behind.
Stealthily creeping behind him was the form
of a man. It was that of Angus Macdougall
who alone had seen him leave the house, and
had followed him, with thoughts of evil form-
ing hastily in his brain. He guessed the half-
insane promptings of remorse born in that
haunted mind, which had driven his master
here: and a vague hope, long-cherished, had
seemed about to be realised at last. Only three
days ago, Balmayne, in a mood of abject terror,
had written a codicil to his will, leaving all his
private property to Macdougall ; but the latter
knew well a change of temper would cancel
that in a moment. Could Balmayne but die
now — not done to death by him, for the knave
was too great a coward for that, but by accident
— all would be well. And as he saw the old
man approach the ricketty wooden fence, a dia-
bolical hope entered Macdougall's heart.
Balmayne was within a few inches of the
brink of the precipice unguarded by the fence,
when Macdougall stole behind, and, putting his
mouth to his master's ear, whispered, in a. loud,
hissing voice —
" They're on you, Balmayne, Allan and Janet
Roy are on you ! Run, for your life ! "
With a violent shudder and a shriek, Nicol
Adam stumbled forward, not glancing behind.
His foot touched a treacherous piece of moss
which had no holding in the ground ; he
stumbled, with another cry ; the moss gave
way. . . .
A shout from behind startled Macdougall ;
and as Balmayne, with the instinct of self-pre-