CHAPTER XXII.

MIST ON THE MOUNTAIN.

November, with its chilly winds, finds Roland a traveller in Scotland. He has the directions given by his mother, and has to cross a mountain region in a stage, ere he reaches his native village. It is a lonely journey, for he is the only passenger; and a heavy Scotch mist is rapidly falling over the dreary landscape; distant mountains are first enveloped, then trees and bushes, and last even the scattered houses along the road-side, until all is darkness and gloom.

He had heard of a Scotch mist, but could never have conceived of anything so murky, so dense, and yet behind it all was the bright and cheering sun. So is the experience of human life, often enveloped in heavy clouds, shrouded in darkness; yet beyond, God our Father sits guiding the changes of our destiny.

Evening approached--no human beings could be seen; and nothing disturbed the solitude, save the muffled lowing of the cattle through the heavy atmosphere, the bleating of sheep, and the faint tinkling of the bells which they wear to direct their guides.

No signs betokened their approach to human habitations; as yet no beacon pointed to his native village, and there may be no voice of kindred to welcome him to his mother's home. So impenetrable was the darkness, that the stage stopped for the night. It was a gloomy period in Roland's young life--but never did the brave spirit forget his motto; "Looking aloft!" through mist, through clouds and darkness, he slept the blessed rest of perfect trust. He woke in the morning to see the first bright rays of the rising sun beaming through his shutters; opening them, Roland looked out upon a scene of surpassing grandeur; lofty mountains in the distance, range after range, over which the sun was rising in all his majesty, thick heavy woodland wearing the dusky hues of autumn, flocks of sheep under the care of their guides, here and there the shepherds' huts, and over all, the bright sunlight flooding the landscape with his glory, and tinging the clouds of mist with prismatic hues, as they rolled away, and mingled with the higher atmosphere, leaving the landscape all revealed.

Roland was cheered by the sight. "So may it be at last with my destiny," thought the youth; "if I seek God's glory in all, he will fulfil his promises." After a hearty breakfast of hot bannocks and milk, Roland resumed his journey, and referred to the driver for information concerning the rest of his journey.

"How far are we from Glendale, driver?"

"Aboot tharty mile or mair, I ken."

"Do you know the family of the Gordons?"

"Do ye mean the family o' the auld minister, David Gordon?"

"The same," was Roland's reply.

"The auld minister bae gane to his rest these mony years; I dinna ken how lang syne."

"His son and daughter?" continued Roland.

"Baith gane hame."

Roland bowed his head, for now he felt his desolation.

"Is there no one there, driver, who can give me any information concerning them?"

"Yes, there is the auld servant, Jennie Scott; she lives near by the auld manse."

In a few hours, Roland found himself approaching his native village; he had some remembrance of these familiar scenes; the lake where he had rowed in his childhood with Uncle Alick, the manse with its grove of old trees, and the kirk not far off, he found were realities that had their picture hung up in the halls of memory.

Stopping at the village-inn he sought out the old servant. Knocking at the cottage door, a face somewhat familiar presented itself. "Is this Jennie Scott?" asked Roland.

"It is so, please your honor; will ye sit doon, sir, in my humble cottage?"

"Do you remember Roland Bruce, the little son of Mary Gordon, Jennie?"

"Do I remember the bairn that I nursed so lang in these auld arms? Can I e'er forget the bonny chiel? Mine were the first arms that held him after he breathed the breath o' life--can ye tell me ony thing aboot the lad?"

"He stands before you, Jennie," and Roland seized the hand of his old nurse, while she threw herself upon his bosom, and wept for joy.

"It canna' be,--he was sic a wee bairn when I saw him last, and now sic a braw an' winsome mon. Bless the Lord! O, my soul, for a' his guidness to his auld servant."

Roland then told the old woman something of his history, and what had brought him to Scotland.

"Ye've came too late, my son; the auld minister has been dead these ten years. O, he greeted sair for ye, my bairn. Miss Ellen died in twa years after that, and Mr. Alick twa years ago; ye've nae mother's kin in Scotland, that I ken, Roland."

"And none in America, my old friend, my mother and sister both sleep in Jesus, and I am alone in the wide world; but then, God is my Father--can I visit the old manse, Jennie?"

"Yes, my bairn, I keep the key, for I gang owre there every few weeks to luik after the furniture, and to keep it a' clean."

"How is it, Jennie, that it is not inhabited?"

"Why, Mr. Alick ordered, when he died, that it sud be kept closed for three years, and if nane came to claim it then, that it might be sold, for it belanged to the auld minister, Roland, and Mr. Alick hoped that the right heir might come some day."

Jennie led the way to the old homestead, and as they advanced, tears would force themselves into Roland's eyes, as he recognized the familiar porch, and one old tree, where he had so often played. She opened the shutters, and let in the light of day. All was in a state of perfect neatness and order.

The family-parlor was so comfortable, from which a glass door opened into the minister's study.

How sacred it appeared! The study-table where he had prepared so many sermons for his flock--the old arm-chair where he had sat--the couch where he had reclined when weary--the book-case, with its shelves of devotional books, and the best authors of the Scottish Church; and on the study-table, his old Bible marked from the Old to the New Testament by his own venerable hands. In a table-drawer, lay his spectacles, the inkstand that he used, and even the pen with which he wrote.

"Look here, Roland! at this carpet," said Jennie, as she pointed to the spot so worn by the old man's knees, for he always knelt in one particular place. "This is a sacred room, Roland, an' I hae always been sae happy to ken that nae stranger has e'er come in here amang the auld minister's books."

From the study, they passed into his mother's room.

There stood the cradle, and the rocking-chair, in which she had sat, to nurse her babes.

Jennie took up her apron to wipe her old eyes as she said,--

"How mony times hae I seen Mary Gordon, when she thought naebody saw her, weep owre the cradle, as she rocked her babes to sleep; but she was a guid woman, Roland, an' a true an' faithful wife. Is yer father living, my son?"

"That is a hard question to answer, Jennie; it has always been said that he was lost at sea, but strange things have happened to make me sometimes think he may yet be alive."

"He was aye a sad an' gloomy mon, Roland; I sud na wonder if he were crazed at last."

"Can you tell me anything about Malcolm Graham, Jennie? I must see him soon."

"He lives aboot twenty miles frae here, up on the side o' the mountain; he is called far an' nigh 'guid Uncle Malcolm;' he only lives to do guid, Roland; he has charge o' a' your property, an' can tell ye a' that ye need."

The place where they stood was full of sad memories, and the longer he remained, the more familiar he became.

"Why here, Jennie, is the very wheel-barrow that Uncle Alick brought me all the way from Edinburgh; many a time have I filled it with pebbles, and emptied them into the lake," and Roland picked up the toy, and regarded it tenderly, even as an old friend.

"Let us go now, Jennie, for I must make some preparations to visit Uncle Malcolm."

"Ye maun gang amang some o' your grandfather's people first, Roland; they wud be sair grieved if ye gang awa' without seeing them."

"I will stay over the Sabbath, Jennie, if you can keep me at your little cottage, for I want to go to the old kirk, where my mother worshipped God."

The weeds in the little garden around the house, and the neglected look of the grounds, spoke volumes to Roland's heart of the dear ones who had vanished from the old manse, and of the busy hands now silent in the grave.

"What is that, Jennie?" said Roland, as he observed a little mound under an old tree, with a piece of board at the head.

"Read the words, Roland, an' ye'll see what lies buried there."

"Here lies old Shep, the faithful dog; for twelve years he served his master."

"I remember him, Jennie; many a time has he carried me on his back."

"This auld place is fu' o' death, Roland, but it is just as fu' o' hope; for a' wha hae gane before, hae died the death o' the righteous; an' they a' sleep in the Lord."

Roland spent the days between this and the Sabbath in rambling about, and in company with old Jennie visiting his grandfather's parishioners. They all expressed great joy on seeing the young man, and observed universally the likeness to his father.

"But he has nane o' the gloom," said the old sexton; "he has the same black hair an' dark e'en, but the look is a' upward an' bright, as if he walked wi' his grandfather's God."

On the Sabbath day, in company with old Jennie Scott, he walked up the aisle of the old kirk. She was a proud woman on that day--for was not she walking wi' her minister's grandson? the handsomest, the noblest, an' the best o' a' the young men around Glencoe?

He sat in his mother's seat, and used the old book which contained her name. On the fly-leaf was written--

"Malcolm Graham, sailed on the first day of March, 1807. May God be with him to bless and keep him."

On another leaf was written--"Mary Gordon, married to Stephen Bruce, Oct. 1st, 1811. May God bless the union with peace."

Roland's tears dropped over these silent memorials, but it was a blessed thought that all the cares and trials of that beloved mother were over forever; and as he now joined in the psalms which she had often sung in the pew of her own kirk, so he hoped in the church triumphant to sing with her and Effie the song of Moses and the Lamb.

After the service, he visited the graves of his kindred, and with true delicacy, none of the plain Scotch people intruded upon his solitude, as he stood in silence around the sacred spot. "What a blessing to have godly ancestors!" thought Roland; "followed all my life by earnest prayer, God has shielded and blessed me thus far with the knowledge of himself as my reconciled Father in Christ Jesus."

Many were the warm greetings which met him at the church gate; and many the blessings that were showered upon him by the people who loved the memory of their dear old minister.

"I must go, Jennie," said Roland, when Monday morning came. "I am anxious to find Uncle Malcolm."

"Ye will see me again before ye return to America?"

"O, yes, Jennie; I will be sure to return."

It was a cold, bleak morning, when he started.

"I think we are going to hae a snow-storm, Roland; had ye na better wait a day or twa?"

"I think not, Jennie; I can get along very well;" and he would not hear of farther delay.

"I ken the signs around these dark mountains, Roland; we shall hae a heavy fa' o' snaw before nicht--the stage will only tak' ye within three miles o' Malcolm's house, an' it will be a dark journey on foot in a snaw-storm."

"God is with me, Jennie; I must go."

"Fare ye weel! my bairn, till we meet again," said the old woman.

Taking up his carpet-bag, and seeing his trunk carefully deposited, he started on his journey.

It was a raw, chilly morning; he had provided himself with a tartan plaid, and wrapping himself in its heavy folds, he took his seat in the stage. The wind sighed heavily as though a storm was really brewing.

"We shall hae to plew through heavy drifts before we reach the end o' our journey," said the driver.

As they ascended the road, the animals were well aware of what was coming; and the wild mountain birds screamed around them with foreboding warnings.

In a short time, the snow commenced falling; at first, skurrying in little gusts of driving wind, then more and more thickly, until they were in the midst of a heavy mountain storm.

The atmosphere was filled with the flakes, which, driven by fierce winds, drifted on the side of the road.

More and more difficult became the travelling; the poor jaded horses could scarcely drag the vehicle through the piles of snow.

Stopping for dinner at a road-side inn, the landlord looked out upon the storm with a serious countenance.

"It is a pity, young mon, that ye cam' oot in sic a storm; it will be fearfu' before nightfa'; perhaps ye had better bide wi' us until the mornin' breaks."

"No, I must push on;" for Roland was not one to be daunted by difficulties.

"Hae ye ever been oot in a Scotch snaw-storm on the mountains, my lad? Ye dinna' ken what ye hae to encounter."

"I have not," was the reply; "but I shall only have three miles to walk, and that will be easier, I think, than riding."

"Walk in sic a storm! I am sorry for the mon that tries it this dark night."

The stage started; the storm increased; it was a weary drag through the piled up snow: and yet it was still falling thicker, faster, while the wind was raging; frequently, the horses had to pause; and it was late, indeed quite night, when they halted at the stopping place.

The driver directed Roland how to find the road to Graham Hall; indeed, to be sure that he had the right start, he walked with him some distance, until he was fairly on the track.

It was up a by-road that he was now walking. He was directed to go straight-forward until he came to a gate, that led directly to Malcolm's house, about one mile distant. It was a weary journey, more difficult than he had imagined; the beating of the snow in his face, and the tremendous power of the wind against which he was struggling, frequently overpowered him; and he had to stand still with his back to the storm, to recover himself for fresh efforts; his feet were growing benumbed, his mouth stiffened, and the feeling of weariness almost compelling him to lie down to sleep, was creeping slowly over him. Still he persevered, and roused all his energies to shake off the lethargy.

In his carpet-bag, he remembered a small flask of wine which Jennie had thoughtfully placed there; taking a mouthful, he felt revived. But he certainly ought to be near the gate; he had walked so long, and yet he could find none. He must be lost--what was now to be done? He stood silent for a minute, prayed for guidance, strained eyes and ears for some direction. At last, he heard the bark of a dog; he did not seem very far off. Roland whistled, and advancing a few steps farther, he thought he saw a light, very dim in the midst of the falling snow, but still there was really a faint glimmer; he tried to follow it, and as he advanced, it became brighter; then he felt that he was in the right path to a human habitation. He hallooed, as loud as his failing strength would allow, several times; the light moved, another light was visible; it was certainly approaching; in a minute, a dog bounded through the drifts, and barked loud and long. "Dinna' be alarmed," cried a man's voice, "he is only telling us that he has found ye." In another second a man appeared with a lantern.

"Ye hae been oot in a sair storm, my friend; follow me, an' I will bring ye to a safe harbor."

"I am searching for Malcolm Graham," was the reply.

"Hoot awa', mon! ye are far oot o' the way; it is a guid thing that I found ye in time."

Taking Roland by the arm, he led him forward through the drifts, to the door of his humble cottage, where his good wife stood waiting her husband's return.

"Throw me my tartan, wife," cried the man; "here is a lost traveller, an' I am ganging to guide him to Graham Hall; gi' the dogs the lanterns; come, Jack, come, Joan," continued the man, as he fastened the small lanterns with reflectors, around the dogs' necks. "We are safe enow, sir, for these tykes ken every turn o' these mountain roads."

They bounded off with a cheery bark, and threading their way skilfully by the side of the drifts, our travellers followed the lights with quickened pace.

Bright lights beaming from several windows suddenly burst upon them. "We are at Graham Hall, sir," said the shepherd; and hastily stepping up on the front piazza, he rapped loud with the iron lion's head that served for knocker at the great hall door. The master presented himself. "Why, Sandy Armstrong, what brought ye oot in sic a night as this?"

"I hae found a lost traveller searchin' for Graham Hall, sir; an' I hae brought him safely to ye; but he is sairly worn oot."

"Come in, sir, and we shall soon see what the warm fires and blankets o' Graham Hall can do for ye, my young friend."

"Guid night, sir," said Sandy, and Roland thanked the kind man for his safe escort.

"Won't ye tak' some warm negus, Sandys?" said the master.

"Thank ye kindly, sir, but I maun hasten back; the snow is falling still heavily."

Roland stood for one minute, in the midst of a large hall, while the master removed his tartan, knocked the snow off his boots, and hung his cap upon the pegs, where the master's hunting-dress, his powder-horn, and game-bag, indicated his love for mountain sports. A set of antlers mounted the hall-door, and some hunting pictures adorned the wall.

"Ye are weak and sick, sir," was the kind salutation; "tak' my arm," and Malcolm Graham led Roland into a bright family room, where a large wood fire blazed upon the hearth of a Franklin stove--the rich, dark carpet, the heavy oak furniture, old fashioned chairs, and pictures of Highland scenery gave an air of charming comfort to the apartment, which was truly grateful to the sick and jaded traveller.

"Lie down, sir, on the couch;" and Malcolm beat up the soft chintz cushions with the tenderness of a woman, as he laid Roland down on the comfortable lounge. Perceiving that Roland made several attempts to speak, the master continued,

"Dinna talk, there is plenty o' time for that; I will be back in a minute," and speedily returning, he sat down by the side of the young man, watching his motions.

"Here, brother, is the negus," said a lady, opening the door slightly; and Malcolm handed it to Roland. The warm drink speedily restored vitality to his frame; then taking off his boots, his kind host rubbed his feet briskly, dropping cheering words as he performed the service. By this time, Roland was sufficiently recovered to look around him; and first he glanced at the tall and noble-looking man that waited upon him. The dark gray eyes expressed a world of feeling, and the mouth, though firm, was loving as a woman's. 'Tis true that the fine head was partially bald, and the hair that remained was silvered with marks of time, but there was that about Malcolm Graham that won Roland's heart at once.

"Do you know, sir, whom you are befriending?" was Roland's first remark.

"No, sir, a' that I ken is that ye are a stranger, an' I took ye in."

"It is fitting that you should know--my name is Roland Bruce, sir."

Malcolm's color changed, as, seizing the young man's hand, he exclaimed: "Mary Gordon's son! I thank thee, O, my Father!" and Malcolm hid his face in his handkerchief to conceal the storm of mixed emotions which swept over his countenance, and shook his frame.

"I came from America to search for my relations; but I find none of my mother's kindred left. I am truly alone in the wide world; she bade me search for you also."

"Not alone, Roland; Mary's son is my especial care, and my heart opens wide to receive ye; come to my arms, my son, and let me press my lips upon yer young brow."

For that warm embrace, the friendship of future years was sealed, and the two were no more strangers.

Malcolm opened the door and called, "Annie, I hae some one to introduce to ye," and his sister, Mrs. Lindsay, entered the room.

"This is Mary Gordon's son, Annie; ye will luve him for my sake."

The lady greeted him warmly. "Ye are welcome to our fireside, Roland; but ye maun be very hungry;" and the good lady hastened away, to order a warm supper for the weary guest.

The door opened softly, and a young face peeped shyly in.

"Come in, Annot," said her uncle; and a little fairy of fifteen, with a profusion of light, curly hair, and a dancing step, advanced shyly to the couch.

"Shake hands wi' Mr. Bruce, Annot; he has come to stay wi' us, my luve; he is the chiel o' a vera dear friend of Uncle Malcolm."

"I am glad to see ye, sir; I luve ilka body that Uncle Malcolm loves."

Another applicant for introduction, in the form of a large family dog that lay ensconced on a rug by the fire, had long been asserting his claims to notice, by repeatedly putting up his shaggy paw, and looking up in his master's face, for his share in the ceremonies.

"I maun na' forget auld Lion, Roland; come here, auld fellow!" and the dog, wagging his tail, put up his rough paw to salute Roland; at the same time, expressing his satisfaction by a low growl, that he meant to be musical--at any rate, it expressed good-will.

Soon a neat-looking Highland girl entered, and spreading the table, she placed upon it sundry grateful viands.

"Hannah!" said Mrs. Lindsay, "tell Dugald to kindle a fire in the minister's room."

"And now, Roland, see if ye can tak' some supper," said the master, as he led his young friend to the table.

He ate sparingly of the profusion spread around him, for his appetite had not yet returned, but the feeling of perfect comfort was such a rest, that it was refreshment enough for Roland, for some hours at least.

"We shall not keep ye late to-night, Roland; ye need rest, and, to-morrow, ye shall tell me a' your story."

A bell summoned the family for evening worship; two or three Highland men and women came in from the kitchen, and took their seats reverently with the family. Annot opened the piano, Malcolm read a chapter in the Bible, with some simple comments; Annot played a beautiful Psalm, in which all joined heartily; and the master concluded the exercises by a solemn, earnest prayer, in which Roland was most affectionately remembered.

Taking a light, he said, "Come, Roland, I will tak' ye to yer room;" and Malcolm led the way to a bright cheerful chamber, where a glowing fire blazed upon the hearth, for the master was a great advocate of wood fires.

A warm feather bed, plenty of blankets, with chintz curtains, an easy rocking-chair, and writing-table, made up a whole of home comforts, such as Roland had never, in all his life, enjoyed before.

Fixing the lamp with old bachelor exactness several times before it suited him, Malcolm left the room, saying,

"Is there onything that ye want, Roland? dinna be afraid to ask."

"Nothing, sir; I am perfectly comfortable; good-night, sir."

"Guid-night;" and Malcolm left him to the quiet of his thoughts. Having allowed him time for his devotions, and preparations for repose, Malcolm entered once more.

"Here is a bowl o' negus, my son, it will na' harm ye after sic a freezing as ye hae had;" and Malcolm insisted on his drinking down the whole.

"Now, guid-night, Roland;" and Malcolm laid his hand in blessing upon the young head, as he continued,

"God bless ye, and gi' ye refreshing sleep."

He lay awake some time, for Roland's emotions were of that delicious character which none can realize but those who have been thus suddenly transported from a scene of danger and suffering to one of perfect rest and safety. The howling of the wind without, and the beating of the snowdrifts against the window-panes, were strongly contrasted with the light of the glowing fire illumining some Scripture pictures on the wall, the warm, soft bed, and the sweet atmosphere of Christian love by which he was surrounded. Truly, "the Lord giveth his beloved sleep!" and such a sleep was Roland's.

"We did na' wake ye early, Roland;" said his friend, who came at last to see if he was stirring, "for we kenned that ye needed rest; how do ye fare this morning?"

"Perfectly well and happy," was the answer.

"Well, I will leave ye now; as soon as ye are ready, come down to the breakfast-room."

Roland poured out his heart in earnest, grateful prayer, dressed himself, and appeared before the family quite another man.

A smoking breakfast of good, hot coffee, venison, beef-steak, hot bannocks, muffins, and boiled eggs awaited him; and, on this occasion, he did ample justice to the tempting viands.

"We have delayed worship, this morning, on your account, Roland;" and immediately after breakfast, the same company again assembled, the same sweet music, Scripture reading, and fervent prayer of the night before.

"Come, look out upon the landscape, Roland," said the master, as he led the young man into the family parlor, and turned aside the heavy curtains that he might see the picture without.

The sun was shining in all his glory upon the landscape--mountains of snow were piled up everywhere, glistening in the sunbeams, which were reflected in prismatic colors in the icicles pendant from the branches of the trees. Such a scene Roland had never before witnessed, and, to his temperament, it was full of exhilaration.

"Now, my son, I am ready for your story;" and Malcolm led the way to his own private room, directing that he should not be disturbed that morning.

It was a cozy little apartment, with secretary, writing-table, book-cases well filled, comfortable chairs, a cushioned lounge, and a bright wood fire.

A bust of Sir Walter occupied one niche, and Burns another. A picture of Abbotsford, another of Melrose Abbey, and one of Burns' Highland Mary, adorned the walls; and a flute, with piles of music, lay upon a stand in the corner of the room. Horns of deer branched over the windows, and several figures of Scottish knights, in bronze, adorned the mantel-piece. Everywhere, the house was furnished with the quiet comforts, and even elegancies, of a Scotch gentleman.

Lion was here, of course; for at all times, he was allowed free access to Malcolm's apartments, and no more faithful friend ever followed the fortunes of a master, than good old Lion.