THE LAND O’ THE LEAL.

Otago Witness, Issue 3769, 8 June 1926, Page 85

THE LAND O’ THE LEAL.

By

B. Dunbar Dey.

- The glorious King of Day had already sunk to rest behind the dark shoulder of Ben Lawers, but the giant mountain and the peaceful loch were still bathed in the golden afterglow. The stjllness of the perfect summer night was only broken by the cheerful paddling of the little steamer as she plied her way across the sparkling waters. Suddenly, as we drew near the northern shore the sweet tones of a violin, unmistakably played by a master hand, were heard. It was the “ Land o’ the Leal ” the musician played, and as the plaintive, wailing tune was wafted across the water towards us my eyes filled with tears. I had not heard that tune played so touchingly since the day (10 years before) the bagpipes had wailed it forth at my Highland father’s funeral. Ever since that day I had been absent from my dear native land, and now returned to it with my English husband on our wedding tour. “ Let us go to Scotland, Harold,” I had said when he had talked of Switzerland, of Normanby, etc., and laughingly he had consented to visit the land of “ scones and porridge ” as he called it. “ Who is the musician, captain ? ” Harold inquired. “ It will just be Mad Hubert, sir! ” “ Mad or no, he knows how to play, doesn’t he, Nell?” he asked, appealing to me, who handled the bow fairly well myself. “ Why, dear heart, what is the matter?” he whispered, bending towards me. “ Forgive me, Harold,” I said trying to suppress my emotion; “it was dear father’s favourite air; he is playing the song mother so often sung.” “ Poor little orphan child,” he murmured, slipping his arm round me under cover of the dusk. “You will never be lonely or sad any more if I can help it. You have a true protector now, dearest.” “I know, I know, darling,” 1 whispered, resting my head contentedly against his shoulder. “ Mad Hubert will have a history, I suppose ? ” Harold continued when the captain drew near us once mor€. “ Oh, yes, poor lad, he has. One wild, snowy night, more than 15 winters ago, a poor young woman, half-dead with fatigue and cold and hunger, came knocking at the hotel door over yonder. Before morning she was a mother, and before noon a corpse. In vain did the kindly landlady and the doctor question her. She either could not or would not tell them anything. 'Call him Hubert,’ was all she said, ‘ and oh, be kind to

him, and God will reward you.’ The landlady at once advertised in all the leading newspapers, but none came to claim the infant or the dead body of the poor young mother. She was laid to rest in the tiny graveyard by the lochside, and the boy grew up along with the landlord’s own children. But they soon began to discover that he was somewhat different from other boys; .10 never cared to play nor to go fishing and climbing like the rest, but would sit for hours silent and moody in a corner, his great dark eyes staring into vacancy. His only companion was old Donald Macdiannid, a shepherd who lived on the hillside. Donald was a bit of a musician, and the child Hubert would sit and listen by the hour to the old man scraping away on a rather cracked fiddle. Then, when Hubert grew older, Donald taught him to handle the bow, and on his ueathbed left his fiddle to the boy, and all Ills savings to buy a better one, which was done. The landlord has long since given up the idea of the poor lad ever being able to do any work; he spends most of his time sitting in the inn kitchen or wandering by the shores of the loch # with his belov*ed violin. Woe betide anyone who dares to handle roughly or even to depreciate Hubert’s treasure. He is quit© quiet, as a rule, and considered harmless, but he is crazy, poor lad, and there is a look in his eyes sometimes which I certainly do not like.” It was at the quiet country inn, where this poor boy resided, that Harold and I chose to take up our residence for a week. Once or twice during our lirst days there I caught a glimpse of the pale, soft-faced, dark-eyed musician, but liis foster-mother told me he was shy, of strangers, and would not appear to us. However, on several occasions, when my husband went off with our landlord on a fishing expedition, by dint of praising his violin, and showing an intelligent appreciation of his music, I won Hubert’s favour. Once the ice was broken he would come and sit contentedly by me for hours, saying little or nothing, but occasionally drawing forth the saddest, weirdest airs from his beloved instrument. It seemed strange how lie cared for nothing but minor music—something of his mother’s anguish, I fancied, must have entered into his soul. It was strange, and yet no.doubt it was the leading of a Divine Providence, that I was never once tempted to hint to Hilbert that I also played. The admission several times rose to my lips, but something always held it back. Well fo* us that such was the .case! One evening Hubert and I were sitting alone in the drawing room in the gloaming, when Harold, who had been out fishing on the loch, entered the room. The boy was on a low stool at my feet, his violin lying on the floor by his side. He had been playing to me, but when twilight fell upon us, had seated himself to listen with all his soul in his eyes while I told him of Madame Norman Newda, .of Joachim, and of other great violinists I had heard in Lonijpn. Just t thati moment my husband entered the room softly and came towards us. Suddenly there was a sharp crack and a crashing of wood. Hubert sprang up with a wild howl, his mouth foaming, his eyes flashing fire. “Oh, Hubert, ten thousand pardons! I am so sorrv. forgive me,” cried Harold, gazing remorsefully upon the ruin his* heavy foot had made. “I will order a splendid violin for you from London tonight, my boy; it should be here a few days hence.” Hubert never spoke; in fact he did not seem to hear. With a choking sob, ho gathered the broken fragments together, and with a stumbling gait, slunk out of the room like a beaten hound. “Poor boy, I am so sorry,” said Harold regretfully the moment he was gone. “So am I. dear,” I replied shuddering? “and oh, Harold,” I cried, rising and clinging to his arm, “in the twilight that boy looked just now as if he could have gladly killed you.” “What nonsense, little woman,” said my\ husband smiling. “You surely are not > going to believe in the ‘evil eye,’ are you?’It was in vain Harold tried to cheer me. I could not get Hubert’s vindictive glare out of my head, and very soon, pleading fatigue, I retired to rest. I could not have been asleep more than an hour or two when I awoke in a j terrible fright. I had dreamed that I saw Hubert and my husband struggling wildly together in the waters of the loch, the, mad boy holding Harold’s head under water until he was drowned. The house was very quiet; everyone, evidently, except Harold, had retired to’ rest, He, I knew, would be burning the midnight oil in the smoking-room perusing The Times, which had arrived that afternoon. Slipping on my dressing-gown and slippers, I opened my bedroom door and looked along the corridor. Everything there was wrapped in profound silence. A clock in the hall below, striking the hour of midnight, sent an echo through the sleeping house. The smoking-room was upstairs at the far end of the bedroom corridor, and a light streaming forth from its slightly opened door guided my gliding footsteps. Noiselessly pushing open the door, I stood transfixed with horror on the threshold. My husband was lying sound asleep in an easy chair, the Times having fallen on the floor by his side. Over him, with murder in his eyes, bent Hubert. A table covered with a thick woollen coverstood in the middle of the room. Only, that afternoon I had playfully lectured our landlady about the mistake of having anything woollen where there is tobacco smoke. How thankful I felt now she had not taken my advice and removed it! On the table lav what I guessed to be old Donald’s fiddle. I stole forward noiselessly, and lifted the fiddle. As I did so, I noticed that Hubert was carefully ami

stealthily baring my husbands breast, and I saw the gleam of steel in his hand. With an agonised silent prayer for help, I clutched the bow, keeping my eyes fixed on the mad boy the while; and suddenly, soft and sweet through the silent room, rang the ‘‘Land o’ the Leal.” The mad boy in amazement stayed his already uplifted hand, to listen to this—to him, mysterious music. In an instant, 1 had snatched the cover from the table, and with a wild cry of ‘‘Harold, wake up! wake up!” had sprung forward, and enveloped the lad’s head and shoulders in it. There was a muffled scream, a smash, the lamp wgnt out— and I knew no more. When 1 awoke. Harold was bending over me, chafing my hands. ‘‘Oh, Harold, are you safe'” I cried, and clinging to him. ‘‘Yes, my brave little wife, thanks to you, I am,” he answered, kissing and caressing mo. ‘‘And Hubert?” I asked, shuddering. ‘‘He is safe in the County Asylum, poor lad.” ‘‘Then, Harold, how long is it since that awful night?” I asked in surprise. ‘‘Nearly four weeks, dearest. You have been very ill, but now you are to be quick and get well and strong, and let me take you tack to our sunny South.” Many years have passed since the incident here related took place. My husband and I have often returned to my native land since, but even yet. when I hear the ‘‘Land o’ the Leal” played on the violin, I shudder as a vision arises before me of the dark-eyed, sad-faced boy musician and that awful night of horror on the shores of Loch Tay.