Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 137.djvu/767

1885.] had told the truth, she would have confessed that he almost frightened her; and she seldom, unless when his animated conversation made her forget herself, felt altogether at ease in his company. But on this occasion, as her father had said of his correspondence, there seemed to be no help for it, so she resigned herself with alacrity and a charming grace.

In fact, Tomnahurich had a mystical attraction for her – all the more so, that on the only occasion when she had visited it, she had for once been out of tune with her favourite companion. Jack Venables had been at her elbow through a brilliant afternoon, and his lively rattle had jarred upon her sensibilities, as the blaze of the sunshine had seemed unsuitable to the scenery.

The waggonette with the chestnut cobs came round, and Grace stepped up on the box-seat by the side of her cousin. The taciturnity of the driver surpassed her apprehensions – one may easily have too much of peace and calm. Leslie seemed embarrassed and lost in thought, although he handled the reins carefully over the somewhat breakneck roads. He would talk with almost feverish fluency for a minute or two, and then relapse into long silence. Had Grace been more self-conscious, she might have feared he was on the brink of a proposal, although assuredly nothing was further from his thoughts; and he was one of the last men to throw away a game by precipitation. She was immensely relieved when the carriage pulled up, and the groom was left in charge to await their return, the horses being picketed on a patch of turf. Now she was no longer hand-locked to a spasmodically galvanised corpse, and could break away to gather wild flowers or on any other excuse. Her pet terrier ran yelping on

ahead. Leslie loaded himself with the luncheon-basket, with a rug, and his cousin's sketch-book, and strode along by her side. The scenery was picturesque enough and wild enough. What had once been a tolerable driving-track ended where the waggonette had drawn up, and was only continued by a rough footpath, winding up a steep green hill. There were solemn associations with it too, inconsistent with picnics and luncheon hampers; for many a century before Tomnahurich had been consecrated by the Catholic Church, and it was still sacred to the feelings and the superstitions of the neighbourhood.

If we are not abroad in our Celtic philology, Tomnahurich may be translated "the hill of the fairies"; at all events, that is the name by which the Celts call it in the Saxon. It is a little churchyard on a bold knoll or bluff, in the midst of which might be traced the foundations of a Romish chapel. Many generations had died and gone to dust since the sacred edifice was abandoned for the distant kirk of the Reformed religion. The surrounding glens had been depopulated by emigration, and descendants of the dead folks might be flourishing beyond the Atlantic, owning forest farms, or running lumbering concerns in Canada, speculating in shares in Wall Street, or in grain and pork in Chicago. But still the gillies and shepherds of the neighbourhood would bring their dead to repose on the mound of Tomnahurich.

"Can you not fancy," observed Leslie, as they climbed the hill – and it must be confessed that he might have chosen a more inspiriting subject, – "can you not fancy the melancholy little processions that have followed the path we are treading 1 It seems to me that those who live in loneliness like