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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b15ff7e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65800 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65800) diff --git a/old/65800-0.txt b/old/65800-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index bb93e5e..0000000 --- a/old/65800-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11681 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Interloper, by Violet Jacob - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Interloper - -Author: Violet Jacob - -Release Date: July 8, 2021 [eBook #65800] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Paul Haxo from images graciously made available by the - National Library of Scotland. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INTERLOPER *** - - - - -The Interloper - - - - -_New 6s. Novels_ - - -THE ISLAND PHARISEES - - By JOHN GALSWORTHY - -THE MAGNETIC NORTH - - By ELIZABETH ROBINS - -URIAH THE HITTITE - - By WOLF WYLLARDE - -THE MONEY GOD - - By J. P. BLAKE - -LOVE THE FIDDLER - - By LLOYD OSBOURNE - -THE STORY OF SUSAN - - By MRS. HENRY DUDENEY - -THE RELENTLESS CITY - - By E. F. BENSON - -THE MASTERFOLK - - By HALDANE MACFALL - -THE JEWEL OF SEVEN STARS - - By BRAM STOKER - -THE EVIL EYE - - By DANIEL WOODROFFE - -THE WEB - - By FREDERICK TREVOR HILL - - -LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, - -20 and 21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C. - - - - -The Interloper - - -By - -Violet Jacob - -(Mrs. Arthur Jacob) - -Author of ‘The Sheep-Stealers’ - - -London - -William Heinemann - -1904 - - - - -This Edition enjoys copyright in all countries signatory to the Berne -Treaty, and is not to be imported into the United States of America - - - - -TO - -AN UNDYING MEMORY - - - - -AUTHOR’S NOTE - - -BEFORE proceeding with this story I must apologize for a striking -inaccuracy which it contains. I have represented the educated -characters as speaking, but for certain turns of phrase, the ordinary -English which is now universal. But, in Scotland, in the very early -nineteenth century, gentle and simple alike kept a national distinction -of language, and remnants of it lingered in the conversation, as I -remember it, of the two venerable and unique old ladies from whom the -characters of Miss Hersey Robertson and her sister are taken. They -called it ‘Court Scots.’ - -For the assistance of that tender person, the General Reader, I have -ignored it. - - V. J. - -1903 - - - - - CONTENTS - - - BOOK I - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. THE HEIR 1 - - II. AT GARVIEKIRK 14 - - III. FRIENDSHIP 24 - - IV. JIMMY 36 - - V. THE STRIFE OF TONGUES 49 - - VI. THE DOVECOTE OF MORPHIE 59 - - VII. THE LOOKING-GLASS 73 - - VIII. THE HOUSE IN THE CLOSE 81 - - IX. ON FOOT AND ON WHEELS 91 - - X. KING COPHETUA’S CORRESPONDENCE 101 - - XI. THE MOUSE AND THE LION 111 - - XII. GRANNIE TAKES A STRONG ATTITUDE 117 - - XIII. PLAIN SPEAKING 127 - - XIV. STORM AND BROWN SILK 140 - - XV. THE THIRD VOICE 150 - - XVI. BETWEEN LADY ELIZA AND CECILIA 160 - - XVII. CECILIA PAYS HER DEBTS 168 - - XVIII. THE BOX WITH THE LAUREL-WREATH 177 - - - BOOK II - - XIX. SIX MONTHS 186 - - XX. ROCKET 194 - - XXI. THE BROKEN LINK 205 - - XXII. CECILIA SEES THE WILD GEESE 215 - - XXIII. AN EMPTY HOUSE 225 - - XXIV. A ROYAL VISIT 234 - - XXV. MRS. SOMERVILLE HAS SCRUPLES 241 - - XXVI. ALEXANDER BARCLAY DOES HIS BEST 251 - - XXVII. THE SKY FALLS ON GILBERT 257 - - XXVIII. AGNETA ON THE UNEXPECTED 269 - - XXIX. THE QUEEN OF THE CADGERS TAKES THE ROAD 275 - - XXX. MORPHIE KIRK 286 - - EPILOGUE 298 - - - - -BOOK I - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE HEIR - - -HALF-WAY up the east coast of Scotland, the estuary of the North Lour -cuts a wide cleft in an edge of the Lowlands, and flows into the North -Sea among the sands and salmon nets. - -The river winds in large curves through the shingles and green patches -where cattle graze, overhung by woods of beech and birch, and pursuing -its course through a country in full cultivation--a country of large -fields; where rolling woods, purple in the shadow, stretch north -towards the blue Grampians. - -A bridge of eight arches spans the water before it runs out to sea, the -bank on its further side rising into a line of plough-fields crowning -the cliffs, where flights of gulls follow the ploughman, and hover in -his track over the upturned earth. As the turnpike runs down to the -bridge, it curls round the policies of a harled white house which has -stood for some two hundred years a little way in from the road, a tall -house with dead-looking windows and slates on which the lichen has -fastened. A clump of beech-trees presses round it on two sides, and, in -their bare branches, rooks’ nests make patches against the late autumn -skies. - -Inside the mansion of Whanland--for such is its name--on a December -afternoon in the first year of the nineteenth century, two men were -talking in the fading light. The room which they occupied was panelled -with wood, polished and somewhat light-coloured, and had two arched -alcoves, one on either side of the chimney-piece. These were filled -with books whose goodly backs gave a proper solemnity to the place. The -windows were narrow and high, and looked out to the beeches. A faint -sound of the sea came droning in from the sand-hills which flanked the -shore, and were distant but the space of a few fields. - -The elder of the two men was a person who had reached that convenient -time of life when a gentleman may attend to his creature comforts -without the risk of being blamed for it. He was well-dressed and his -face was free from any obvious fault. He produced, indeed, a worse -effect than his merits warranted, for his hair, which had the -misfortune to look as though it were dyed, was, in reality, of a -natural colour. Nothing in his appearance hinted at the fact that he -was the family lawyer--or ‘man of business,’ as it is called in -Scotland--of the young man who stood on the hearthrug, nor did his -manner suggest that they had met that day for the first time. - -He sat looking up at Gilbert Speid[1] with considerable interest. -Though he was not one to whom the finer details of another’s -personality were apparent, he was yet observant in the commoner way. It -did not escape him that his companion was shy, but he did not suspect -that it was with the shyness of one, who, though well accustomed to the -company of his kind, had no intimacies. A few hours ago, when starting -to meet him at Whanland, he had told himself that his task would be -easy, and he meant to be friendly, both from inclination and policy, -with the strange laird, who was a stranger to his inheritance. But -though he had been received with politeness a little different from the -amenity of anyone he had known before, he felt that he was still far -from the defences of the young man’s mind. As to Gilbert’s outward -appearance, though it could hardly be called handsome, the lawyer was -inclined to admire it. He was rather tall, and had a manner of carrying -himself which was noticeable, not from affectation, but because he was -a very finished swordsman, and had a precision of gesture and movement -not entirely common. He did not speak with the same intonation as the -gentry with whom it was Alexander Barclay’s happiness to be acquainted, -professionally or otherwise, for, though a Scot on both sides of his -family, he had spent most of his youth abroad, and principally in -Spain. His head was extremely well set and his face gave an impression -of bone--well-balanced bone; it was a face, rather heavy, and singularly -impassive, though the eyes looked out with an extraordinary curiosity -on life. It seemed, to judge from them, as though he were always on the -verge of speaking, and Barclay caught himself pausing once or twice for -the expected words. But they seldom came and Gilbert’s mouth remained -closed, less from determination to silence than from settled habit. - - [1] Pronounced Speed. - -It was in the forenoon that Gilbert Speid had arrived at Whanland to -find Barclay awaiting him on the doorstep; and the two men had walked -round the house and garden and under the beech-trees, stopping at -points from which there was any view to be had over the surrounding -country. They had strolled up a field parallel with the road which ran -from the nearest town of Kaims to join the highway at the bridge. There -Gilbert had taken in every detail, standing at an angle of a fence and -looking down on the river as it wound from the hazy distance of bare -woods. - -‘And my property ends here?’ he asked, turning from the fascinating -scene to his companion. - -‘At the bend of the Lour, Mr. Speid; just where you see the white -cottage.’ - -‘I am glad that some of that river is mine,’ said Gilbert, after a long -pause. - -Barclay laughed with great heartiness, and rubbed his hands one over -the other. - -‘Very satisfactory,’ he said, as they went on--‘an excellent state of -things.’ - -When they returned to the house they found a stack of papers which the -lawyer had brought to be examined, and Speid, though a little oppressed -by the load of dormant responsibility it represented, sat gravely down, -determined to do all that was expected of him. It was past three -o’clock when Barclay pulled out his watch and inquired when he had -breakfasted, for his own sensations were reminding him that he himself -had done so at a very early hour. - -Gilbert went to the bell, but, as he stood with the rope in his hand, -he remembered that he had no idea of the resources of the house, and -did not even know whether there were any available servant whose duty -it was to answer it. His companion sat looking at him with a -half-smile, and he coloured as he saw it. - -When the door opened, a person peered in whom he dimly recollected -seeing on his arrival in the group which had gathered to unload his -post-chaise. He was a small, elderly man, whose large head shone with -polished baldness. He was pale, and had the pose and expression we are -accustomed to connect--perhaps unjustly--with field-preachers, and his -rounded brow hung like the eaves of a house over a mild but impudent -eye. His was the type of face to be seen bawling over a psalm-book at -some sensational religious meeting, a face not to be regarded too long -nor too earnestly, lest its owner should be spurred by the look into -some insolent familiarity. He stood on the threshold looking from Speid -to Barclay, as though uncertain which of the two he should address. - -It took Gilbert a minute to think of what he had wanted; for he was -accustomed to the well-trained service of his father’s house, and the -newcomer matched nothing that had a place in his experience. - -‘What is it?’ inquired the man at the door. - -‘Is there any dinner--anything that we can have to eat? You must forgive -me, sir; but you see how it is. I am strange here, and I foolishly sent -no orders.’ - -‘I engaged a cook for you and it is hardly possible that she has made -no preparation. Surely there is something in the kitchen, Macquean?’ - -‘I’ll away down an’ see,’ said the man, disappearing. - -‘Who is that?’ asked Gilbert, to whom the loss of a dinner seemed less -extraordinary than the possession of such a servant. - -‘His name is Mungo Macquean. He has had charge of the house for a great -part of the time that it has stood empty. He is a good creature, Mr. -Speid, though uncouth--very uncouth.’ - -In a few minutes the door opened again to admit Macquean’s head. - -‘There’s a chicken she’ll roast to ye, an’ there’s brose. An’ a’m to -tell her, are ye for pancakes?’ - -‘Oh, certainly,’ said Gilbert. ‘Mr. Barclay, when shall it be?’ - -‘The sooner the better, I think,’ said the other hopefully. - -‘Then we will dine at once,’ said Gilbert. - -Macquean’s mouth widened and he stared at his master. - -‘You’ll get it at five,’ he said, as he withdrew his head. - -The lawyer’s face fell. - -‘I suppose it cannot be ready before then,’ he said, with a sigh. - -The two drew up rather disconsolately to the fireside. The younger -man’s eyes wandered round the room and lit upon one of those -oil-paintings typical of the time, representing a coach-horse, -dock-tailed, round-barrelled, and with a wonderfully long rein. - -‘That is the only picture I have noticed in the house,’ he observed. -‘Are there no more--no portraits, I mean?’ - -‘To be sure there are,’ replied Barclay, ‘but they have been put in the -garret, which we forgot to visit in our walk round. We will go up and -see them if you wish. They are handsomely framed and will make a -suitable show when we get them up on the walls.’ - -The garret was approached by a steep wooden stair, and, as they stood -among the strange collection it contained in the way of furniture and -cobwebs, Speid saw that the one vacant space of wall supported a row of -pictures, which stood on the floor like culprits, their faces to the -wainscot. Barclay began to turn them round. It irked the young man to -see his fat hands twisting the canvases about, and flicking the dust -from the row of faces which he regarded with a curious stirring of -feeling. Nothing passed lightly over Gilbert. - -He was relieved when his companion, whose heart was in the kitchen, and -who was looking with some petulance at the dust which had fallen on his -coat from the beams above, proposed to go down and push forward the -preparations for dinner. - -Speid stood absorbed before the line of vanished personalities which -had helped to determine his existence, and they returned his look with -all the intelligent and self-conscious gravity of eighteenth-century -portraiture. Only one in the row differed in character from the others, -and he took up the picture and carried it to the light. It represented -a lady whose figure was cut by the oval frame just below the waist. Her -hands were crossed in front of her, and her elbows brought into line -with her sides, as were those of the other Speid ancestresses; there -was something straight and virginal in her pose. Never had Gilbert seen -such conventionality of attitude joined to so much levity of -expression. She wore a mountain of chestnut hair piled high on her head -and curling down one side of her neck. Her open bodice of warm cream -colour suggested a bust rather fuller than might be expected from the -youthful and upright stiffness of her carriage, and, over her arm, hung -an India muslin spotted scarf, which had apparently slipped down round -her waist. Her eyes were soft in shade and hard in actual glance, bold, -bright, scornful, under strongly marked brows. The mouth was very red, -and the upper lip fine; the lower lip protruded, and drooped a little -in the middle. Her head was half turned to meet the spectator. - -Her appearance interested him, and he searched the canvas for an -inscription. Turning it round, he saw a paper stuck upon the back and -covered with writing: ‘_Clementina Speid, daughter of John Lauder, -Esq., of Netherkails, and Marie La Vallance, his wife._ 1767.’ - -The lady was his mother; and the portrait had been painted just after -her marriage, three years before his own birth. - -Never in his life had he seen any likeness of her. His father had not -once mentioned her name in his hearing, and, as a little boy, he had -been given by his nurses to understand that she existed somewhere in -that mysterious and enormous category of things about which -well-brought-up children were not supposed to inquire. There was a -certain fitness in thus meeting her unknown face as he entered Whanland -for the first time since he left it in the early months of his infancy. -She had been here all the time, waiting for him in the dust and -darkness. As he set the picture against the wall her eyes looked at him -with a secret intelligence. That he had nothing to thank her for was a -fact which he had gathered as soon as he grew old enough to draw -deductions for himself; but, all the same, he now felt an unaccountable -sympathy with her, not as his mother--for such a relationship had never -existed for him--but as a human being. He went to the little window -under the slope of the roof and looked out over the fields. On the -shore the sea lay, far and sad, as if seen through the wrong end of a -telescope. The even, dreary sound came through a crack in the two -little panes of glass. He turned back to the picture, though he could -hardly see it in the strengthening dusk; her personality seemed to -pervade the place with a brave, unavailing brightness. It struck him -that, in that game of life which had ended in her death, there had been -her stake too. But it was a point of view which he felt sure no other -being he had known had ever considered. - -Mr. Barclay’s voice calling to him on the staircase brought him back -from the labyrinth of thought. He hurried out of the garret to find him -on the landing, rather short of breath after his ascent. - -‘The Misses Robertson are below, Mr. Speid; they have driven out from -Kaims to bid you welcome. I have left them in the library.’ - -‘The Misses Robertson?’ - -‘Miss Hersey and Miss Caroline Robertson; your cousins. The ladies -will not be long before they find you out, you see. They might have -allowed you a little more law, all the same. But women are made -inquisitive--especially the old ones.’ - -‘I think it vastly kind,’ said Speid shortly. ‘I remember now that my -father spoke of them.’ - -As they entered the library, two small figures rose from their chairs -and came forward, one a little in front of the other. - -The sisters were both much under middle height, and dressed exactly -alike; it was only on their faces that the very great difference in -them was visible. There was an appealing dignity in the full -acknowledgment of her seventy years which Miss Hersey carried in her -person. She had never had the smallest pretension to either intellect -or attraction, but her plain, thin face, with its one beauty of gray -hair rolled high above her forehead, was full of a dignity innocent, -remote, and entirely natural, that has gone out of the modern world. -Miss Caroline, who was slightly her senior, was frankly ugly and -foolish-looking; and something fine, delicate, and persuasive that lay -in her sister’s countenance had, in hers, been omitted. Their only -likeness was in the benignity that pervaded them and in the inevitable -family resemblance that is developed with age. The fashion of their -dresses, though in no way grotesque, had been obsolete for several -years. - -‘Welcome, Mr. Speid,’ said Miss Hersey, holding out a gentle, bony -hand. ‘Caroline, here is Mr. Speid.’ - -It was no slight effort which the two feeble old ladies had made in -coming to do him honour, for they had about them the strangeness which -hangs round very aged people when some unaccustomed act takes them out -of their own surroundings, and he longed to thank them, or to say -something which should express his sense of it. But Barclay’s proximity -held him down. Their greeting made him disagreeably aware of the -lawyer’s presence; and his incongruity as he stood behind him was like -a cold draught blowing on his back. He made a hurried murmur of -civility, then, as he glanced again at Miss Hersey’s face, he suddenly -set his heels together, and, bending over her hand, held it to his -lips. - -She was old enough to look as if she had never been young, but seventy -years do not rob a woman, who has ever been a woman, of everything; she -felt like a queen as she touched her kinsman’s bent head lightly with -her withered fingers. - -‘Welcome, Gilbert,’ she said again. ‘God bless you, my dear!’ - -‘We knew your father,’ said the old lady, when chairs had been brought, -and she and her sister installed, one on either side of the fireplace. - -‘We knew your father,’ echoed Miss Caroline, smiling vaguely. - -‘I do not remember that he was like you,’ said Miss Hersey, ‘but he was -a very handsome man. He brought your mother to see us immediately after -he was married.’ - -‘You’ll have to keep up the custom,’ observed Mr. Barclay jocosely. -‘How soon are we to look for the happy event, Mr. Speid? There will be -no difficulty among the young ladies here, I’m thinking.’ - -‘My cousin will do any lady honour that he asks, Mr. Barclay, and it is -likely he will be particular,’ said Miss Hersey, drawing herself up. - -‘He should be particular,’ said Miss Caroline, catching gently at the -last word. - -‘Your mother was a sweet creature,’ continued the younger sister. ‘He -brought her to our house. It was on a Sunday after the church was out. -I mind her sitting by me on the sofy at the window. You’ll mind it, -too, Caroline.’ - -‘A sweet creature indeed; a sweet creature,’ murmured Miss Caroline. - -‘She was so pleased with the lilies of the valley in the garden, and I -asked Robert Fullarton to go out and pull some for her. Poor thing! it -is a sad-like place she is buried in, Gilbert.’ - -‘I have never seen it, ma’am,’ said Speid. - -‘It’s at Garviekirk. The kirkyard is on the shore, away along the sands -from the mouth of the river. Your father wished it that way, but I -could never understand it.’ - -‘I shall be very pleased to show you the road there,’ broke in Barclay. - -‘It was a bitter day,’ continued Miss Robertson. ‘I wondered your -father did not get his death o’ cold, standing there without his hat. -He spoke to no one, not even to Robert Fullarton who was so well -acquainted with him. And when the gentlemen who had come to the burying -arrived at the gate of Whanland, he just bade them a good-day and went -in. There was not one that was brought in to take a glass of wine. I -never saw him after; he went to England.’ - -While her sister was speaking, Miss Caroline held her peace. Her chin -shook as she turned her eyes with dim benevolence from one to the -other. At seventy-two, she seemed ten years older than Miss Hersey. - -Gilbert could not but ask his cousins to stay and dine with him and -they assented very readily. When, at last, dinner was brought, he and -Mr. Barclay handed them to the table. There was enough and to spare -upon it, in spite of Macquean’s doubts; and Miss Hersey, seated beside -him, was gently exultant in the sense of kinship. It was a strange -party. - -Gilbert, who had never sat at the head of his own table before, looked -round with a feeling of detachment. It seemed to him that he was acting -in a play and that his three guests, whom, a few hours before, he had -never seen, were as unreal as everything else. The environment of this -coming life was closing in on him and he could not meet its forces as -easily as a more elastic nature would have met them. He accepted change -with as little equanimity as a woman, in spite of the many changes of -his past, because he knew that both duty and temperament would compel -him to take up life, and live it with every nerve alongside the lives -running parallel with his own. He could see that he had pleased Miss -Hersey and he was glad, as he had a respect for ties of blood imbibed -from the atmosphere of ceremonious Spain. He was glad to find something -that had definite connection with himself and the silent house he had -entered; with its wind-blown beech-trees and the face upstairs in the -dust of the garret. - -When dinner was over, the Miss Robertsons sent out for the hired coach -and pair which they had considered indispensable to the occasion. When -they had taken their leave, Gilbert stood and watched the lights of the -vehicle disappearing down the road to Kaims. Their departure relieved -him, for their presence made him dislike Barclay. Their extreme -simplicity might border on the absurd, but it made the lawyer’s -exaggerated politenesses and well-to-do complacency look more offensive -than they actually were. - -It was quite dark as he turned back, and Barclay, who was a man much in -request in his own circle, was anxious to get home to the town, where -he proposed to enjoy a bottle with some friends. He looked forward -keenly to discussing the new-comer over it. - -Before he went to bed, Speid strolled out into the damp night. He set -his face towards the sea, and the small stir of air there was blew -chill upon his cheek. Beyond a couple of fields a great light was -flaring, throwing up the blunt end of some farm buildings through which -he had passed that morning in his walk with Barclay. Figures were -flitting across the shine; and the hum of human voices rose above a -faint roar that was coming in from the waste of sea beyond the -sand-hills. He strode across the paling, and made towards the light. -When he reached the place he found that a bonfire was shooting bravely -upward, and the glow which it threw on the walls of the whitewashed -dwelling-house was turning it into a rosy pink. The black forms of -twenty or thirty persons, men and women--the former much in the -majority--were crowding and gyrating round the blaze. Some were feeding -it with logs and stacks of brushwood; a few of the younger ones were -dancing and posturing solemnly; and one, who had made a discreet -retirement from the burning mass, was sitting in an open doorway with -an empty bottle on the threshold beside him. Some children looked down -on the throng from an upper window of the house. The revel was -apparently in an advanced stage. - -The noise was tremendous. Under cover of it, and of the deep shadows -thrown by the bonfire, Gilbert slipped into a dark angle and stood to -watch the scene. The men were the principal dancers, and a knot of -heavy carter-lads were shuffling opposite to each other in a kind of -sentimental abandonment. Each had one hand on his hip and one held -conscientiously aloft. Now and then they turned round with the slow -motion of joints on the spit. One was singing gutturally in time to his -feet; but his words were unintelligible to Speid. - -He soon discovered that the rejoicings were in honour of his own -arrival and the knowledge made him the more inclined to keep his -hiding-place. He could see Macquean raking at the pile, the flame -playing over his round forehead and unrefined face. He looked greatly -unsuited to the occasion, as he did to any outdoor event. - -All at once a little wizened woman looked in his own direction. - -‘Yonder’s him!’ she cried, as she extended a direct forefinger on his -shelter. - -A shout rose from the revellers. Even the man in the doorway turned his -head, a thing he had not been able to do for some time. - -‘Heh! the laird! the laird!’ - -‘Yon’s him. Come awa’, laird, an’ let’s get a sicht o’ ye!’ - -‘Here’s to ye, laird!’ - -‘Laird! laird! What’ll I get if I run through the fire?’ - -‘Ye’ll get a pair o’ burned boots!’ roared the man in the doorway with -sudden warmth. - -Speid came out from the shadow. He had not bargained for this. Silence -fell at once upon the assembly, and it occurred to him that he would do -well to say a few words to these, his new dependents. He paused, not -knowing how to address them. - -‘Friends,’ he began at last, ‘I see that you mean this--this display as -a kind welcome to me.’ - -‘Just that,’ observed a voice in the crowd. - -‘I know very little about Whanland, and I do not even know your names. -But I shall hope to be friendly with you all. I mean to live here and -to try my best to do well by everybody. I hope I have your good -wishes.’ - -‘Ye’ll hae that!’ cried the voice; and a man, far gone in intoxication, -who had absently filled the tin mug he had drained with small stones, -rattled it in accompaniment to the approving noise which followed these -words. - -‘I thank you all,’ said the young man, as it subsided. - -Then he turned and went up the fields to the house. - -And that was how Gilbert Speid came back to Whanland. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -AT GARVIEKIRK - - -THE woman who lay in her grave by the sands had rested there for nearly -thirty years when her son stood in the grass to read her name and the -date of her death. The place had been disused as a burial-ground; and -it cost Gilbert some trouble to find the corner in which Clementina -Speid’s passionate heart had mixed with the dust from which, we are -told, we emanate. The moss and damp had done their best to help on the -oblivion lying in wait for us all, and it was only after half an hour -of careful scraping that he had spelt out the letters on the stone. -There was little to read: her name, and the day she died--October 5, -1770--and her age. It was twenty-nine; just a year short of his own. -Underneath was cut: ‘Thus have they rewarded me evil for good, and -hatred for my goodwill (Ps. cix. 4).’ - -He stood at her feet, his chin in his hand, and the salt wind blowing -in his hair. The smell of tar came up from the nets spread on the shore -to windward of him, and a gull flitted shrieking from the line of cliff -above. - -He looked up. - -He had not heard the tread of nearing hoofs, for the sea-sound -swallowed everything in its enveloping murmur, and he was surprised to -find that a person, from the outer side of the graveyard wall, was -regarding him earnestly. He could not imagine how she had arrived at -the place; for the strip of flat land which contained this -burying-ground at the foot of the cliffs appeared to him to end in -the promontory standing out into the ocean a half-mile further east. -The many little tracks and ravines which cut downward to the coast, and -by one of which the rider had descended to ride along the bents, were -unknown to him. He had not expected to see anyone, and he was rather -embarrassed at meeting the eyes of the middle-aged gentlewoman who sat -on horseback before him. She was remarkable enough to inspire anyone -with a feeling of interest, though not from beauty, for her round, -plain face was lined and toughened by the weather, and her shrewd and -comprehensive glance seemed more suited to a man’s than to a woman’s -countenance. A short red wig of indifferent fit protruded from under a -low-crowned beaver; and the cord and tassels, with which existing taste -encircled riding-hats, nodded over one side of the brim at each -movement of the head below. A buff waistcoat, short even in those days -of short waists, covered a figure which in youth could never have been -graceful, and the lady’s high-collared coat and riding-skirt of plum -colour were shabby with the varied weather of many years. The only -superfine things about her were her gloves, which were of the most -expensive make, the mare she rode, and an intangible air which pervaded -her, drowning her homeliness in its distinction. - -Seeing that Gilbert was aware of her proximity, she moved on; not as -though she felt concern for the open manner of her regard, but as if -she had seen all she wished to see. As she went forward he was struck -with admiration of the mare, for she was a picture of breeding, and -whoever groomed her was a man to be respected; her contrast to the -shabbiness of her rider was marked, the faded folds of the -plum-coloured skirt showing against her loins like the garment of a -scarecrow laid over satin. - -She was a dark bay with black points, short-legged, deep-girthed; her -little ears were cocked as she picked her way through the grass into -the sandy track which led back in the direction of the Lour’s mouth and -the bridge. The lady, despite her dumpish figure, was a horsewoman, a -fact that he noticed with interest as he turned from the mound, and, -stepping through a breach in the wall, took his way homewards in the -wake of the stranger. - -It was a full fortnight since he had come to Whanland. With the -exception of Barclay and the Miss Robertsons, he had heard little and -seen nothing of his neighbours, for his time had been filled by -business matters. He knew his own servants by sight, and that was all; -but, with regard to their functions, he was completely in the dark, and -glad enough to have Macquean to interpret domestic life to him. He had -made some progress in the understanding of his speech, which he found -an easier matter to be even with than his character; and he was getting -over the inclination either to laugh or to be angry which he had felt -on first seeing him; also, it was dawning on him that, in the -astounding country he was to inhabit, it was possible to combine decent -intentions with a mode of bearing and address bordering on grossness. - -As he went along and watched the rider in front, he could not guess at -her identity, having nothing to give him the smallest clue to it; he -was a good deal attracted by her original appearance, and was thinking -that he would ask Miss Robertson, when he next waited on her, to -enlighten him, when she put the mare to a trot and soon disappeared -round an angle of the cliff. - -The clouds were low; and the gleam of sunshine which had enlivened the -day was merging itself into a general expectation of coming wet. -Gilbert buttoned up his coat and put his best foot forward, with the -exhilaration of a man who feels the youth in his veins warring -pleasantly with outward circumstances. He was young and strong; the -fascination of the place he had just left, and the curious readiness of -his rather complicated mind to dwell on it, and on the past of which it -spoke, ran up, so to speak, against the active perfection of his body. -He took off his hat and carried it, swinging along with his small head -bare, and taking deep breaths of the healthy salt which blew to him -over miles of open water from Jutland opposite. The horse he had seen -had excited him. So far, he had been kept busy with the things -pertaining to his new position, but, interesting as they were, it -occurred to him that he was tired of them. Now he could give himself -the pleasure of filling his stable. He had never lacked money, for his -father had made him a respectable allowance, but, now that he was his -own master, with complete control of his finance, he would be content -with nothing but the best. - -He thought of his two parents, one lying behind him in that -God-forgotten spot by the North Sea and the other under the cypresses -in Granada, where he had seen him laid barely three months ago. It -would have seemed less incongruous had the woman been left with the sun -and orange-trees and blue skies, and the man at the foot of the -impenetrable cliffs. But it was the initial trouble: they had been -mismated, misplaced, each with the other, and one with her -surroundings. - -For two centuries the Speids of Whanland had been settled in this -corner of the Eastern Lowlands, and, though the property had diminished -and was now scarcely more than half its original size, the name carried -to initiated ears a suggestion of sound breeding, good physique, and -unchangeable custom, with a smack of the polite arts brought into the -family by a collateral who had been distinguished as a man of letters -in the reign of George I. The brides of the direct line had generally -possessed high looks, and been selected from those families which once -formed the strength of provincial Scotland, the ancient and untitled -county gentry. From its ranks came the succession of wits, lawyers, -divines, and men of the King’s service, which, though known only in a -limited circle, formed a society in the Scottish capital that for -brilliancy of talent and richness of personality has never been -surpassed. - -The late laird, James Speid, had run contrary to the family custom of -mating early and was nearing forty when he set out, with no slight -stir, for Netherkails, in the county of Perth, to ask Mr. Lauder, a -gentleman with whom he had an acquaintance, for the hand of his -daughter, Clementina. He had met this lady at the house of a neighbour -and decided to pay his addresses to her; for, besides having a small -fortune, not enough to allure a penniless man, but enough to be useful -to the wife of one of his circumstance, she was so attractive as to -disturb him very seriously. He found only one obstacle to the despatch -of his business, which was that Clementina herself was not inclined -towards him, and told him so with a civility that did not allay his -vexation; and he returned to Whanland more silent than ever--for he was -a stern man--to find the putting of Miss Lauder from his mind a harder -matter than he had supposed. - -But, in a few weeks, a letter came from Netherkails, not from the lady, -but from her father, assuring him that his daughter had altered her -mind, and that, if he were still constant to the devotion he had -described, there was no impediment in his way. Mr. Speid, whose -inclination pointed like a finger-post to Netherkails, was now -confronted by his pride, which stood, an armed giant, straddling the -road to bar his progress. But, after a stout tussle between man and -monster, the wheels of the family chariot rolled over the enemy’s -fallen body; and the victor, taking with him in a shagreen case a pearl -necklace which had belonged to his mother, brought back Clementina, who -was wearing it upon her lovely neck. - -Whatever may have been the history of her change of mind, Mrs. Speid -accepted her responsibilities with a suitable face and an apparent -pleasure in the interest she aroused as a bride of more than common -good looks. Her coach was well appointed, her dresses of the best; her -husband, both publicly and in private, was precise in his courtesy and -esteem, and there was nothing left to be desired but some sympathy of -nature. At thirty-eight he was, at heart, an elderly man, while his -wife, at twenty-seven, was a very young woman. The fact that he never -became aware of the incongruity was the rock on which their ship went -to pieces. - -After three years of marriage Gilbert was born. Clementina’s health had -been precarious for months, and she all but paid for the child’s life -with her own. On the day that she left her bed, a couch was placed at -the window facing seaward, and she lay looking down the fields to the -shore. No one knew what occurred, but, that evening, there was a great -cry in the house and the servants, rushing up, met Mr. Speid coming -down the stairs and looking as if he did not see them. They found their -mistress in a terrible state of excitement and distress and carried her -back to her bed, where she became so ill that the doctor was fetched. -By the time he arrived she was in a delirium; and, two days after, she -died without having recognised anyone. - -When the funeral was over James Speid discharged his servants, gave -orders for the sale of his horses, shut up his house, and departed for -England, taking the child with him under the charge of a young -Scotchwoman. In a short time he crossed over to Belgium, dismissed the -nurse, and handed over little Gilbert to be brought up by a peasant -woman near the vigilant eye of a pasteur with whom he had been friendly -in former days. Being an only son, Mr. Speid had none but distant -relations, and, as he was not a man of sociable character, there was no -person who might naturally come forward to take the child. He spent a -year in travel and settled finally in Spain, where the boy, when he had -reached his fifth birthday, joined him. - -Thus Gilbert was cut off from all intercourse with his native country, -growing up with the sons of a neighbouring Spanish nobleman as his -companions. When, at last, he went to school in England, he met no one -who knew anything about him, and, all mention of his mother’s name -having been strictly forbidden at his home, he reached manhood in -complete ignorance of everything connected with his father’s married -life. The servants, being foreign, and possessing no channel through -which they could hear anything to explain the prohibition, made many -guesses, and, from scraps of their talk overheard by the boy, he -discovered that there was some mystery connected with him. It was a -great deal in his mind, but, as he grew older, a certain delicacy of -feeling forbade his risking the discovery of anything to the detriment -of the mother whose very likeness he had never seen. His father, though -indifferent to him, endeavoured to be just, and was careful in giving -him the obvious advantages of life. He grew up active and manly, -plunging with zest into the interests and amusements of his boyhood’s -companions. He was a good horseman, a superb swordsman, and, his -natural gravity assimilating with something in the Spanish character, -he was popular. Mr. Speid made no demands upon his affection, the two -men respecting each other without any approach to intimacy, and, when -the day came on which Gilbert stood and looked down at the stern, dead -face, though his grief was almost impersonal, he felt in every fibre -that he owed him a debt he could only repay by the immediate putting -into effect of his wishes. Mr. Speid had, during his illness, informed -him that he was heir to the property of Whanland, and that he desired -him to return to Scotland and devote himself conscientiously to it. - -And so he had come home, and was now making his way up to the bridge, -wondering why he had not seen the figure of the strange lady crossing -it between him and the sky. She must have turned and gone up the road -leading from it to the cliffs and the little village of Garviekirk, -which sat in the fields above the churchyard. - -He looked at the shoe-marks in the mud as he went up the hill, -following them mechanically, and, at the top, they diverged, as he had -expected, from his homeward direction. As he stopped half-way and -glanced over the bridge parapet into the swirling water of the Lour -slipping past the masonry, the smart beat of hoofs broke on his ear. -The mare was coming down towards him at a canter, the saddle empty, the -stirrup-leather flying outwards, the water splashing up as she went -through the puddles. Something inconsequent and half-hearted in her -pace showed that whatever fright had started her had given way to a -capricious pleasure in the unusual; and the hollow sound of her own -tread on the bridge made her buck light-heartedly. - -Gilbert stepped out into the middle of the way and held up his -walking-stick. She swerved, stopped suddenly with her fore-feet well in -front of her, and was going to turn when he sprang at the reins. As he -grasped them she reared up, but only as a protest against interference, -for she came down as quietly as if she had done nothing at which anyone -could take offence. She had evidently fallen, for the bit was bent and -all her side plastered with mud. He plucked a handful of grass and -cleaned down the saddle before starting with her towards Garviekirk. -There was no one to be seen, but there stood, in the distance, a -roadside cottage whose inmates might, he thought, know something of the -accident. He hurried forward. - -The cottage-door opened on the side-path, and, as he drew near, he saw -the mare’s owner standing on the threshold, watching his approach. She -had been original-looking on horseback and she was now a hundred times -more so; for the traces of her fall were evident, and, on one side, she -was coated with mud from head to heel. Her wig was askew, her arms -akimbo, and her hat, which she held in her hand, was battered out of -shape. She stood framed by the lintel, her feet set wide apart; as she -contemplated Gilbert and the mare, she kept up a loud conversation with -an unseen person inside the cottage. - -‘Nonsense, woman!’ she was exclaiming as he stopped a few paces from -her. ‘Come out and hold her while this gentleman helps me to mount. -Sir, I am much obliged to you.’ - -As she spoke she walked round the animal in a critical search for -damage. - -‘She is quite sound, madam,’ said Gilbert. ‘I trotted her as I came to -make sure of it. I hope you are not hurt yourself.’ - -‘Thanky, no,’ she replied, rather absently. - -He laid the rein on the mare’s neck. The lady threw an impatient look -at the house. - -‘Am I to be kept waiting all day, Granny Stirk?’ she cried. - -There was a sound of pushing and scuffling, and an old woman carrying a -clumsy wooden chair filled the doorway. She was short and thin, and had -the remains of the most marked good looks. - -The lady broke into a torrent of speech. - -‘What do I want with that? Do you suppose I have come to such a pass -that I cannot mount my horse without four wooden legs to help me up? -Put it down, you old fool, and come here as I bid you--do you hear?’ - -Granny Stirk advanced steadily with the chair in front of her. She -might have looked as though protecting herself with it had her -expression been less decided. - -‘Put it down, I tell you. God bless me, am I a cripple? Leave her head, -sir--she will stand--and do me the favour to mount me.’ - -Gilbert complied, and, putting his hand under the stranger’s splashed -boot, tossed her easily into the saddle. She sat a moment gathering up -the reins and settling her skirt; then, with a hurried word of thanks, -she trotted off, standing up in her stirrup as she went to look over at -the mare’s feet. Granny had put down her burden and was staring at -Gilbert with great interest. - -‘Who is that lady?’ he inquired, when horse and rider had disappeared. - -‘Yon’s Leddy Eliza Lamont,’ she replied, still examining him. - -‘Does she live near here?’ - -‘Ay; she bides at Morphie, away west by the river.’ - -‘And how did she meet with her accident?’ - -‘She was coming in by the field ahint the house, an’ the horse just -coupet itsel’. She came in-by an’ tell’t me. She kens me fine.’ - -It struck Gilbert as strange that, in spite of Lady Eliza’s interest as -she watched him over the burying-ground wall, she had not had the -curiosity to ask his name, though they had spoken and he had done her a -service. He looked down at the mud which her boot had transferred to -his fingers. - -‘Ye’ve filed your hands,’ observed Granny. ‘Come ben an’ I’ll gie ye a -drappie water to them.’ - -He followed her and found himself in a small, dark kitchen. It was -clean, and a great three-legged caldron which hung by a chain over the -fire was making an aggressive bubbling. A white cat, marked with black -and brown, slunk deceitfully out of its place by the hearth as they -entered. The old woman took an earthenware bowl and filled it. When he -had washed his hands, she held out a corner of her apron to him, and he -dried them. - -‘Sit down a whilie to the fire,’ she said, pushing forward the wooden -chair that Lady Eliza had despised. - -‘Thank you, I cannot,’ he replied. ‘I must be going, for it will soon -be dark; but I should like to pay you another visit one day.’ - -‘Haste ye back, then,’ she said, as he went out of the door. - -Gilbert turned as he stood on the side-path, and looked at the old -woman. A question was in her face. - -‘You’ll be the laird of Whanland?’ she inquired, rather loudly. - -He assented. - -‘You’re a fine lad,’ said Granny Stirk, as she went back into the -cottage. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -FRIENDSHIP - - -LADY ELIZA LAMONT splashed along the road and over the bridge; her -heart was beating under the outlandish waistcoat, and behind her red -face, so unsuggestive of emotion of any sort, a turmoil was going on in -her brain. She had seen him at last. - -She breathed hard, and her mouth drew into a thin line as she passed -Whanland, and saw the white walls glimmering through the beech-trees. -There was a light in one of the upper windows, the first she had seen -there for thirty years in the many times she had ridden past. - -He was so little like the picture her mind had imagined that she would -scarcely have recognised him, she told herself. Yet still there was -that in his look which forbade her to hate him unrestrainedly, though -he represented all that had set her life awry. He was now her neighbour -and it was likely they would often meet; indeed, sooner or later, -civility would compel her to invite him to wait upon her. She gave the -mare a smart blow with her riding-cane as they turned into the approach -to Morphie House. - -Up to the horse-block in the stable-yard she rode, for her fall had -made her stiff, and, though she usually objected to dismounting upon -it, she was glad of its help this evening. The groom who came out -exclaimed as he saw her plight, but she cut him short, merely sending -him for a lantern, by the light of which they examined the mare -together in the growing dusk; she then gathered up her skirt and went -into the house by the back entrance. Her gloves were coated with mud, -and she peeled them off and threw them on a table in the hall before -going into the long, low room in which she generally sat. The lights -had not been brought and it was very dark as she opened the door; the -two windows at the end facing her were mere gray patches of twilight -through which the dim white shapes of a few sheep were visible; for, at -Morphie, the grass grew up to the walls at the sides of the house. A -figure was sitting by the hearth between the windows and a very tall -man rose from his chair as she entered. - -Lady Eliza started. - -‘Fullarton!’ she exclaimed. - -‘It is I. I have been waiting here expecting you might return earlier. -You are out late to-night.’ - -‘The mare put her foot in a hole, stupid brute! A fine roll she gave -me, too.’ - -He made an exclamation, and, catching sight of some mud on her sleeve, -led her to the light. She went quietly and stood while he looked at -her. - -‘Gad, my lady! you have been down indeed! You are none the worse, I -trust?’ - -‘No, no; but I will send for a dish of tea, and drink it by the fire. -It is cold outside.’ - -‘But you are wet, my dear lady.’ - -‘What does that matter? I shall take no harm. Ring the bell, -Fullarton--the rope is at your hand.’ - -Robert Fullarton did as he was desired, and stood looking at the ragged -grass and the boles of the trees. His figure and the rather blunt -outline of his features showed dark against the pane. At sixty he was -as upright as when he and Lady Eliza had been young together, and he -the first of the county gentlemen in polite pursuits. At a time when it -was hardly possible to be anything else, he had never been provincial, -for though he was, before anything, a sportsman, he had been one of the -very few of his day capable of combining sport with wider interests. - -The friendship between his own family and that of Morphie House had -gone far back into the preceding century, long before Mr. Lamont, -second son of an impoverished earl, had inherited the property through -his mother, and settled down upon it with Lady Eliza, his unmarried -sister. At his death she had stepped into his place, still unmarried, a -blunt, prejudiced woman, understood by few, and, oddly enough, liked by -many. Morphie was hers for life and was to pass, at her death, to a -distant relation of her mother’s family. She was well off, and, being -the only occupant of a large house, with few personal wants and but one -expensive taste, she had become as autocratic as a full purse and a -life outside the struggles and knocks of the world will make anyone who -is in possession of both. - -The expensive taste was her stable; for, from the hour that she had -been lifted as a little child upon the back of her father’s horse, she -had wavered only once in her decision that horses and all pertaining to -them presented by far the most attractive possibilities in life. Her -hour of wavering had come later. - -The fire threw bright flickerings into the darkness of the room as Lady -Eliza sat and drank her tea. The servant who had brought it would have -brought in lights, too, but she refused to have them, saying that she -was tired and that the dusk soothed her head, and she withdrew into the -furthest corner of a high-backed settee, with the little dish beside -her on a spindle-legged table. - -Fullarton sat at the other end of the hearth, his elbows on his knees -and his hands spread to the blaze. They were large hands, nervous and -well formed. His face, on which the firelight played, had a look of -preoccupation, and the horizontal lines of his forehead seemed deeper -than usual--at least, so his companion thought. It was easily seen that -they were very intimate, from the silence in which they sat. - -‘Surely you must be rather wet,’ said he again, after a few minutes. ‘I -think it would be wise if you were to change your habit for dry -clothes.’ - -‘No; I will sit here.’ - -‘You have always been a self-willed woman, my lady.’ - -She made no reply, merely turning her cane round and round in her hand. -A loud crash came from the fire, and a large piece of wood fell into -the fender with a sputter of blue fireworks. He picked it up with the -tongs and set it back in its place. She watched him silently. It was -too dark to read the expression in her eyes. - -‘I have seen young Whanland,’ she said suddenly. - -‘Indeed,’ said Fullarton. - -‘He caught the mare and brought her to me at Granny Stirk’s house.’ - -‘What is he like?’ he asked, after a pause. - -‘A proper young fellow. He obliged me very greatly. Have you not met -him? He has been at Whanland this fortnight past, I am told.’ - -‘No,’ said Fullarton, with his eyes on the flame, ‘never. I have never -seen him.’ - -‘As I came by just now I saw the lights in Whanland House. It is a long -time that it has been in darkness now. I suppose that sawney-faced -Macquean is still minding it?’ - -‘I believe so,’ said the man, drawing his chair out of the circle of -the light. - -‘How long is it now since--since Mrs. Speid’s death? Twenty-eight or -twenty-nine years, I suppose?’ - -‘It is thirty,’ said Robert. - -‘It was a little earlier in the year than this,’ continued Lady Eliza. -‘I remember seeing Mr. Speid’s travelling-carriage on the road, with -the nurse and the baby inside it.’ - -‘You build your fires very high,’ said Fullarton. ‘I must move away, or -the cold will be all the worse when I get out of doors. - -‘But I hope you will stay and sup, Fullarton. You have not been here -since Cecilia came back.’ - -‘Not to-night,’ said he, rising; ‘another time. Present my respects to -Cecilia, for I must go.’ - -Lady Eliza sat still. He stood by the settee holding out his hand. His -lips were shaking, but there was a steadiness in his voice and a -measured tone that told of great control. - -‘Good-night,’ he said. ‘I left my horse in the stable. I will walk out -myself and fetch him.’ - -He turned to go to the door. She watched him till he had almost reached -it. - -‘Fullarton!’ she cried suddenly; ‘come back!’ - -He looked round, but stood still in his place. - -‘Come back; I must speak--I must tell you!’ - -He did not move, so she rose and stood between him and the fire, a -grotesque enough figure in the dancing light. - -‘I know everything; I have always known it. Do you think I did not -understand what had come to you in those days? Ah! I know now--yes, more -than ever, now I have seen him. He has a look that I would have known -anywhere, Robert.’ - -He made an inarticulate sound as though he were about to speak. - -She held up her hand. - -‘There is no use in denying it--you cannot! How can you, with that man -standing there to give you the lie? But I have understood always--God -knows I have understood!’ - -‘It is untrue from beginning to end,’ said Fullarton very quietly. - -‘You are obliged to say that,’ she said through her teeth. ‘It is a -lie!’ - -But for this one friendship, he had lived half his life solely among -men. He had not fathomed the unsparing brutality of women. His hand was -on the door. She sprang towards him and clasped both hers round his -arm. - -‘Robert! Robert!’ she cried. - -‘Let me go,’ he said, trying to part the hands; ‘I cannot bear this. -Have you _no_ pity, Eliza?’ - -‘But you will come back? Oh, Robert, listen to me! Listen to me! You -think because I have spoken now that I will speak again. Never! I never -will!’ - -‘You have broken everything,’ said he. - -‘What have I done?’ she asked fiercely. ‘Have I once made a sign of -what I knew all those years? Have I, Robert?’ - -‘No,’ he said thickly; ‘I suppose not. How can I tell?’ - -The blood flew up into her face, dyeing it crimson. - -‘What? what? Do you disbelieve me?’ she cried. ‘How dare you, I say?’ - -She shook his arm. Her voice was so loud that he feared it might be -overheard by some other inmate of the house. He felt almost distracted. -He disengaged himself and turned to the wall, his hand over his face. -The pain of the moment was so intolerable. Lady Eliza’s wrath dropped -suddenly and fell from her, leaving her standing dumb, for there was -something in the look of Fullarton’s bowed shoulders that struck her in -the very centre of her heart. When she should have been silent she had -spoken, and now, when she would have given worlds to speak, she could -not. - -He turned slowly and they looked at each other. The fire had spurted up -and each could see the other’s face. His expression was one of physical -suffering. He opened the door and went out. - -He knew his way in every corner of Morphie, and he went, as he had -often done, through the passage by which she had entered and passed by -the servants’ offices into the stable-yard. He was so much preoccupied -that he did not hear her footsteps behind him and he walked out, -unconscious that she followed. In the middle of the yard stood a -weeping-ash on a plot of grass, and she hurried round the tree and into -an outbuilding connected with the stable. She entered and saw his -horse standing on the pillar-rein, the white blaze on his face distinct -in the dark. The stablemen were indoors. She slipped the rings and led -him out of the place on to the cobble-stones. - -Robert was standing bareheaded in the yard. He took up the rein -mechanically without looking at her, and put his foot in the stirrup -iron. As he was about to turn, she laid hold of the animal’s mane. - -‘Lady Eliza!’ he exclaimed, staring down through the dusk. - -‘You have left your hat, Fullarton,’ she said. ‘I will go in and fetch -it.’ - -Before he could prevent her, she had vanished into the house. He sat -for a moment in his saddle, for there was no one to take the horse; but -he followed her to the door, and dismounted there. In a couple of -minutes she returned with the hat. - -‘Thank you--thank you,’ he said; ‘you should not have done such a -thing.’ - -‘What would I not do?’ - -‘Eliza,’ he said, ‘can I trust you?’ - -‘You never have,’ she replied bitterly, ‘but you will need to now.’ - -He rode out of the yard. - -She reached her room without meeting anyone, and sank down in an -armchair. She longed to weep; but Fate, that had denied her the human -joys which she desired, but for which she had not, apparently, been -created, withheld that natural relief too. The repressed womanhood in -her life seemed to confront her at every step. She lifted her head, and -caught sight of herself in a long cheval glass, her wig, her -weather-beaten face, her clumsy attitude. She had studied her -reflection in the thing many and many a time in the years gone by, and -it had become to her almost as an enemy--a candid enemy. As a girl going -to county balls with her brother, she had stood before it trying to -cheat herself into the belief that she was less plain in her evening -dress than she had been in her morning one. Now she had lost even the -freshness which had then made her passable. She told herself that, but -for that, youth had given her nothing which age could take away, and -she laughed against her will at the truth. She looked down at the pair -of hands shining white in the mirror. They were her one ornament and -she had taken care of them. How small they were! how the fingers -tapered! how the pink of the filbert-shaped nails showed against the -cream of the skin! They were beautiful. Yet they had never felt the -touch of a man’s lips, never clung round a lover’s neck, never held a -child. Everything that made a woman’s life worth living had passed her -by. The remembrance of a short time when she had thought she held the -Golden Rose for ever made her heart ache. It was Gilbert’s mother who -had snatched it from her. - -And friendship had been a poor substitute for what she had never -possessed. The touch of love in the friendship of a man and a woman -which makes it so charming, and may make it so dangerous, had been left -out between herself and Robert. She lived before these days of profound -study of sensation, but she knew that by instinct. The passion for -inflicting pain which assails some people when they are unhappy had -carried her tongue out of all bounds, and she realized that she was to -pay for its short indulgence with a lasting regret. She did not suppose -that Fullarton would not return, but she knew he would never forget, -and she feared that she also would not cease to remember. She could not -rid her mind of the image printed on it--his figure, as he stood in the -long-room below with his face turned from her. She had suffered at that -moment as cruelly as himself and she had revelled in her own pain. - -When she had put off her riding-habit, she threw on a wrapper and lay -down on the bed, for she was wearied, body and soul, and her limbs were -beginning to remind her of her fall. It was chilly and she shivered, -drawing up the quilt over her feet. The voices of two servants, a -groom and a maid, babbled on by the ash-tree in the yard below; she -could not distinguish anything they said, but the man’s tone -predominated. They were making love, no doubt. Lady Eliza pressed her -head into the pillow, and tried to shut out the sound. - -She was half asleep when someone tapped at the door, and, getting no -answer, opened it softly. - -‘Is it Cecilia?’ said she, sitting up. - -‘My dearest aunt, are you asleep? Oh, I fear I have awakened you.’ - -The girl stood holding back the curtains. As she looked at the bed her -lips trembled a little. - -‘I have only this moment heard of your accident,’ she said. - -‘I am not hurt, my dear, so don’t distress yourself.’ - -‘Thank Heaven!’ exclaimed the other. - -‘My patience, Cecilia, you are quite upset! What a little blockhead you -are!’ - -For answer, Cecilia took Lady Eliza’s hand in both her own, and laid -her cheek against it. She said nothing. - -‘It must be almost supper-time,’ said the elder woman. ‘I will rise, -for you will be waiting.’ - -‘May I not bring something up to your room, ma’am? I think you should -lie still in bed. I am very well alone.’ - -‘Nonsense, child! Go downstairs, and let me get up. I suppose you think -I am too old to take care of myself.’ - -Cecilia went out as she was bid, and took her way to the dining-room. -Her face was a little troubled, for she saw that Lady Eliza was more -shaken than she had been willing to admit, and she suspected the -presence of some influence which she did not understand; for the two -women, so widely removed in character and age, had so strong a bond of -affection, that, while their minds could never meet on common ground, -there was a sympathy between them apart from all individual bias. - -Cecilia was one of those unusual people whose outward personalities -never look unsuitable to the life encompassing them, though their -inward beings may be completely aloof from everything surrounding them -physically. She sat down by the table, her gray gown melting into the -background of the walls, and the whiteness of her long neck rising -distinct from it. Her dress was cut open in front and bordered by a -narrow line of brown fur which crossed on her bosom. Though she was so -slim, the little emerald brooch which held the fastening of it together -sank into the hollow made by her figure; her hair was drawn up on the -top of her head, and piled in many rolls round a high, tortoiseshell -comb. Her long eyes, under straight brows, seemed, in expression, to be -holding something hidden behind the eyelashes, something intangible, -elusive. To see her was to be reminded, consciously or unconsciously, -of mists, of shadows, of moonlit things--things half seen, things -remembered. Her lips closed evenly, though in beautiful lines, and the -upper, not short enough for real beauty, had an outward curve, as it -rested on its fellow, which held a curious attraction. She was very -pale with a pallor that did not suggest ill-health. - -Though she was the only young inhabitant of Morphie, she existed among -the dusty passages--dusty with the powdering of ages--and the sober -unconventionality of the place as naturally as one of those white -plants which haunt remote waterways exists among the hidden hollows and -shadows of pools. She was very distantly related to Lady Eliza Lamont, -but, when the death of both parents had thrown her on the world, a -half-grown, penniless girl, she had come to Morphie for a month to gain -strength after an illness, and remained there twelve years. Lady Eliza, -ostentatiously grumbling at the responsibility she had imposed upon -herself, found, at the end of the time, that she could not face the -notion of parting with Cecilia. It was the anxiety of her life that, -though she had practically adopted the girl, she had nothing she could -legally leave her at her death but her own personal possessions. - -A few minutes later she came down in the ancient pelisse which she -found comfortable after the exertions of the day. She had taught -Cecilia something of the activity which, though now a part of most -well-bred women’s lives, was then almost an eccentricity. The female -part of the little society which filled Kaims in the winter months -nodded its ‘dressed’ head over its cards and teacups in polished dismay -at the effect such ways would surely have on the young women; at other -times one might hardly have guessed at the lurking solicitude in so -many womanly bosoms; for, though unwilling, for many reasons, to -disagree with Lady Eliza, their owners were apt, with the curious -reasoning of their sex, to take her adopted daughter as a kind of -insult to themselves. It was their opinion that Miss Cecilia Raeburn, -though a sweet young lady, would, of course, find the world a _very_ -different place when her ladyship’s time should come, and they only -hoped she was sensible of the debt she owed her; these quiet-looking -girls were often very sly. With prudent eyes the matrons congratulated -themselves and each other that their own Carolines and Amelias were -‘less unlike other people,’ and had defined, if modest, prospects; and -such of the Carolines and Amelias who chanced to be privily listening -would smirk in secure and conscious unison. Even Miss Hersey Robertson, -who mixed a little in these circles, was inclined to be critical. - -The advent of a possible husband, though he would present in himself -the solution of all difficulties, had only vaguely entered Lady Eliza’s -mind. Like many parents, she supposed that the girl would ‘marry some -day,’ and, had anyone questioned the probability in her presence, it is -likely that she would have been very angry. Fullarton, who was -consulted on every subject, had realized that the life at Morphie was -an unnatural one for Cecilia and spoken his mind to some purpose. He -suggested that she should pass a winter in Edinburgh, and, though Lady -Eliza refused stubbornly to plunge into a society to whose customs she -felt herself unable to conform, it was arranged by him that a favourite -cousin, widow of the late Lord Advocate of Scotland, should receive the -girl. This lady, who was childless, and longed for someone to accompany -her to those routs and parties dear to her soul, found in her kinsman’s -suggestion something wellnigh providential. So kind a welcome did she -extend, that her charge, whose pleasure in the arrangement had been but -a mixed business, set out with an almost cheerful spirit. - -A nature inclined to study and reflection, and nine years of life with -a person of quick tongue, had bred in Cecilia a different calibre of -mind to that of the provincial young lady of her time; and Lady Eliza -had procured her excellent tuition. The widow had expected to find in -her guest a far less uncommon personality, and it was with real -satisfaction that she proceeded to introduce her to the very critical -and rather literary society which she frequented. There were some -belonging to it who were to see in Miss Raeburn, poor as she was, an -ideal future for themselves. Cecilia, when she returned to Morphie, -left more than one very sore heart behind her. To many it seemed -wonderful that her experiences had not spoiled her, and that she could -take up life again in the draughty, ill-lit house, whose only outward -signs of animation were the sheep grazing under its windows and the -pigeons pluming in rows under the weathercock swinging crazily on the -stable roof. - -What people underrated was her devoted attachment to Lady Eliza, and -what they could not understand was the fact that, while she was -charmed, interested, and apparently engrossed by many things, her inner -life might hold so completely aloof as never to have been within range -of them. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -JIMMY - - -INLAND from the river’s mouth the dark plough-fields stretched sombre, -restful, wide, uncut by detail. The smaller roads intersecting the -country were treeless in the main, and did not draw the eye from the -majesty of the defined woods. There was everything to suggest breadth -and full air; and the sky, as Gilbert rode up towards a farm cresting -the swell of the high horizon, was as suggestive of it as the earth. -The clear gray meeting the sweep of the world was an immensity on which -cloud-masses, too high for rain, but full of it, looked as though cut -adrift by some Titanic hand and left to sail derelict on the cold -heavens. - -The road he was travelling was enlivened by a stream of people, all -going in the same direction as himself, and mostly on foot, though a -couple of gigs, whose occupants looked as much too large for them as -the occupants of country gigs generally do, were ascending to the farm -at that jog which none but agriculturally-interested persons can -suffer. - -A displenishing sale, or ‘roup,’ as it is called, had been advertised -there, which was drawing both thrifty and extravagant to its -neighbourhood. Curiosity was drawing Gilbert. A compact little roan, -bought for hacking about the country, was stepping briskly under him, -showing its own excellent manners and the ease and finish of its -rider’s seat. Beside the farm a small crowd was gathered round the -pursy figure of a water-butt on high legs, which stood out against the -sky. - -As he went, he observed, coming down a cart-road, two other mounted -people, a man and a woman. He judged that he and they would meet where -their respective ways converged and he was not wrong, for in another -minute he was face to face with Robert Fullarton and Lady Eliza Lamont. -He drew aside to let them pass on. Lady Eliza bowed and her mare began -to sidle excitedly to the edge of the road, upset by the sudden meeting -with a strange horse. - -‘Good-day to you, sir,’ she said, as she recognised him. ‘I am -fortunate to have met you. It was most obliging of you to come and -inquire for me as you did.’ - -‘Indeed, I could do no less,’ replied Gilbert, hat in hand, ‘and I am -very glad to see your ladyship on horseback again.’ - -‘Lord, sir! I was out the next day. Fullarton, let me make you acquaint -with Mr. Speid of Whanland. Sir, Mr. Robert Fullarton of Fullarton.’ - -The two gentlemen bowed gravely. - -Lady Eliza was so anxious to assure the man beside her of her perfect -good faith and good feeling after the painful meeting of a few weeks -ago that she would willingly have gone arm-in-arm to the ‘roup’ with -Gilbert, had circumstances and decorum allowed it. She brought her -animal abreast of the roan and proceeded with the two men, one on -either side of her. Robert, understanding her impulse, would have -fallen in with it had not the sharp twinge of memory which the young -man’s presence evoked almost choked him. It was a minute before he -could speak. - -‘You are newly come, sir,’ he said at last. ‘I am to blame for not -having presented myself at Whanland before.’ - -Gilbert made a civil reply. - -‘I hear this is likely to be a large sale,’ observed Fullarton, as they -rode along. ‘There is a great deal of live stock, and some horses. Have -you any interest in it?’ - -‘The simple wish to see my neighbours has brought me,’ replied Gilbert. -‘I have so much to learn that I lose no chance of adding anything to my -experience.’ - -While they were yet some way from their destination the crowd parted -for a moment, and Lady Eliza caught sight of the object in its midst. -She pointed towards it. - -‘Ride, Fullarton! ride, for God’s sake, and bid for the water-butt!’ -she cried. - -‘Tut, tut, my lady. What use have you for it?’ - -‘It will come very useful for drowning the stable terrier’s puppies. -She has them continually. Ride, I tell you, man! Am I to be overrun -with whelps because you will not bestir yourself?’ - -Gilbert could scarce conceal his amusement, and was divided between his -desire to laugh aloud and an uneasy feeling that the lady would appeal -to him. - -The auctioneer was seen at this juncture to leap down from the -wood-pile on which he stood, and a couple of men hurried forward and -began to remove the water-butt. It was being hustled away like some -corpulent drunkard, its legs trailing the ground stiffly and raising a -dust that threatened to choke the bystanders. - -The yard was full of people, and, as the auctioneer had paused between -two lots, and was being refreshed at the expense of the farm’s owner, -tongues were loose, and the air was filled with discussion, jests, and -the searching smell of tobacco and kicked-up straw. Among the few women -present Gilbert perceived Granny Stirk, seated precariously on the -corner of the wood-pile from which the auctioneer had just descended. -Beside her was a tall, shock-headed lad of nineteen or so, whom only -the most unobservant could suspect of belonging to the same category as -the farm-boys, though his clothes were of the same fashion as their -own, and his face wore the same healthy tanned red. He was spare and -angular, and had that particular focus of eye which one sees in men who -steer boats, drive horses, pay out ropes, and whose hands can act -independently while they are looking distant possibilities in the -face. A halter dangled from his arm. He was very grave and his thoughts -were evidently fixed on the door of the farm stable. In spite of his -sharp-cut personality, he stood by Granny Stirk in a way that suggested -servitude. - -Gilbert left his companions and went towards the couple. Granny’s face -was lengthened to suit the demands of a public occasion, and her little -three-cornered woollen shawl was pinned with a pebble brooch. - -‘What ails ye that ye canna see the laird of Whanland?’ she said, -turning to the boy as Speid stopped beside them. - -He shuffled awkwardly with his cap. - -‘He’s ma grandson, an’ it’s a shelt[1] he’s after.’ - - [1] Pony. - -Gilbert was getting a little more familiar with local speech. - -‘Do you intend to buy?’ he said to the lad. - -Jimmy Stirk brought his eyes back to his immediate surroundings, and -looked at the speaker. They were so much lighter than the brown face in -which they were set, and their gaze was so direct, that Gilbert was -almost startled. It was as though someone had gripped him. - -‘Ay, that’s it. He’s to buy,’ broke in Granny. ‘He’s aye wanted this, -an’ we’d be the better of twa, for the auld ane’s getting fairly done.’ - -‘I doubt I’ll no get it yet,’ said the boy. - -‘He’s sold near a’ the things he’s got,’ continued Granny, looking at -her grandson’s feet, which Gilbert suddenly noticed were bare. ‘A’m -fair ashamed to be seen wi’ him.’ - -‘How much have you got together?’ inquired the young man. - -Jimmy opened his hand. There were ten pounds in the palm. - -‘He got half that, July month last, from a gentleman that was like to -be drowned down by the river’s mouth; he just gaed awa an’ ca’ed him in -by the lugs,’[2] explained his grandmother. - - [2] Ears. - -‘Did you swim out?’ asked Speid, interested. - -‘Ay,’ replied Jimmy, whose eyes had returned to the door. - -‘That was well done.’ - -‘I kenned I’d get somethin’,’ observed the boy. - -The auctioneer now emerged from the farm-house and the crowd began to -draw together like a piece of elastic. He came straight to the -wood-pile. - -‘Are you needing all that to yoursel’?’ he enquired, looking jocosely -at the bystanders as he paused before Granny Stirk. - -‘Na, na; up ye go, my lad. The biggest leear in the armchair,’ said the -old woman as she rose. - -‘It’s ill work meddling wi’ the Queen o’ the Cadgers,’ remarked a man -who stood near. - -Gilbert determined to stay in his place by the Stirks, for the -commotion and trampling going on proclaimed that the live stock were on -the eve of being brought to the hammer. The cart-horses were the first -to be disposed of, so, having found someone who offered to put the roan -into a spare stall, he abandoned himself to the interest with which the -scene inspired him. - -Jimmy Stirk’s face, when the last team had been led away, told him the -all-important moment had come. The boy moistened his lips with his -tongue and looked at him. His hand was shut tightly upon the money it -held. - -It was difficult to imagine what use the owner of the farm might have -found for the animal being walked about before the possible buyers, for -he was just fifteen hands and seemed far too light to carry a heavy -man, or to be put between the shafts of one of those clumsy gigs which -rolled unevenly into Kaims on market-days. In spite of the evident -strain of good blood, he was no beauty, being somewhat ewe-necked and -too long in the back. But his shoulder sloped properly to the withers -and his length of stride behind, as he was walked round, gave promise -of speed; his full eye took a nervous survey of the mass of humanity -surrounding him. The man who led him turned him abruptly round and held -him facing the wood-pile. Gilbert could hear Jimmy Stirk breathing -hard at his shoulder. - -The auctioneer looked round upon the crowd with the noisome familiarity -of his class, a shepherd’s crook which he held ready to strike on the -planks at his feet substituting the traditional hammer. - -‘You’ll no’ hae seen the like o’ lot fifty-seven hereabout,’ he began. -‘Yon’s a gentleman’s naig--no ane o’ they coorse deevils that trayvels -the road at the term wi’ an auld wife that’s shifting hoose cocked up -i’ the cart--he wouldna suit you, Granny.’ - -He looked down at the old woman, the grudge he bore her lurking in his -eye. - -‘Hoots!’ she exclaimed; ‘tak him yoursel’, gin ye see ony chance o’ -bidin’ on his back!’ - -The auctioneer was an indifferent horseman. - -‘A gentleman’s naig, I’m telling ye! Fit for the laird o’ Fullarton, or -maybe her ladyship hersel’,’ he roared, eager to cover his unsuccessful -sally and glancing towards Robert and Lady Eliza, who sat on horseback -watching the proceedings. ‘Aicht pounds! Aicht pounds! Ye’ll na get sic -a chance this side o’ the New Year!’ - -There was a dead silence, but a man with a bush of black whisker, -unusual to his epoch, cast a furtive glance at the horse. - -‘Speak up, Davie MacLunder! speak up!’ - -Another dead silence followed. - -‘Fiech!’ said David MacLunder suddenly, without moving a muscle of his -face. - -‘Seven pound! Seven pounds! Will nane o’ you speak? Will I hae to bide -here a’ the day crying on ye? Seven pound, I tell ye! Seven pound!’ - -‘Seven pound five,’ said a slow voice from behind a haystack. - -‘I canna see ye, but you’re a grand man for a’ that,’ cried the -auctioneer, ‘an’ I wish there was mair like ye.’ - -‘Seven ten,’ said Jimmy Stirk. - -‘Aicht,’ continued the man behind the haystack. - -Though Gilbert knew lot fifty-seven to be worth more than all the money -in Jimmy’s palm, he hoped that the beast’s extreme unsuitability to the -requirements of those present might tell in the lad’s favour. The price -rose to eight pound ten. - -‘Nine,’ said Jimmy. - -‘And ten to that,’ came from the haystack. - -‘Ten pound,’ said the boy, taking a step forward. - -There was a pause, and the auctioneer held up his crook. - -‘Ten pounds!’ he cried. ‘He’s awa at ten pounds! Ane, twa----’ - -‘Ten pound ten!’ shouted Davie MacLunder. - -Jimmy Stirk turned away, bitter disappointment in his face. In spite of -his nineteen years and strong hands, his eyes were filling. No one knew -how earnestly he had longed for the little horse. - -‘Eleven,’ said Gilbert. - -‘Eleven ten!’ - -‘Twelve.’ - -The auctioneer raised his crook again, and threw a searching glance -round. - -‘Twelve pound! Twelve pound! Twelve pound for the last time! Ane, twa, -three----’ - -The crook came down with a bang. - -‘Twelve pound. The laird of Whanland.’ - -‘He is yours,’ said Speid, taking the bewildered Jimmy by the elbow. -‘Your grandmother was very civil to me the first time I saw her, and I -am glad to be able to oblige her.’ - -The boy looked at him in amazement. - -Gilbert had slipped some money into his pocket before starting for the -sale; he held the two gold pieces out to him. - -‘You can take him home with you now,’ he said, smiling. - -Jimmy Stirk left the ‘roup’ in an internal exultation which had no -outward nor visible sign but an additional intensity of aspect, the -halter which had hung over his arm adorning the head of the little -brown horse, on whose back he jogged recklessly through the returning -crowd. His interest in the sale had waned the moment he had become -owner of his prize; but his grandmother, who had set out to enjoy -herself and meant to do so thoroughly, had insisted on his staying to -the end. She kept her seat at the foot of the wood-pile till the last -lot had changed hands, using her tongue effectively on all who -interfered with her, and treating her grandson with a severity which -was her way of marking her sense of his good fortune. - -Granny Stirk, or ‘the Queen of the Cadgers,’ as local familiarity had -christened her, was one of those vigorous old people, who, having lived -every hour of their own lives, are always attracted by the -possibilities of youth, and whose sympathy goes with the swashbuckling -half of the world. For the tamer portion of it, however respectable, -they have little feeling, and are often rewarded by being looked upon -askance during life and very much missed after death. They exist, for -the most part, either in primitive communities or in very old-fashioned -ones, and rarely in that portion of society which lies between the two. -Gilbert, with his appearance of a man to whom anything in the way of -adventure might happen, had roused her interest the moment she saw him -holding Lady Eliza’s mare outside her own cottage door. His expression, -his figure, his walk, the masculine impression his every movement -conveyed, had evoked her keenest sympathy, and, besides being grateful -for his kindness to Jimmy, she was pleased to the core of her heart by -the high-handed liberality he had shown. It was profitable to herself -and it had become him well, she considered. - -The cadgers, or itinerant fish-sellers, who formed a distinct element -in the population of that part of the coast, were a race not always -leniently looked upon by quiet folk, though there was, in reality, -little evil that could be laid to their charge but the noise they made. -While they had a bad name, they were neither more nor less dishonest -and drunken than other people, and had, at least, the merit of doing -their business efficiently. It was they who carried the fish inland -after the boats came in, and those who stood on their own feet and were -not in the pay of the Kaims fishmongers, kept, like the Stirks, their -own carts and horses. When the haul came to be spread and the nets -emptied, the crowding cadgers would buy up their loads, either for -themselves or for their employers, and start inland, keeping a smart -but decent pace till they were clear of the town, and, once on the -road, putting the light-heeled screws they affected to their utmost -speed. Those whose goal was the town of Blackport, seven or eight miles -from the coast, knowing that the freshest fish commanded the highest -price, used the highroad as a racecourse, on which they might be met -either singly or in a string of some half-dozen carts, pursuing their -tempestuous course. - -The light carts which they drove were, in construction, practically -flat boxes upon two wheels, on the front of which sat the driver, his -legs dangling between the shafts. As they had no springs and ran behind -horses to which ten miles an hour was the business of life, the rattle -they made, as they came bowling along, left no one an excuse for being -driven over who had not been born deaf. Those in the employ of the -Kaims fishmongers would generally run in company, contending each mile -hotly with men, who, like Jimmy Stirk, traded for themselves, and took -the road in their own interests. - -More than forty years before the time of which I speak, Granny Stirk, -then a strikingly handsome young woman, lived with her husband in the -cottage which was still her home. Stirk, a cadger well known on the -road for his blasphemous tongue and the joyfulness of his Saturday -nights, was reported to be afraid of his wife, and it is certain that, -but for her strong hand and good sense, he would have been a much less -successful member of society. As it was, he managed to lead an almost -decent life, and was killed, while still a young man, in an accident. - -Mrs. Stirk thus found herself a widow, with two little boys under ten, -a cart, a couple of angular horses, and no male relations; in spite of -the trouble she had had with him, she missed her man, and, after his -funeral, prepared herself to contend with two things--poverty and the -dulness of life. She cared little for the company of her own sex, and -the way in which her widowhood cut her off from the world of men and -movement galled and wearied her. So it was from inclination as well as -necessity that she one day mounted the cart in her husband’s vacant -place, and appeared at Kaims after the boats came in, to be greeted -with the inevitable jeers. But the jeers could not stop her shrewd -purchasing, nor alter the fact that she had iron nerves and a natural -judgment of pace, and in the market she was soon let alone as one with -whom it was unprofitable to bandy words. For curses she cared little, -having heard too many; to her they were light things to encounter in -the fight for her bread, her children, and the joy of life. - -Her position became assured one day, when, after a time of scarcity in -the fish-market, a good haul held out the prospect of an unusual sale -inland. A string of cadgers who had started before Mrs. Stirk were well -out on the road when she appeared from a short-cut considered unfit for -wheels, and, having hung shrewdly to their skirts, passed them just -outside Blackport, her heels on the shaft, her whip ostentatiously -idle, and her gold earrings swinging in her ears. - -When her eldest son was of an age to help her, he ran away to sea; and -when she gave up the reins to the second, she retired to the ordinary -feminine life of her class with the nickname of the ‘Queen of the -Cadgers’ and a heavier purse. Behind her were a dozen years of hard -work. When her successor died, as his father had done, in the prime of -life, the sailor son, as a sort of rough payment for his own desertion, -sent his boy Jimmy to take his place; the arrangement suited Mrs. -Stirk, and her grandson took kindly to his trade. They had spent a -couple of years together when Gilbert Speid came into their lives as -owner of the land on which their cottage stood. - -Lady Eliza remained in her saddle for the whole of the sale, though -Fullarton put his horse in the stable. She beckoned to Gilbert to join -them, and the two men stood by her until the business was over and the -crowd began to disperse. They rode homewards together, their roads -being identical for a few miles, threading their way through the led -horses, driven cattle, and humanity which the end of the ‘roup’ had let -loose. Jimmy Stirk passed them on his new acquisition, for he had flung -himself on its back to try its paces, leaving his grandmother to follow -at her leisure. - -‘Did you buy that horse for the saddle or for harness?’ inquired -Fullarton, as the boy passed them. - -‘He is not mine,’ replied Gilbert. ‘It was young Stirk who bought him.’ - -‘But surely I heard the auctioneer knock him down to you?’ - -‘I outbid him by two pounds. He had not enough, so I added that on for -him. I never saw anyone so much in earnest as he was,’ explained -Gilbert. - -Fullarton was silent, and Lady Eliza looked curiously at the young man. - -‘I don’t know anything about the boy,’ he added, feeling rather foolish -under her scrutiny. ‘I fear you think me very soft-hearted.’ - -‘That is to your credit,’ said Fullarton, with the least touch of -artificiality. - -‘Perhaps you have the quality yourself, sir, and are the more leniently -inclined towards me in consequence,’ replied Gilbert, a little chafed -by the other’s tone. - -‘We shall have all our people leaving us and taking service at -Whanland,’ said Lady Eliza. ‘You have obliged me also, for my fish will -arrive the fresher.’ - -‘Do you deal with the Stirks?’ inquired Gilbert. - -‘I have done so ever since I came to this part of the country, out of -respect for that old besom, Granny. I like the boy too; there is stout -stuff in that family.’ - -‘Then I have committed no folly in helping him?’ said Speid. - -‘Lord, no, sir! Fullarton, this is surely not your turning home?’ - -‘It is,’ said he, ‘and I will bid you good-evening, for Mr. Speid will -escort you. Sir, I shall wait upon you shortly, and hope to see you -later at my house.’ - -Gilbert and Lady Eliza rode on together, and parted at the principal -gate of Morphie; for, as he declined her invitation to enter on the -plea of the lateness of the hour, she would not suffer him to take her -to the door. - -From over the wall he got a good view of the house as he jogged down -the road, holding back the little roan, who, robbed of company, was -eager for his stable. With its steep roofs and square turrets at either -end of the façade, it stood in weather-beaten dignity among the elms -and ashes, guiltless of ornament or of that outburst of shrubs and -gravel which cuts most houses from their surroundings, and is designed -to prepare the eye for the transition from nature to art. But Morphie -seemed an accident, not a design; an adjunct, in spite of its -considerable size, to the pasture and the trees. The road lay near -enough to it for Speid to see the carved coat-of-arms over the lintel, -and the flagged space before the door stretching between turret and -turret. He hurried on when he had passed it, for splashes of rain were -beginning to blow in his face, and the wind was stirring in the -tree-tops. - -Where a field sloped away from the fringe of wood, he paused a moment -to look at one of those solid stone dovecots which are found in the -neighbourhood of so many gentlemen’s houses in the northern lowlands of -Scotland. Its discoloured whitewash had taken all the mellow tones that -exposure and damp can give, and it stood, looking like a small but -ancient fort, in a hollow among the ragged thorn-trees. At either end -of its sloping roof a flight of crowsteps terminated in a stone ball -cutting the sky. Just above the string-course which ran round the -masonry a few feet below the eaves was a row of pigeon-holes; some -birds circling above made black spots against the gray cloud. - -Gilbert buttoned up his coat, and let the roan have his way. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE STRIFE OF TONGUES - - -MR. BARCLAY held the happy position of chief bachelor in the polite -circles of Kaims. Although he had viewed with displeasure the advent of -a young and sporting banker and the pretensions of the doctor’s eldest -son, who had an agreeable tenor voice, his position remained unshaken. -Very young ladies might transfer their interest to these upstarts and -their like, but, with the matrons who ruled society, he was still the -backbone of every assembly, and its first male ornament. He was an -authority on all local questions, and there clung about him that -subdued but conscious gallantry acceptable to certain female minds. - -It was a cold night when he gave his overcoat and muffler to the maid -in the hall of a house which stood a little back from the High Street. -A buzz of talk came to him through an open door, and, as he ascended -the stairs, the last notes of a flute had just died away. The wife of -the coastguard inspector was giving a party, at which tea, -conversation, and music were the attractions. The expression which had -been arranging itself on his face culminated as he entered the -drawing-room. - -Mrs. Somerville, the inspector’s wife, formed the link in the chain -between town and county, and numbered both elements in her -acquaintance; her husband, who, disabled by a wound, had retired from -the active branch of his profession, being the only representative of -His Majesty’s service in the neighbourhood. Her parties, therefore, -were seen by Kaims through a certain halo caused by the presence, -outside the house, of a string of family chariots, and the absence, -inside it, of one of Captain Somerville’s legs. - -The room was half full. A group of young ladies and two or three young -men were at the piano, and, near the drawn curtains of the window a -whist-table was set, at which four elderly people were seated in the -throes of their game. - -The two Miss Robertsons occupied a sofa a little apart from the rest of -the company and Miss Hersey was talking to Captain Somerville, whose -infirmity forbade him to rise and welcome individual guests, while it -enabled him to consistently entertain the principal ones. - -‘You are late, Mr. Barclay,’ said the hostess, as she held out her -hand. ‘We had been hoping for you to join the rubber which is going on, -but some of our friends were impatient, and so they have settled down -to it.’ - -‘I was detained, ma’am,’ said the lawyer. ‘I have been out to Whanland, -and nothing would content Speid but that I should stay and dine with -him.’ - -‘See what it is to be such a popular man!’ exclaimed the coastguard’s -lady, looking archly over her fan. - -She was not above the acceptance of the little compliments with which -Barclay, who was socially ambitious, plied her. - -‘You flatter me sadly, I fear, Mrs. Somerville; but that is your -kindness and not my merit.’ - -‘I have not yet seen Mr. Speid,’ said Mrs. Somerville, ‘but I hear he -is a very well-looking young man. Quite the dandy, with his foreign -bringing up.’ - -‘Yes, that is exactly what I tell him,’ replied Barclay. ‘A very -affable fellow, too. He and I are great friends. Indeed, he is always -plaguing me to go out to Whanland.’ - -That he had never gone there on any errand but business was a fact -which he did not reveal to his hostess. - -‘So many stories are afloat respecting his--his antecedents,’ said the -lady, dropping her eyes, ‘one hardly knows what to believe. However, -there he is, master of his--of the Speid property. I think bygones -should be bygones, don’t you, Mr. Barclay?’ - -As she said this, she glanced towards a corner of the room in which -Lucilla Somerville, a homely virgin in white muslin and red arms, was -whispering with a girl friend. - -Barclay knew as much as his hostess of Gilbert’s history, and very -little more, whatever his conjectures might be, but he relapsed -instantly from the man of the world into the omniscient family lawyer. - -‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, raising two fingers; ‘forbidden ground with me, -madam--forbidden ground, I fear!’ - -‘Well, I will not be naughty, and want to know what I should not hear,’ -said the lady. ‘I fear it is a sad world we live in, Mr. Barclay.’ - -‘It would be a much sadder one if there were no fair members of your -sex ready to make it pleasant for us,’ he replied, with a bow. - -‘You are incorrigible!’ she exclaimed, as she turned away. - -At this moment a voice rose from the neighbourhood of the piano, whence -the doctor’s son, who had discovered an accompanist among the young -ladies, sent forth the first note of one of a new selection of songs. -It was known to be a new one, and the company was silent. - - ‘Give me a glance, a witching glance, - This poor heart to illume, - Or else the rose that through the dance - Thy tresses did perfume. - Keep, cruel one, the ribbon blue - From thy light hand that flows; - Keep it--it binds my fond heart true; - But oh, give me the rose!’ - -‘How well it suits Mr. Turner’s voice,’ said Lucilla, as the singer -paused in the interval between the verses. - -‘The words are lovely,’ said her friend--‘so full of feeling!’ - - ‘The sighs that, drawn from mem’ry’s fount, - My aching bosom tear-- - O bid them cease! nor, heartless, count - My gestures of despair. - Take all I have--the plaints, the tears - That hinder my repose, - The heart that’s faithful through the years; - But oh, give me the rose!’ - -A polite murmur ran through the room as Mr. Turner laid down his music. - -‘I notice that our musical genius keeps his eyes fixed on one -particular spot as he sings,’ observed an old gentleman at the -whist-table, as he dealt the cards. ‘I wonder who the young puppy is -staring at.’ - -‘If you had noticed that I threw away my seven of clubs, it would have -been more to the purpose, and we might not have lost the trick,’ -remarked the spinster who was his partner, acidly. - -‘People have no right to ask one to play whist in a room where there is -such a noise going on,’ said the first speaker. - -‘Did I hear you say _whist?_’ inquired the lady sarcastically. - -Mr. Barclay passed on to the little group formed by his host and the -Misses Robertson. - -‘How are you, Barclay?’ said the sailor, looking up from his chair, and -reflecting that, though the lawyer was more than a dozen years his -junior, and had double as many legs as himself, he would not care to -change places with him. He was a man of strong prejudices. - -‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting you since our afternoon -together at Whanland,’ said Barclay, pausing before the sofa with a bow -which was as like Gilbert’s as he could make it. - -‘We go out very little, sir,’ said Miss Hersey. - -‘Speid will be a great acquisition,’ continued Barclay; ‘we all feel -the want of a few smart young fellows to wake us up, don’t we, Miss -Robertson?’ - -‘We like our cousin particularly,’ said Miss Hersey; ‘it has been a -great pleasure to welcome him back.’ - -Miss Caroline’s lips moved almost in unison with her sister’s, but she -said nothing and sat still, radiating an indiscriminate pleasure in her -surroundings. She enjoyed a party. - -‘That must be another arrival even later than myself,’ remarked the -lawyer, as a vehicle was heard to draw up in the street outside. ‘I -understand that you expect Lady Eliza Lamont; if so, that is likely to -be her carriage.’ - -Mrs. Somerville began to grow visibly agitated as the front-door shut -and voices were audible on the staircase. In a few moments Lady Eliza -Lamont and Miss Raeburn were announced. - -It was only a sense of duty which had brought Lady Eliza to Mrs. -Somerville’s party, and it would hardly have done so had not Robert -Fullarton represented to her that having three times refused an -invitation might lay her open to the charge of incivility. As she -entered, all eyes were turned in her direction; she was dressed in the -uncompromising purple gown which had served her faithfully on each -occasion during the last ten years that she had been obliged, with -ill-concealed impatience, to struggle into it. She held her fan as -though it had been a weapon of offence; on her neck was a beautifully -wrought amethyst necklace. Behind her came Cecilia in green and white, -with a bunch of snowdrops on her breast and her tortoiseshell comb in -her hair. - -‘We had almost despaired of seeing your ladyship,’ said Mrs. -Somerville; ‘and you, too, dear Miss Raeburn. Pray come this way, Lady -Eliza. Where will you like to sit?’ - -‘I will take that seat by Captain Somerville,’ said the newcomer, -eyeing a small cane-bottomed chair which stood near the sofa, and -longing to be rid of her hostess. - -‘Oh, not there!’ cried the lady. ‘Lucilla, my dear, roll up the velvet -armchair. Pray, pray allow me, Lady Eliza! I cannot let you sit in -that uncomfortable seat--indeed I cannot!’ - -But her victim had installed herself. - -‘I am not able to offer you this one,’ said Captain Somerville; ‘for I -am a fixture, unfortunately.’ - -‘Lady Eliza, let me beg you----’ - -‘Much obliged, ma’am; I am very comfortable here. Captain Somerville, I -am glad to find you, for I feared you were away,’ said Lady Eliza. She -had a liking for the sailor which had not extended itself to his wife. - -‘I have been up the coast these last three weeks inspecting; my wife -insisted upon my getting home in time for to-night. I had not intended -to, but I obeyed her, you see.’ - -‘And why did you do that?’ - -‘God knows,’ said the sailor. - -The sound of the piano checked their conversation, as a young lady with -a roving eye was, after much persuasion, beginning to play a selection -of operatic airs. To talk during music was not a habit of Lady Eliza’s, -so the two sat silent until the fantasia had ended in an explosion of -trills and a chorus of praise from the listeners. - -‘Is that your daughter?’ she inquired; ‘I move so seldom from my place -that I know very few people here.’ - -‘Heaven forbid, ma’am! That’s my Lucy standing by the tea-table.’ - -‘You don’t admire that kind of music?’ - -‘If anyone had presumed to make such a noise on any ship of mine, I’d -have put ’em in irons,’ said Captain Somerville. - -They both laughed, and Lady Eliza’s look rested on Cecilia, who had -been forced into the velvet chair, and sat listening to Barclay as he -stood before her making conversation. Her eyes softened. - -‘What do you think of my girl?’ she said. - -‘I have only seen one to match her,’ replied the old man, ‘and that was -when I was a midshipman on board the flagship nearly half a century -ago. It was at a banquet in a foreign port where the fleet was being -entertained. She was the wife of some French grandee. Her handkerchief -dropped on the floor, and when I picked it up she gave me a curtsey she -might have given the King, though I was a boy more fit to be birched at -school than to go to banquets. Another young devil, a year or two my -senior, said she had done it on purpose for the flag-lieutenant to pick -up instead of me; he valued himself on knowing the world.’ - -Lady Eliza’s eyes were bright with interest. - -‘I taught him a little more of it behind the flag-lieutenant’s cabin -next morning, and got my leave ashore stopped for it; but it was a rare -good trouncing,’ added Captain Somerville, licking his lips. - -‘I am sorry your leave was stopped,’ said his companion; ‘I would have -given you more if I had been in command.’ - -‘You can’t eat your cake and have it, ma’am--and I enjoyed my cake.’ - -‘I suppose you never saw her again,’ said she. - -‘Never; but I heard of her--she was guillotined in the Revolution a -dozen years later. I shall never forget my feelings when I read it. She -made a brave business of it, I was told; but no one could look at her -and mistake about that.’ - -They sat silent for some time, and, Mrs. Somerville appropriating -Barclay, Cecilia had leisure to turn to Miss Hersey; both she and Lady -Eliza had a regard for the old ladies, though between them there was -little in common save good breeding. But that can be a strong bond. - -‘Come, come; we cannot allow you to monopolize Miss Raeburn any more!’ -exclaimed Mrs. Somerville, tapping the lawyer playfully on the arm. ‘We -need you at the tea-table; duty first and pleasure after, you know.’ - -‘If you will watch my destination, Mrs. Somerville, you will see that -it is purely duty which animates me,’ said Barclay, starting off with a -cup of tea in one hand and a plate of sweet biscuits in the other. - -His hostess watched him as he offered the tea with much action to Miss -Caroline Robertson. - -‘Fie, sir! fie!’ she exclaimed, as he returned; ‘that is too bad!’ - -‘For my part, I would shut up all members of your sex after forty,’ -said he, rather recklessly. - -‘Indeed?’ said Mrs. Somerville, struggling with her smile. She was -forty-seven. - -‘I meant sixty, ma’am--sixty, of course,’ gasped Barclay, with -incredible maladroitness. - -‘That would be very sad for some of our friends,’ she observed, -recovering stoutly from the double blow and looking with great presence -of mind at Lady Eliza. ‘How old would you take her ladyship to be, for -instance?’ - -Barclay happened to know that Lady Eliza would, if she lived, keep her -fifty-third birthday in a few months; it was a fact of which some -previous legal business had made him aware. - -‘I should place her at forty-eight,’ he replied, ‘though, of course, if -she understood the art of dress as you do, she might look nearly as -young as yourself.’ - -‘Go away; you are too foolish, Barclay! Mr. Turner, we are talking of -age: at what age do gentlemen learn wisdom?’ - -‘Never, very often,’ replied Turner, who, in spite of his tenor voice, -had a sour nature. - -Barclay gave him a vicious glance; he did not admire him at the best of -times, and the interruption annoyed him. He turned away. - -‘I trust you have been attended to, Miss Robertson,’ said the hostess. - -She despaired of separating her husband and Lady Eliza, and approached -Miss Hersey, whose intimate connection with the county made her -presence and that of her sister desirable adjuncts to a party. The old -lady made room for her on the sofa. - -‘Yes, many, many thanks to you; we have enjoyed our evening. Caroline, -Mrs. Somerville is asking if we have all we need. We have been very -much diverted.’ - -Miss Caroline smiled; she had not quite caught the drift of her -sister’s words, but she felt sure that everything was very pleasant. - -Mrs. Somerville did not know whether the vague rumours about Gilbert’s -parentage which had been always prevalent, and which had sprung up -afresh with his return, had ever reached the old ladies’ ears. Their -age and the retirement in which they lived had isolated them for a long -time, but she reflected that they had once taken part in the life -surrounding them and could hardly have remained in complete ignorance. -She longed to ask questions. - -‘Mr. Barclay seems a great favourite at Whanland,’ she began. - -‘He was there when we went to welcome my cousin,’ replied Miss Hersey; -‘he is his man of business.’ - -‘He is most agreeable--quite the society man too. I do not wonder that -Mr. Speid likes to see him; it is a dull life for a young gentleman to -lead alone in the house--such a sad house, too, what with his poor -mother’s death there and all the unfortunate talk there was. But I have -never given any credit to it, Miss Robertson, and I am sure you will -say I was right. I am not one of those who believe everything they -hear.’ - -The old lady made no reply, staring at the speaker; then her face began -to assume an expression which Mrs. Somerville, who did not know her -very well, had never seen on it, and the surprise which this caused her -had the effect of scattering her wits. - -‘I despise gossip, as you know,’ she stammered; ‘indeed, I always -said--I always say--if there’s anything unkind, do not bring it to _me;_ -and I said--what does it matter to _me?_ I said--his poor mother is dead -and buried, and if there _is_ anything discreditable----’ - -Miss Hersey rose from the sofa, and turned to her sister. - -‘Come, Caroline, it is time we went home. Ma’am,’ she said, curtseying -as deeply as her age would permit to the astonished Mrs. Somerville, -‘we have outstayed your good manners. I have the honour to wish you a -good-evening.’ - -The Misses Robertson’s house stood barely a hundred yards from that of -Captain Somerville, so Miss Hersey had decided that the coach which was -usually hired when they went abroad was unnecessary; the maidservant -who was to have presented herself to escort them home had not arrived -when they put on their cloaks, so they went out alone into the moonlit -street. - -‘What was that she was saying, Hersey?’ inquired Miss Caroline, as she -clung to her sister’s arm, rather bewildered by her situation, but -accepting it simply. - -‘Mrs. Somerville is no gentlewoman, sister. She was bold enough to -bring up some ill talk to which I have never been willing to listen.’ - -‘That was very wrong--very wrong,’ said Miss Caroline. - -Miss Hersey was murmuring to herself. - -‘Discreditable?’ she was saying--‘discreditable? The impertinence!’ - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE DOVECOT OF MORPHIE - - -THE vehicle used by Captain Somerville on his tours of inspection was -standing in the Whanland coach-house; it was an uncommon-looking -concern, evolved from his own brain and built by local talent. The body -was hung low, with due regard to the wooden leg of its owner, and the -large permanent hood which covered it faced backwards instead of -forwards, so that, when driving in the teeth of bad weather, the -Captain might retire to its shelter, with a stout plaid to cover his -person and his snuffbox to solace it. - -This carriage was made to convey four people--two underneath the hood -and one in front on a seat beside the coachman. On fine days the sailor -would drive himself, defended by the Providence that watches over his -profession; for he was a poor whip. - -It was a soft night, fresh and moist; the moon, almost at the full, was -invisible, and only the dull light which pervaded everything suggested -her presence behind the clouds. Captain Somerville, sitting with -Gilbert over his wine at the dining-room table, was enjoying a pleasant -end to his day; for Speid, knowing that his inspection work would bring -him to the neighbourhood of Whanland, had delayed his own dinner till a -comparatively late hour, and invited the old gentleman to step aside -and share it before returning to Kaims. - -A sound behind him made the younger man turn in his chair and meet the -eyes of Macquean, who had entered. - -‘Stirk’s wantin’ you,’ he announced, speaking to his master, but -looking sideways at Captain Somerville. - -‘Tell him to wait,’ said Gilbert; ‘I will see him afterwards.’ - -Macquean slid from the room. - -The two men talked on until they were again aware of his presence. He -stood midway between Speid and the door, rubbing one foot against the -other. - -‘It’s Stirk,’ he said. - -‘I am not ready to see him,’ replied Gilbert with some impatience; ‘I -will ring when I am.’ - -When they had risen from the table and the sailor had settled himself -in an armchair, Gilbert summoned Macquean. - -‘What does young Stirk want with me?’ he inquired. - -Macquean cast a circular look into space, as though his master’s voice -had come from some unexpected quarter. - -‘It’s poachers,’ he said apologetically. - -‘_What?_’ shouted Somerville. - -‘Just poachers.’ - -‘But where? What do you mean?’ cried Gilbert. - -‘It’s poachers,’ said Macquean again. ‘Stirk’s come for you.’ - -‘Where are they?’ - -‘They’re awa west to net the doo’cot o’ Morphie; but they’ll likely be -done by now,’ added Macquean. - -‘Is that what he wanted me for?’ cried Gilbert. - -‘Ay.’ - -Captain Somerville had dragged himself up from his chair. - -‘But, God bless my sinful soul!’ he exclaimed, ‘why did you not tell -us?’ - -Macquean grinned spasmodically. - -‘I’m sure I couldna say,’ he replied. - -Gilbert took him by the shoulders and pushed him out of his way, as he -ran into the hall shouting for Jimmy; the boy was waiting outside for -admittance, and he almost knocked him down. - -‘It’s they deevils frae Blackport that’s to net the doo’cot o’ -Morphie!’ began Jimmy breathlessly. - -‘How do you know?’ - -‘I’m newly come from Blackport mysel’, an’ I heard it i’ the town.’ - -Speid’s eyes glittered. - -‘Where is your cart? We will go, Jimmy.’ - -‘It’s no here, sir; I ran.’ - -The sailor had come to the door, and was standing behind his friend. - -‘My carriage is in the yard,’ he said. ‘Take it, Speid; it holds four. -Are you going, boy?’ - -Jimmy did not think reply necessary. - -‘Macquean, run to the farm, and get any men you can find. I will go to -the stable, Captain Somerville, and order your phaeton; my own gig only -holds two. Oh, if I had but known of this earlier! What it is to have a -fool for a servant!’ - -‘It is worse to have a stick for a leg,’ said Somerville; ‘but I am -coming, for all that, Speid. Someone must drive, and someone must hold -the horse.’ - -‘Do, sir, do!’ cried Gilbert, as he disappeared into the darkness. - -With Jimmy’s help, he hurried one of his own horses into the shafts of -the Captain’s carriage and led it to the doorstep. As the sailor -gathered up the reins, Macquean returned breathless. - -‘I didna see onybody,’ he explained; ‘they’re a’ bedded at the farm.’ - -An exclamation broke from Gilbert. - -‘But you should have knocked them up, you numskull! What do you suppose -I sent you for?’ - -Macquean shook his head with a pale smile of superiority. - -‘They wadna rise for me,’ he said; ‘I kenned that when I went.’ - -‘Then you shall come yourself!’ cried Speid. ‘Get in, I tell you! get -in behind with Jimmy!’ - -Macquean shot a look of dismay at his master, and his mouth opened. - -‘Maybe I could try them again,’ he began; ‘I’ll awa and see.’ - -‘Get in!’ thundered Gilbert. - -At this moment Jimmy Stirk’s arm came out from under the hood, and -Macquean was hauled into the seat beside him; Captain Somerville took a -rein in each hand, and they whirled down the short drive, and swung out -into the road with a couple of inches to spare between the gatepost and -the box of the wheel. - -‘You will hardly find that man of yours very useful,’ observed the -sailor, as they were galloping down the Morphie road; ‘I cannot think -why you brought him.’ - -Gilbert sat fuming; exasperation had impelled him to terrify Macquean, -and, as soon as they had started, he realized the futility of his act. - -‘The boy behind is worth two,’ he said. - -‘There may be four or five of these rascals at the dovecot.’ - -‘We must just do our best,’ said Gilbert, rather curtly. - -Somerville thought of his leg and sighed; how dearly he loved a fray no -one knew but himself. - -As they approached Morphie, they stopped to extinguish their lights, -and he began, in consequence, to drive with what he considered great -caution, though Gilbert was still forced to cling to the rail beside -him; Macquean, under the hood, was rolled and jolted from side to side -in a manner that tended to make him no happier. His companion, seldom a -waster of words, gave him little comfort when he spoke. - -‘Ye’ve no gotten a stick wi’ ye,’ he observed, as they bowled through -the flying mud. - -‘Na,’ said Macquean faintly. - -‘Ye’ll need it.’ - -There was a pause. - -‘I kent a man that got a richt skelp from ane o’ they Blackport -laddies,’ continued Jimmy; ‘’twas i’ the airm, too. It swelled, an’ the -doctor just wheepit it off. I mind it well, for I was passin’ by the -house at the time, an’ I heard him skirl.’ - -There was no reply from the corner of the hood and they pressed on; -only Somerville, who had a habit of chirruping which attacked him the -moment he took up the reins and only left him when he laid them down, -relieved the silence. Thanks to the invisible moon, the uniform -grayness which, though not light, was yet luminous, made the way plain, -and the dark trees of Morphie could be seen massed in the distance. - -‘I wonder they wad choose sic a night as this,’ remarked Jimmy; ‘it’s a -peety, too, for they’ll likely see us if we dinna gang cannylike under -the trees. Can ye run, Mr. Macquean?’ - -‘Ay, can I,’ replied the other, grinning from under the safe cover of -the darkness. A project was beginning to form itself in his mind. - -‘There’ll be mair nor three or four. I’d like fine if we’d gotten -another man wi’ us; we could hae ta’en them a’ then. They’re ill -deevils to ficht wi’.’ - -‘I could believe that,’ said Macquean. - -His expression was happily invisible to Stirk. - -‘If I’d time, I could cut ye a bit stick frae the hedge,’ said Jimmy. - -‘Heuch! dinna mind,’ replied Macquean soothingly. - -They were nearing the place where the dovecot could be seen from the -road and Captain Somerville pulled up. Gilbert and Jimmy got out -quietly and looked over a gate into the strip of damp pasture in which -the building stood. There was enough light to see its shape distinctly, -standing as it did in the very centre of the clearing among the -thorn-bushes. It was not likely that the thieves would use a lantern on -such a night, and the two strained their eyes for the least sign of any -moving thing that might pass by the foot of the bare walls. Macquean’s -head came stealthily out from under the hood, as the head of a -tortoise peers from beneath its shell. No sound came from the dovecot -and Gilbert and Jimmy stood like images, their bodies pressed against -the gateposts. Somerville, on the driving-seat, stared into the gray -expanse, his attention fixed. They had drawn up under a roadside tree, -for better concealment of the carriage. Macquean slipped out into the -road, and, with a comprehensive glance at the three heads all turned in -one direction, disappeared like a wraith into the night. - -Presently, to the straining ears of the watchers came the sound of a -low whistle. - -‘There,’ said Speid under his breath, ‘did you hear that, Jimmy?’ - -The boy nodded. - -‘Let Macquean hold the horse,’ burst out Somerville, who was rolling -restlessly about on the box. ‘I might be of use even should I arrive -rather late. At least, I can sit on a man’s chest.’ - -At this moment Jimmy looked into the back of the carriage.’ - -‘Mr. Macquean’s awa!’ he exclaimed as loudly as he dared. - -Gilbert ground his teeth; only the necessity for silence stopped the -torrent which rose to the sailor’s lips. - -Speid and Jimmy slid through the bars of the gate; they dared not open -it nor get over it for fear it should rattle on its hinges. They kept a -little way apart until they had reached the belt of thorn-trees, and, -under cover of these, they drew together again and listened. Once they -heard a boot knock against a stone; they crept on to the very edge of -their shelter, until they were not thirty yards from the dovecot. The -door by which it was entered was on the farther side from the road, and -the pigeon-holes ran along the opposite wall a few feet below the roof. -Three men were standing by the door, their outlines just -distinguishable. Jimmy went down on his hands and knees, and began to -crawl, with that motion to which the serpent was condemned in Eden, -towards a patch of broom that made a spot like an island in the short -stretch of open ground between the thorns and the building, Gilbert -following. - -Now and then they paused to listen, but the voices which they could now -hear ran on undisturbed, and, when they had reached their goal, they -were close enough to the dovecot to see a heap lying at its foot which -they took to be a pile of netting. Evidently the thieves had not begun -their night’s work. - -The nearest man approached the heap and began to shake it out. - -‘I’ll gi’e ye a lift up, Robbie,’ said one of the voices; ‘there’s -stanes stickin’ out o’ the wa’ at the west side. I had a richt look at -it Sabbath last when the kirk was in.’ - -‘My! but you’re a sinfu’ man!’ exclaimed Robbie. - -‘We’re a’ that,’ observed a third speaker piously. - -Two of the men took the net, and went round the dovecot wall till they -found the stones of which their companion had spoken; these rough steps -had been placed there for the convenience of anyone who might go up to -mend the tiling. - -‘Lie still till they are both up,’ whispered Gilbert. ‘There are two to -hold the net, and one to go in and beat out the birds.’ - -They crouched breathless in the broom till they saw two figures rise -above the slanting roof between them and the sky. Each had a length of -rope which he secured round one of the stone balls standing at either -end above the crowsteps; it was easy to see that the business had been -carefully planned. Inside the dovecot, a cooing and gurgling showed -that the birds were awakened. - -The two men clambered down by the crowsteps, each with his rope wound -round his arm and supporting him as he leaned over to draw the net over -the pigeon-holes. - -‘Now then, in ye go,’ said Robbie’s voice. - -The key was in the door, for the third man unlocked it and entered. - -Speid and Jimmy Stirk rose from the broom; they could hear the birds -flapping among the rafters as the intruder entered, and the blows of -his stick on the inner sides of the walls. They ran up, and Gilbert -went straight to the open doorway and looked in. His nostrils were -quivering; the excitement which, with him, lay strong and dormant -behind his impassive face, was boiling up. It would have been simple -enough to turn the key of the dovecot on its unlawful inmate, but he -did not think of that. - -‘You scoundrel!’ he exclaimed--‘you damned scoundrel!’ - -The man turned round like an animal trapped, and saw his figure -standing against the faint square of light formed by the open door; he -had a stone in his hand which he was just about to throw up into the -fluttering, half-awakened mass above his head. He flung it with all his -might at Speid, and, recognising his only chance of escape, made a dash -at the doorway. It struck Gilbert upon the cheek-bone, and its sharp -edge laid a slanting gash across his face. He could not see in the -blackness of the dovecot, so he leaped back, and the thief, meeting -with no resistance, was carried stumbling by his own rush a few feet -into the field, dropping his stick as he went. As he recovered himself, -he turned upon his enemy; he was a big man, bony and heavy, and, had he -known it, the want of light was all in his favour against a foe like -Gilbert Speid, to whom self-defence, with foil or fist, was the most -fascinating of sciences. Flight did not occur to him, for he was -heavy-footed, and he saw that his antagonist was smaller than himself. - -Speid cursed the darkness; he liked doing things neatly, and the -situation was sweet to him; it was some time since he had stood up to -any man, either in play or in earnest. He determined to dodge his -opponent until he had reversed their positions and brought him round -with his back to the whitewash of the dovecot; at the present moment he -stood against the dark background of the trees. The two closed -together, and, for some minutes, the sound of blows and heavy breathing -mingled with the quiet of the night. - -The blood was dripping down Gilbert’s face, for the stone had cut deep; -he was glad the wound was below his eye, where the falling drops could -not hamper his sight. He guarded himself very carefully, drawing his -enemy slowly after him, until he stood silhouetted sharply against the -whitewash. He looked very large and heavy, but the sight pleased Speid; -he felt as the bull feels when he shakes his head before charging; his -heart sang aloud and wantonly in his breast. Now that he had got the -position he desired, he turned from defence to attack, and with the -greater interest as his antagonist was no mean fighter. He had received -a blow just below the elbow, and one on the other side of his face, and -his jaw was stiff. He grew cooler and more steady as the moments went -by. He began to place his blows carefully, and his experience told him -that they were taking effect. Breath and temper were failing his enemy; -seeing this, he took the defensive again, letting him realize the -futility of his strength against the skill he met. Suddenly the man -rushed in, hitting wildly at him. He was struck under the jaw by a blow -that had the whole weight of Gilbert’s body behind it, and he went over -backwards, and lay with his face to the sky. He had had enough. - -Meanwhile, the two men on the dovecot had been a good deal startled by -hearing Gilbert’s exclamation and the noise of the rush through the -door. One, who had fastened the net on the eaves, clambered up the -crowsteps, and, holding fast to the stone ball, looked over to see that -his friend’s design had been frustrated by someone who was doing his -utmost to destroy his chances of escape. He came down quickly to the -lower end of the roof, meaning to drop to the ground and go to his -assistance; but he found himself confronted by Jimmy Stirk, who had -sidled round the walls, and stood below, looking from himself to his -partner with the air of a terrier who tries to watch two rat-holes at -once. A few birds had come out of the pigeon-holes, and were -struggling, terrified, in the meshes. The two men did the most -sensible thing possible: they dropped, one from either end of the -tiling, and ran off in opposite directions. - -Unable to pursue both, the boy pounced upon the man on his left, and -would have laid hands on him as he landed, had he not slipped upon a -piece of wet mud and stumbled forward against the wall. When he -recovered himself, his prey had put twenty yards between them, and was -running hard towards the thorn-trees. The net had fallen to the ground, -and the pigeons were escaping from it, flying in agitated spirals above -the dovecot; their companions were emerging from the holes, dismayed -with the outraged dismay felt by the feathered world when its habits -are disturbed. The air was a whirl of birds. Jimmy gathered himself -together and gave chase with all his might. - -Captain Somerville’s state of mind as he watched Gilbert and Jimmy -Stirk disappear was indescribable; as he sat on the box and the minutes -went by, his feelings grew more poignant, for impotent wrath is a -dreadful thing. Had he happened upon Macquean, he would have been -congenially occupied for some time, but the darkness had swallowed -Macquean, and there was nothing for him to do but sit and gaze into the -grayness of the field. - -At last he heard what he fancied was Speid’s voice and the clattering -of feet upon the dovecot roof. The night was still, and, though -middle-age was some way behind him, his hearing was acute. He found his -position beyond his endurance. - -The horse was old, too, and stood quiet while he descended painfully to -the ground. He led him to the gatepost and tied him to it securely; to -squeeze between the bars as Jimmy and Gilbert had done was impossible -for him, so he opened it with infinite caution, and closed it behind -him. Then he set out as best he could for the thorn-trees. - -His wooden leg was a great hindrance in the moist pasture, for the -point sunk into the earth as he walked, and added to his exertions. He -paused in the shadow of the branches, as his friends had done, and -halted by a gnarled bush with an excrescence of tangled arms. While -he stood, he heard steps running in his direction from the dovecot. He -held his breath. - -A figure was coming towards him, making for the trees. As it passed, -the sailor took firm hold of a stem to steady himself, and stuck out -his wooden leg. The man went forward with a crash, his heels in the -air, his head in the wet moss, and before he knew what had happened, a -substantial weight had subsided upon his back. - -‘My knife is in my hand,’ observed Captain Somerville, laying the thin -edge of his metal snuff-box against the back of the thief’s neck, ‘but, -if you move, it will be in your gizzard.’ - - * * * * * - -By the time his absence was discovered, Macquean had put some little -distance between himself and the carriage. For the first few minutes of -his flight he crept like a shadow, crouching against the stone wall -which flanked one side of the road, and terrified lest his steps should -be heard. He paused now and then and stood still to listen for the -sound of pursuit, taking courage as each time the silence remained -unbroken. The white face of a bullock standing by a gate made his heart -jump as it loomed suddenly upon him. When he felt safe, he took his way -with a bolder aspect--not back towards Whanland, but forward towards -Morphie House. He burned with desire to announce to someone the -sensational events that were happening, and he realized very strongly -that it would be well to create an excuse for his own defection. - -He was panting when he pealed the bell and knocked at the front-door, -feeling that the magnitude of his errand demanded an audience of Lady -Eliza herself. It was opened by a maidservant with an astonished -expression. - -‘Whaur’s her ladyship?’ said Macquean. ‘A’m to see her.’ - -‘What is’t?’ inquired the girl, closing the door until it stood barely -a foot open. - -‘A’m seeking her leddyship, a’ tell ye.’ - -She looked at him critically. - -‘Who is there?’ said a cool voice from the staircase. - -The maid stood back, and Cecilia came across the hall. - -‘Where do you come from?’ she asked, as the lamplight struck Macquean’s -bald head, making it shine in the darkness. - -‘From Whanland,’ replied he. ‘You’ll be Miss Raeburn? Eh! There’s awfu’ -work down i’ the field by the doo’cot! The laird’s awa’ there, an’ -Jimmy Stirk an’ the ane-leggit Captain-body frae Kaims. They’re to net -it an’ tak’ the birds.’ - -‘What?’ exclaimed Cecilia, puzzled, and seeing visions of the inspector -engaged in a robbery. ‘Do you mean Captain Somerville?’ - -‘A’ do, indeed,’ said Macquean, wagging his head, ‘an’ a’m sure a’ hope -he may be spared. He’s an auld man to be fechtin’ wi’ poachers, but -we’re a’ in the hands o’ Providence.’ - -A light began to break on Cecilia. - -‘Then, are the poachers at the dovecot? Is that what you have come to -say?’ - -Macquean assented. - -The maidservant, who had been listening open-mouthed, now flew up to -Lady Eliza’s bedroom, and found her mistress beginning to prepare -herself for the night. She had not put off her dress, but her wig stood -on a little wooden stand on the toilet-table. She made a snatch at it -as the girl burst in with her story. - -‘Cecilia, what is all this nonsense?’ exclaimed Lady Eliza, seeing her -adopted niece’s figure appear on the threshold. ‘(Stop your havering, -girl, till I speak to Miss Raeburn.) Come here, Cecilia. I can’t hear -my own voice for this screeching limmer. (Be quiet, girl!) What is it, -Cecilia? Can’t you answer, child?’ - -The maid had all the temperament of the female domestic servant, and -was becoming hysterical. - -‘Put her out!’ cried Lady Eliza. ‘Cecilia! put her into the passage.’ - -‘There’s a man downstairs,’ sobbed the maid, who had talked herself -into a notion that Macquean was a poacher trying to effect an entrance -into the house. - -‘A man, is there? I wish there were more, and then we should not have a -parcel of whingeing[1] women to serve us! I wish I could put you all -away, and get a few decent lads in instead. Take her away, Cecilia, I -tell you!’ - - [1] Whining. - -When the door was shut behind the servant, and Lady Eliza had directed -her niece to have the stablemen sent with all despatch to the dovecot, -she drew a heavy plaid shawl from the cupboard and went downstairs to -sift the matter. Her wig was replaced and she had turned her skirt up -under the plaid. - -Macquean was still below. Having delivered himself of his news, he had -no wish to be sent out again. He did not know where the servants’ hall -might be, or he would have betaken himself there, and the maid had fled -to her own attic and locked herself in securely. - -‘Have you got a lantern?’ said Lady Eliza over the banisters. ‘I am -going out, and you can light me.’ - -‘Na,’ said Macquean, staring. - -Without further comment she went out of the house, beckoning him to -follow. She crossed the yard and opened the stable-door, to find -Cecilia, a cloak over her shoulders, caressing the nose of the bay -mare. Seeing the maid’s distracted state of mind, she had roused the -men herself. A small lantern stood on the corn-bin. The mare whinnied -softly, but Lady Eliza took no notice of her. - -‘Here, my dear; give the lantern to Macquean,’ she exclaimed. ‘I am -going to see what is ado in the field.’ - -‘It gives little light,’ said Cecilia. ‘The men have taken the others -with them.’ - -‘Ye’d best bide whaur ye are,’ said Macquean suddenly. ‘It’s terrible -dark.’ - -Lady Eliza did not hear him. She had gone into the harness-room, and -the two women were searching every corner for another lantern. Finding -the search fruitless, they went into the coach-house. There was no -vestige of such a thing, but, in a corner, stood a couple of rough -torches which had been used by the guizards[2] at Hogmanay. - - [2] Masqueraders who, in Scotland, go from house to house at Hogmanay, - or the last day of the year. - -When Macquean, compelled by Lady Eliza, had lit one, she ordered him to -precede her, and they left the stable, Cecilia following. The arms of -the trees stood out like black rafters as they went under them, the -torchlight throwing them out theatrically, as though they made a -background to some weird stage scene. Occasionally, when Macquean -lowered the light, their figures went by in a fantastic procession on -the trunks of the limes and ashes. The darkness overhead seemed -measureless. The fallen twigs cracked at their tread, and beech-nuts -underfoot made dry patches on the damp moss among the roots. As they -emerged from the trees and looked down the slope, they saw the -stablemen’s lanterns and heard the voices of men. - -Lady Eliza redoubled her pace. When they had almost come to the -dovecot, she told Macquean to hold up his torch. Cecilia, whose gown -had caught on a briar, and who had paused to disentangle herself, -hurried after her companions, and rejoined them just as he raised the -light. - -As she looked, the glare fell full upon the walls, and on the figure of -Gilbert Speid standing with the blood running down his face. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE LOOKING-GLASS - - -GILBERT hurried forward as he saw Lady Eliza. - -‘The pigeons are safe,’ he said. ‘I have locked up two of these rascals -in the dovecot. The third, I fear, has got away.’ - -‘Indeed, sir, I am vastly obliged to you,’ exclaimed she. ‘You seem -considerably hurt.’ - -‘He has had a stiff fight, ma’am,’ said Captain Somerville. - -‘You are very good to have protected my property,’ she continued, -looking at the two gentlemen. ‘All I can do now is to send for the -police from Kaims, unless the dovecot is a safe place for them until -morning.’ - -‘Young Stirk has gone to Kaims with my carriage,’ said Somerville, ‘for -the door is not very strong, and I fancy your men have no wish to watch -it all night.’ - -‘It seems,’ said Lady Eliza, turning to Speid, ‘that I have only to be -in a difficulty for you to appear.’ - -Her voice was civil, and even pleasant, but something in it rang false. -Gilbert felt the undercurrent instinctively, for, though he had no idea -of her real sentiments towards himself, he recognised her as a person -in whose doings the unexpected was the natural. - -‘I think I can do nothing more,’ he said, with a formality which came -to him at times, ‘so I will wish your ladyship a good-night.’ - -‘May I ask where you are going, sir, and how you propose to get there -in that condition?’ - -‘It is nothing,’ replied Gilbert, ‘and Whanland is a bare four miles -from here. With your permission I will start at once.’ - -‘Nonsense, Mr. Speid! You will do nothing of the sort. Do you suppose I -shall allow you to walk all that way, or to leave Morphie till your -face has been attended to? Come, Captain Somerville, let us go to the -house. Sir, I insist upon your coming with us.’ - -The men from the stable were instructed to remain at the dovecot door -until Jimmy should return with the police, and Gilbert recognised -Macquean as Lady Eliza again drove him forward to light the party back -under the trees. He made no comment, feeling that the moment was -unsuitable, and being somewhat interested in the fact that a young -woman, of whose features he could only occasionally catch a glimpse, -was walking beside him; as the torchlight threw fitful splashes across -her he could see the outline of a pale face below a crown of rather -elaborately dressed dark hair. Lady Eliza had directed him to follow -his servant, and was herself delayed by the sailor’s slow progress. -Though he had never seen his companion before, she was known to him by -hearsay. Her silent step, and the whiteness of her figure and drapery -against the deep shadows between the trees, gave him a vague feeling -that he was walking with Diana. He grew aware of his bloody face, and -immediately became self-conscious. - -‘I fear I am a most disagreeable object, Miss Raeburn,’ he said. - -‘I had not observed it, sir,’ she replied. - -‘You are very kind, but you must think me unpleasant company in this -condition, all the same.’ - -‘I can think of nothing but that you have saved my aunt’s pigeons. She -says little, but I knows he is grateful. There has always been a large -flock at Morphie, and their loss would have vexed her very much.’ - -‘I owe Stirk--Stirk, the young cadger--a debt for bringing me word of -what was going to happen. He heard of it in Blackport, and came -straight to tell me.’ - -‘I wonder why he went to you instead of warning us,’ said she. - -‘We are rather friendly, he and I. I suppose he thought he would like -the excitement, and that I should like it, too. He was not wrong, for I -do,’ replied Gilbert, unconsciously using the present tense. - -‘Then what has brought Captain Somerville? It all happened so suddenly -that there has been no time for surprise. But it is strange to find him -here.’ - -‘He was dining with me when the news was brought, and he insisted on -coming. He managed to trip a man up, and sit on him till Stirk and I -came to his help. He did it with his wooden leg, I believe,’ said -Gilbert, smiling in spite of his injured face. - -Cecilia laughed out. - -‘I think that is charming,’ she said. - -Gilbert had known many women more or less intimately, but never one of -his own countrywomen. He had heard much of the refinement and delicacy -of the British young lady. This one, who seemed, from the occasional -view he could obtain of her, and from the sound of her voice, to -possess both these qualities in the highest degree, struck him as -having a different attitude towards things in general to the one he had -been led to expect in the class of femininity she represented. As she -had herself said, there had been no time for surprise, and he now -suddenly found that he was surprised--surprised by her presence, -surprised to find that she seemed to feel neither agitation nor any -particular horror at what had happened. He had known women in Spain who -found their most cherished entertainment in the bull-ring, but he had -never met one who would have taken the scene she had broken in upon so -calmly. - -The changed customs of our modern life have made it hard to realize -that, in the days when Gilbert and Cecilia met by torchlight, it was -still a proof of true sensibility to swoon when confronted by anything -unusual, and that ladies met cows in the road with the same feelings -with which they would now meet man-eating tigers. Indeed, the woman of -the present moment, in the face of such an encounter, would probably -make some more or less sensible effort towards her own safety, but, at -the time of which I speak, there was nothing for a lady to do at the -approach of physical difficulties but subside as rapidly as possible on -to the cleanest part of the path. But Cecilia had been brought up -differently. Lady Eliza led so active a life, and was apt to require -her to do such unusual things, that she had seen too many emergencies -to be much affected by them. There was a deal of the elemental woman in -Cecilia, and she had just come too late to see the elemental man in -Speid brush away the layer of civilization, and return to his natural -element of fight. She was almost sorry she had been too late. - -She walked on beside him, cool, gracious, the folds of her skirt -gathered up into her hand, and he longed for the lamp-lit house, that -he might see her clearly. - -‘The man with the torch is your servant, is he not?’ said she. ‘He told -me he had come from Whanland.’ - -‘He is,’ replied Speid; ‘but how long he will remain so is another -matter. I am very angry with him--disgusted, in fact.’ - -‘What has he done, sir, if I may ask?’ - -‘Everything that is most intolerable. He drove me to the very end of my -patience, in the first instance.’ - -‘How long is your patience, Mr. Speid?’ - -‘It was short to-night,’ replied Gilbert. - -‘And then?’ - -‘Then I brought him here to be of some use, and while I was looking -over the wall for these thieving ruffians, he ran away.’ - -‘He does not look very brave,’ observed Cecilia, a smile flickering -round her lips. ‘He arrived at the door, and rang up the house, and I -could see that he was far from comfortable.’ - -‘He will be more uncomfortable to-morrow,’ said Gilbert grimly. - -‘Poor fellow,’ said Cecilia softly. ‘It must be a terrible thing to be -really afraid.’ - -‘It is inexcusable in a man.’ - -‘I suppose it is,’ replied she slowly, ‘and yet----’ - -‘And yet--you think I should put up with him? He has enraged me often -enough, but he has been past all bearing to-night.’ - -‘Do you really mean to send him away? He has been years at Whanland, -has he not?’ - -‘He has,’ said Gilbert; ‘but let us forget him, Miss Raeburn, he makes -me furious.’ - -When they reached the house, Lady Eliza led the way to the dining-room, -and despatched such servants as were to be found for wine. Her -hospitable zeal might even have caused a fresh dinner to be cooked, had -not the two men assured her that they had only left the table at -Whanland to come to Morphie. - -‘If I may have some water to wash the cut on my face, I will make it a -little more comfortable,’ said Speid. - -He was accordingly shown into a gloomy bedroom on the upper floor, and -the maid who had opened the door to Macquean, having recovered from her -hysterics, was assiduous in bringing him hot water and a sponge. As the -room was unused, it had all the deadness of a place unfrequented by -humanity, and the heavy curtains of the bed and immense pattern of -birds and branches which adorned the wall-paper gave everything a -lugubrious look. He examined his cut at the looking-glass over the -mantelshelf, an oblong mirror with a tarnished gilt frame. - -The stone which had struck him was muddy, and he found, when he had -washed the wound, that it was deeper than he supposed. It ached and -smarted as he applied the sponge, for the flint had severed the flesh -sharply. As he dried his wet cheek in front of the glass, he saw a -figure which was entering the room reflected in it. - -‘Lady Eliza has sent me with this. Can I help you, sir?’ said Cecilia -rather stiffly, showing him a little case containing plaster. - -She held a pair of scissors in her hand. He turned. - -‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, as she saw the long, red scar; ‘that is really -bad! Do, pray, use this plaster. Look, I will cut it for you.’ - -And she opened the case, and began to divide its contents into strips. - -‘You are very good,’ he said awkwardly, as he watched the scissors -moving. - -She did not reply. - -‘I had no intention of disturbing the house in this way,’ he continued; -‘it is allowing to Macquean’s imbecility. You need never have known -anything till to-morrow morning.’ - -‘You are very angry with Macquean,’ said Cecilia. ‘I cannot bear to -think of his leaving a place where he has lived so long. But you will -be cooler to-morrow, I am sure. Now, Mr. Speid, I have made this ready. -Will you dip it in the water and put this strip across the cut?’ - -Gilbert did as he was bid, and, pressing the edges of the wound -together, began to lay the plaster across his cheek. - -‘You can hardly see,’ said she. ‘Let me hold the light.’ - -She raised the candle, and the two looked intently into the glass at -his fingers, as he applied the strip. He met with scant success, for it -stuck to his thumb and curled backwards like a shaving. He made another -and more careful attempt to place it, but, with the callous obstinacy -often displayed by inanimate things, it refused to lie flat. - -The two pairs of eyes met in the looking-glass. - -‘I cannot make it hold,’ said he. ‘It is not wet enough, and I am too -clumsy.’ - -His arm ached where it had been hit below the elbow; it was difficult -to keep it steady. - -‘I can do it,’ said Cecilia, a certain resolute neutrality in her -voice. ‘Hold the candle, sir.’ - -She took the strip from him, and, dipping it afresh in the water, laid -it deftly across his cheek-bone. - -As her cool fingers touched his hot cheek he dropped his eyes from her -face to the fine handkerchief which she had tucked into her bosom, and -which rose and fell with her breathing. She took it out, and held it -pressed against the plaster. - -‘You will need two pieces,’ she said. ‘Keep this upon the place while I -cut another strip.’ - -He had never been ordered in this way by a girl before. Caprice he had -experience of, and he had known the exactingness of spoilt women, but -Cecilia’s impersonal commanding of him was new, and it did not -displease him. He told himself, as he stood in front of her, that, were -he to describe her, he would never call her a girl. She was essentially -a woman. - -‘That is a much better arrangement,’ observed Captain Somerville, as -Gilbert entered the dining-room alone. ‘I did not know you were such a -good surgeon, Speid.’ - -‘Don’t praise me. I was making such a clumsy job of it that Miss -Raeburn came to my help; she has mended it so well that a few days will -heal it, I expect.’ - -‘You will have a fine scar, my lad,’ said the sailor. - -‘That doesn’t matter. I assure you, the thing is of no consequence. It -is not really bad.’ - -‘It is quite bad enough,’ said Lady Eliza. - -‘You think far too much of it, ma’am.’ - -‘At any rate, sit down and help yourself to some wine. I have not half -thanked you for your good offices.’ - -‘I fancy he is repaid,’ said Somerville dryly, glancing at the strips -of plaster. - -Lady Eliza had ordered a carriage to be got ready to take Speid and the -sailor home, and Captain Somerville had sent a message to Kaims by -Jimmy Stirk, telling his family to expect his return in the morning, as -he had accepted Gilbert’s suggestion that he should remain at Whanland -for the night. He looked kindly on this arrangement, for he was over -sixty, and it was a long time since he had exerted himself so much. - -While they stood in the hall bidding Lady Eliza good-night, Cecilia -came downstairs. She had not followed Gilbert to the dining-room. She -held out her hand to him as he went away. - -‘Thank you,’ said he, looking at her and keeping it for a moment. - - -He leaned back in the carriage beside Somerville, very silent, and, -when they reached Whanland and he had seen his friend installed for the -night, he went to his own room. What had become of Macquean he did not -know and did not care. He sat late by the fire, listening to the -snoring of the sailor, which reached him through the wall. - -A violent headache woke him in the morning and he lay thinking of the -events of the preceding night. He put his hand up to his cheek to feel -if the plaster was in its place. Macquean came in, according to custom, -with his shaving-water, looking neither more nor less uncouth and -awkward than usual. Though he shifted from foot to foot, the man had a -complacency on his face that exasperated his master. - -‘What did you mean by leaving the carriage last night?’ said Gilbert. - -‘A’ went awa’ to Morphie,’ said Macquean. - -‘And who told you to do that?’ - -‘Aw! a’ didna’ speir[1] about that. A’ just tell’t them to gang awa’ -down to the doo’cot. Her ladyship was vera well pleased,’ continued -Macquean, drawing his lips back from his teeth in a chastened smile. - - [1] Ask. - -‘Get out of the room, you damned fellow! You should get out of the -house, too, if it weren’t for--for--get out, I say!’ cried Gilbert, -sitting up suddenly. - -Macquean put down the shaving-water and went swiftly to the door. When -he had shut it behind him he stood a moment to compose himself on the -door-mat. - -‘He shouldna speak that way,’ he said very solemnly, wagging his head. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE HOUSE IN THE CLOSE - - -TO say that the Miss Robertsons were much respected in Kaims was to -give a poor notion of the truth. The last survivors of a family which -had lived--and, for the most part, died--in the house they still -occupied, they had spent the whole of their existence in the town. - -It was nearly a hundred years since a cousin of the Speid family, -eldest and plainest of half a dozen sisters, had, on finding herself -the sole unmarried member of the band, accepted the addresses and -fortune of a wealthy East India merchant whose aspiring eye was turned -in her direction. - -The family outcry was loud at his presumption, for his birth was as -undistinguished as his person, and the married sisters raised a chorus -of derision from the calm heights of their own superiority. Mr. -Robertson’s figure, which was homely; his character, which was -ineffective; his manners, which were rather absurd, all came in for -their share of ridicule. The only thing at which they did not make a -mock was his money. - -But Isabella was a woman of resolute nature, and, having once put her -hand to the plough, she would not look back. She not only married Mr. -Robertson in the face of her family, but had the good sense to demean -herself as though she were conquering the earth; then she settled down -into a sober but high-handed matrimony, and proceeded to rule the -merchant and all belonging to him with a rod of iron. The only mistake -she made was that of having thirteen children. - -And now the tall tombstone, which rose, with its draped urn, from a -forest of memorials in the churchyard of Kaims, held records of the -eleven who lay under it beside their parents. The women had never left -their own place; two or three of the men had gone far afield, but each -one of the number had died unmarried, and each had been buried at home. -The two living would look in at it, on the rare occasions on which they -passed, with a certain sense of repose. - -After his marriage, Mr. Robertson had met with reverses, and the -increase of his family did not mend his purse. At his death, which took -place before that of his wife, he was no more than comfortably off; and -the ample means possessed by Miss Hersey and Miss Caroline were mainly -due to their own economical habits, and the accumulated legacies of -their brothers and sisters. - -In the town of Kaims the houses of the bettermost classes were -completely hidden from the eye, for they stood behind those fronting on -the street, and were approached by ‘closes,’ or narrow covered ways, -running back between the buildings. The dark doorways opening upon the -pavement gave no suggestion of the respectable haunts to which they -led. The Robertson house stood at the end of one of these. Having dived -into the passage, one emerged again on a paved path, flanked by deep -borders of sooty turf, under the windows of the tall, dead-looking -tenements frowning squalidly down on either side, and giving a strange -feeling of the presence of unseen eyes, though no sign of humanity was -visible behind the panes. From the upper stories the drying underwear -of the poorer inhabitants waved, particoloured, from long poles. The -house was detached. It was comfortable and spacious, with a wide -staircase painted in imitation of marble, and red baize inner doors; -very silent, very light, looking on its further side into a garden. - -It was Sunday; the two old ladies, who were strict Episcopalians, had -returned from church, and were sitting dressed in the clothes held -sacred to the day, in their drawing-room. June was well forward and the -window was open beside Miss Hersey, as she sat, handkerchief in hand, -on the red chintz sofa. The strong scent of lilies of the valley came -up from outside, and pervaded that part of the room. At her elbow stood -a little round table of black lacquer inlaid with mother-of-pearl -pagodas. Miss Caroline moved about rather aimlessly among the -furniture, patting a table-cover here and shifting a chair there, but -making no appreciable difference in anything she touched. Near the -other window was set out a tray covered with a napkin, holding some -wineglasses, a decanter, and two plates of sponge-cakes. - -The Miss Robertsons’ garden formed a kind of oasis in the mass of mean -and crowded houses which lay between the High Street and the docks; for -the populous part of Kaims, where the sailors, dockmen, and -fishing-people lived, stretched on every side. A wide grass-plot, which -centred in a wooden seat, crept close under the drawing-room windows, -and from this a few steps ran down to the walled enclosure in which -flower and kitchen garden were combined. The gate at their foot was -overhung by an old jessamine plant which hid the stone lintel in a -shower of white stars. Round the walls were beds of simple flowering -plants, made with no pretence of art or arrangement, and dug by some -long-forgotten gardener who had died unsuspicious of the oppressive -niceties which would, in later times, be brought into his trade. -Mignonette loaded the air with its keen sweetness, pansies lifted their -falsely-innocent faces, sweet-williams were as thick as a velvet-pile -carpet in shades of red and white, the phlox swayed stiffly to the -breeze, and convolvulus minor, most old-fashioned of flowers, seemed to -have sprung off all the Dresden bowls and plates on which it had ever -been painted, and assembled itself in a corner alongside the lilies of -the valley. The whole of the middle part of the place was filled with -apple-trees, and the earth at their feet was planted with polyanthus -and hen-and-chicken daisies. At the foot of the garden a fringe of -white and purple lilacs stood by the gravel path, and beyond these, -outside the walls, a timber-merchant’s yard made the air noisy with the -whirring of saws working ceaselessly all the week. - -But to-day everything was quiet, and the Miss Robertsons sat in their -drawing-room expecting their company. - -The Edinburgh coach reached Kaims late on Saturday nights, and those -who expected mails or parcels were obliged to wait for them until -Sunday morning, when, from half-past one to two o’clock, the -mail-office was opened, and its contents handed out to the owners. -Church and kirk were alike over at the time of distribution, and the -only inconvenience to people who had come in from the country was the -long wait they had to endure after their respective services had ended, -till the moment at which the office doors were unlocked. From time -immemorial the Miss Robertsons had opened their house to their friends -between church hour and mail hour, and this weekly reception was -attended by such county neighbours as lived within reasonable distance -of the town, and did not attend the country kirks. Their carriages and -servants would be sent to wait until the office should open, while they -themselves would go to spend the interval with the old ladies. - -Like moss on an ancient wall, a certain etiquette had grown over these -occasions, from which no one who visited at the house in the close -would have had the courage or the ill-manners to depart. Miss Hersey, -who had virtually assumed the position of elder sister, would sit -directly in the centre of the sofa, and, to the vacant places on either -side of her, the two ladies whose rank or whose intimacy with herself -entitled them to the privilege, would be conducted. She was thinking -to-day of the time when Clementina Speid had sat for the first time at -her right hand and looked down upon the lilies of the valley. Their -scent was coming up now. - -The drawing-room was full on a fine Sunday, and Miss Caroline, who -generally retired to a little chair at the wall, would smile -contentedly on her guests, throwing, from time to time, some mild echo -of her sister’s words into the talk around her. When all who could -reasonably be expected had arrived, Miss Hersey would turn to the -husband of the lady occupying the place of honour, and, in the silence -which the well-known action invariably created, would desire him to -play the host. - -‘Mr. Speid, will you pour out the wine?’ - -Sunday upon Sunday the words had been unaltered; then, for thirty -years, a different name. But now it was the same again, and Gilbert, -like his predecessor, would, having performed his office, place Miss -Hersey’s wineglass on the table with the mother-of-pearl pagodas. - -It was nearing one o’clock before the marble-painted entrance-hall -echoed to the knocker, but, as one raindrop brings many, its first -summons was the beginning of a succession of others, and the -drawing-room held a good many people when Gilbert arrived. Two somewhat -aggressive-looking matrons were enthroned upon the sofa, a group of men -had collected in the middle of the room, and a couple or so of young -people were chattering by themselves. Miss Caroline on her chair -listened to the halting remarks of a boy just verging on manhood, who -seemed much embarrassed by his position, and who cast covert and -hopeless glances towards his own kind near the window. - -Robert Fullarton was standing silent by the mantelpiece looking out -over the garden as Miss Hersey had done, and thinking of the same -things; but whereas, with her, the remembrance was occasional, with him -it was constant. He had hardly missed his Sunday visit once since the -Sunday of which he thought, except when he was absent from home. It was -a kind of painful comfort to him to see the objects which had -surrounded her and which had never changed since that day. He came -back into the present at the sound of Miss Hersey’s voice. - -‘You have not brought your nephew with you,’ she said, motioning him to -a chair near her. - -‘Ah, he is well occupied, ma’am,’ replied Robert, sitting down, ‘or, at -least, he thinks he is. He has gone to Morphie kirk.’ - -‘One may be well occupied there also,’ said Miss Hersey, from the -liberality of her Episcopalian point of view. ‘I did not know that he -was a Presbyterian.’ - -‘Neither is he,’ said Fullarton, raising his eyebrows oddly, ‘but he -has lately professed to admire that form of worship.’ - -Miss Robertson felt that there was the suspicion of something hidden in -his words, and was a little uncomfortable. She did not like the idea of -anything below the surface. The two women beside her, who were more -accustomed to such allusions, smiled. - -‘I do not understand, sir,’ said the old lady. ‘You seem to have some -other meaning.’ - -‘I fancy there is another meaning to his zeal, and that it is called -Cecilia Raeburn,’ said Fullarton. - -‘Oh, indeed!’ exclaimed one of the ladies, putting on an arch face, -‘that is an excellent reason for going to church.’ - -Robert saw that Miss Hersey was annoyed by her tone. - -‘I dare say he profits by what he hears as much as another,’ he said. -‘One can hardly be surprised that a young fellow should like to walk -some of the way home in such attractive company. There is no harm in -that, is there, Miss Robertson?’ - -‘No, no,’ said Miss Hersey, reassured. - -‘Mr. Crauford Fordyce has a fine property in Lanarkshire, I am told,’ -said one of the ladies, who seldom took the trouble to conceal her -train of thought. - -‘His father has,’ replied Fullarton. - -Gilbert had entered quietly, and, in the babble of voices, Miss Hersey -had not heard him announced. Having paid his respects to her sister, he -did not disturb her, seeing she was occupied; but, for the last few -minutes, he had been standing behind Fullarton in the angle of a tall -screen. His face was dark. - -‘Ah, Gilbert,’ exclaimed the old lady; ‘I was wondering where you could -be.’ - -‘Take my chair, Speid,’ said Fullarton. ‘I am sure Miss Robertson is -longing to talk to you.’ - -‘You are like a breath of youth,’ said Miss Hersey, as he sat down. -‘Tell me, what have you been doing since I saw you?’ - -Gilbert made a great effort to collect himself. The lady who had been -speaking possessed an insatiable curiosity, and was bombarding -Fullarton with a volley of questions about his nephew and the extent of -his nephew’s intimacy at Morphie, for she was a person who considered -herself privileged. - -‘For one thing, I have bought a new cabriolet,’ said the young man. - -‘And what is it like?’ asked Miss Hersey. - -Carriages and horses were things that had never entered the range of -her interest, but, to her, any belonging of Gilbert’s was important. - -‘It is a high one, very well hung, and painted yellow. I drive my -iron-gray mare in it.’ - -‘That will have a fine appearance, Gilbert.’ - -‘It would please me very much to take you out, ma’am,’ said he, ‘but -the step is so high that I am afraid you would find it inconvenient.’ - -‘I am too old, my dear,’ said Miss Hersey, looking delighted; ‘but some -day I will come to the head of the close and see you drive away.’ - -Gilbert’s ears were straining towards Fullarton and his companion, who, -regardless of the reticence of his answers, was cross-examining him -minutely. - -‘I suppose that Lady Eliza would be well satisfied,’ she was saying, -‘and I am sure she should, too. _Of course_, it would be a grand -chance for Miss Raeburn if Mr. Fordyce were to think seriously of her; -she has no fortune. I happen to know that. For my part, I never can -admire those pale girls.’ - -The speaker, who had the kind of face that makes one think of domestic -economy, looked haughtily from under her plumed Leghorn bonnet. - -Fullarton grew rather uncomfortable, for he suspected the state of -Gilbert’s mind, and the lady, whom social importance rather than -friendship with Miss Robertson had placed on the red chintz sofa, was a -person whose tongue knew no bridle. He rose to escape. Gilbert rose -also, in response to a nameless impulse, and a newcomer appropriating -his chair, he went and stood at the window. - -Though close to the lady who had spoken, he turned from her, unable to -look in her direction, and feeling out of joint with the world. His -brows were drawn together and the scar on his cheek, now a white seam, -showed strong as he faced the light. It was more than three months’ -since Cecilia had doctored it, and he had watched her fingers in the -looking-glass. He had met her many times after that night, for Lady -Eliza had felt it behoved her to show him some attention, and had, at -last, almost begun to like him. Had her feelings been unbiassed by the -past, there is little doubt that she would have become heartily fond of -him, for, like Granny Stirk, she loved youth; and her stormy -explanation with Fullarton constantly in the back of her mind, she -strove with herself to accept the young man’s presence naturally. - -To Fullarton, Gilbert was scarcely sympathetic, even laying aside the -initial fact that he was the living cause of the loss whose bitterness -he would carry to the grave. A cynicism which had grown with the years -was almost as high as his heart, like the rising shroud supposed to -have been seen by witches round the bodies of doomed persons. In spite -of his wideness of outlook in most matters, there was a certain -insularity in him, which made him resent, as a consequence of foreign -up-bringing, the very sensitive poise of Gilbert’s temperament. And, in -the young man’s face, there was little likeness to his mother to rouse -any feeling in Robert’s breast. - -Speid’s thoughts were full of Cecilia and Crauford Fordyce. He had seen -the latter a couple of times--for it was some weeks since he had arrived -to visit his uncle--and he had not cared for him. Once he had overtaken -him on the road, and they had walked a few miles together. He had -struck him as stupid, and possibly, coarse-fibred. He only realized, as -he stood twirling the tassel of the blind, how important his occasional -meetings with Cecilia had become to him, how much she was in his -thoughts, how her words, her ways, her movements, her voice, were -interwoven with every fancy he had. He had been a dullard, he told -himself, stupid and coarse-fibred as Fordyce. He had been obliged to -wait until jealousy, like a flash of lightning, should show him that -which lay round his feet. Fool, idiot, and thrice idiot that he was to -have been near to such a transcendent creature, and yet ignorant of the -truth! Though her charm had thrilled him through and through, it was -only here and now that the chance words of a vulgar woman had revealed -that she was indispensable to him. - -Though self-conscious, he was not conceited, and he sighed as he -reflected that he could give her nothing which Fordyce could not also -offer. From the little he had heard, he fancied him to be a richer man -than himself. Cecilia did not strike him as a person who, if her heart -were engaged, would take count of the difference. But what chance had -he more than another of engaging her heart? Fordyce was not handsome, -certainly, but then, neither was he ill-looking. Gilbert glanced across -at a mirror which hung in the alcove of the window, and saw in it a -rather sinister young man with a scarred face. He was not attractive, -either, he thought. Well, he had learned something. - -‘Mr. Speid, will you pour out the wine?’ - -Miss Hersey’s voice was all ceremony. Not for the world would she have -called him Gilbert at such a moment. - -He went forward to the little tray and did as she bid him. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -ON FOOT AND ON WHEELS - - -THE yellow cabriolet stood at the entrance to the close. The iron-gray -mare, though no longer in her first youth, abhorred delay, and was -tossing her head and moving restlessly, to the great annoyance of the -very small English groom who stood a yard in front of her nose, and -whose remonstrances were completely lost on her. Now and then she would -fidget with her forefeet, spoiling the ‘Assyrian stride’ which had -added pounds to her price and made her an object of open-mouthed -amazement to the youth of the Kaims gutter. - -A crowd of little boys were collected on the pavement; for the company -which emerged from the Miss Robertsons’ house on Sundays was as good as -a peep-show to them, and the laird of Whanland was, to their minds, the -most choice flower of fashion and chivalry which this weekly -entertainment could offer. Not that that fact exempted him from their -criticism--no fact yet in existence could protect any person from the -tongue of the Scotch street-boy--and the groom, who had been exposed to -their comment for nearly twenty minutes, was beginning, between the -mare and the audience, to come to the end of his temper. - -‘Did ever ye see sic a wee, wee mannie?’ exclaimed one of the older -boys, pointing at him. - -‘He’s terrible like a monkey.’ - -‘An’ a’m fell feared he’ll no grow. What auld are ye, mun?’ continued -the other, raising his voice to a shout. - -There was no reply. - -‘Hech! he winna speak!’ - -‘He’ll no be bigger nor Jockie Thompson. Come awa here, Jockie, an’ -let’s see!’ - -A small boy was hauled out from the crowd and pushed forward. - -‘Just stand you aside him an’ put your heedie up the same prood way he -does.’ - -The urchin stepped down off the pavement, and standing as near the -victim as he dared, began to inflate himself and to pull such faces as -he conceived suitable. As mimicry they had no merit, but as insult they -were simply beyond belief. - -A yell of approval arose. - -The groom was beginning to meditate a dive at the whip-socket when the -solid shape of Jockie Thompson’s father appeared in the distance. His -son, who had eluded him before kirk and who still wore his Sunday -clothes, sprang back to the pavement, and was instantly swallowed up by -the group. - -By the time that the groom had recovered his equanimity the mare began -to paw the stones, for she also had had enough of her present position. - -‘Whoa, then!’ cried he sharply, raising his hand. - -‘Gie her the wheep,’ suggested one of the boys. - -Though there was an interested pause, the advice had no effect. - -‘He’s feared,’ said a boy with an unnaturally deep voice. ‘He’s no -muckle use. The laird doesna let him drive; ye’ll see when he comes oot -o’ the close an’ wins into the machine, he’ll put the mannie up ahint -him an’ just drive himsel’.’ - -‘Ay, will he.’ - -The man threw a vindictive glance into the group, and the mare, having -resumed her stride, tossed her head up and down, sending a snow-shower -of foam into the air. A spot lit upon his smart livery coat, and he -pulled out his handkerchief to flick it off. - -A baleful idea suggested itself to the crowd. - -‘Eh, look--see!’ cried a tow-headed boy, ‘gie’s a handfu’ o’ yon black -durt an’ we’ll put a piece on his breeks that’ll match the t’other -ane!’ - -Two or three precipitated themselves upon the mud, and it is impossible -to say what might have happened had not Gilbert, at this moment, come -up the close. - -‘Whisht! whisht! here’s Whanland! Michty, but he’s fine! See, now, -he’ll no let the mannie drive.’ - -‘Gosh! but he’s a braw-lookin’ deevil!’ - -‘Haud yer tongue. He doesna look vera canny the day. I’d be sweer[1] to -fash him.’ - - [1] Loth. - -Gilbert got into the cabriolet gathering up the reins, his thoughts -intent upon what he had heard in the house. The mare, rejoiced to be -moving, took the first few steps forward in a fashion of her own, -making, as he turned the carriage, as though she would back on to the -kerbstone. He gave her her head, and drew the whip like a caress softly -across her back. She plunged forward, taking hold of the bit, and -trotted down the High Street, stepping up like the great lady she was, -and despising the ground underneath her. - -However preoccupied, Speid was not the man to be indifferent to his -circumstances when he sat behind such an animal. As they left the town -and came out upon the flat stretch of road leading towards Whanland, he -let her go to the top of her pace, humouring her mouth till she had -ceased to pull, and was carrying her head so that the bit was in line -with the point of the shaft. A lark was singing high above the field at -one side of him, and, at the other, the scent of gorse came in puffs on -the wind from the border of the sandhills. Beyond was the sea, with the -line of cliff above Garviekirk graveyard cutting out into the -immeasurable water. The sky lay pale above the sea-line. They turned -into the road by the Lour bridge from where the river could be seen -losing itself in an eternity of distance. In the extraordinary Sunday -stillness, the humming of insects was audible as it only is on the -first day of the week, when nature itself seems to suggest a suspension -of all but holiday energy. The natural world, which recognises no -cessation of work, presents almost the appearance of doing so at such -times, so great is the effect of the settled habit of thousands of -people upon its aspect. - -The monotony of the motion and the balm of the day began to intoxicate -Gilbert. It is not easy to feel that fate is against one when the sun -shines, the sky smiles, and the air is quivering with light and dancing -shadow; harder still in the face of the blue, endless sea-spaces of the -horizon; hard indeed when the horse before you conveys subtly to your -hand that he is prepared to transport you, behind the beating pulse of -his trot, to Eldorado--to the Isles of the Blessed--anywhere. - -His heart rose in spite of himself as he got out of the cabriolet at -the door of Whanland, and ran his hand down the mare’s shoulder and -forelegs. He had brought her in hotter than he liked, and he felt that -he should go and see her groomed, for he was a careful horse-master. -But somehow he could not. He dismissed her with a couple of approving -slaps, and watched her as she was led away. Then, tossing his hat and -gloves to Macquean, who had come out at the sound of wheels, he -strolled up to the place at which he had once paused with Barclay, and -stood looking up the river to the heavy woods of Morphie. - -‘If she were here!’ he said to himself, ‘if she were here!’ - - * * * * * - -As Speid’s eyes rested upon the dark woods, the little kirk which stood -at their outskirts was on the point of emptying, for public worship -began in it later than in the kirks and churches of Kaims. - -The final blessing had been pronounced, the last paraphrase sung, and -Lady Eliza, with Cecilia, sat in the Morphie pew in the first row of -the gallery. Beside them was Fullarton’s nephew, Crauford Fordyce, -busily engaged in locking the bibles and psalm-books into their box -under the seat with a key which Lady Eliza had passed to him for the -purpose. His manipulation of the peculiarly-constructed thing showed -that this was by no means the first time he had handled it. - -The beadle and an elder were going their rounds with the long-handled -wooden collecting-shovels, which they thrust into the pews as they -passed; the sound of dropping pennies pervaded the place, and the party -in the Morphie seat having made their contributions, that hush set in -which reigned in the kirk before the shovel was handed into the pulpit, -and the ring of the minister’s money gave the signal for a general -departure not unlike a stampede. Lady Eliza leaned, unabashed, over the -gallery to see who was present. - -When the expected sound had sent the male half of the congregation like -a loosed torrent to the door, and the female remainder had departed -more peacefully, the two women went out followed by Fordyce. - -Lady Eliza was in high good temper. Though content to let all -theological questions rest fundamentally, she had scented controversy -in some detail of the sermon, and was minded to attack the minister -upon them when next he came in her way. Fordyce, who was apt to take -things literally, was rash enough to be decoyed into argument on the -way home, and not adroit enough to come out of it successfully. - -Robert Fullarton’s nephew--to give him the character in which he seemed -most important to Lady Eliza--belonged to the fresh-faced, thickset type -of which a loss of figure in later life may be predicted. Heavily -built, mentally and physically, he had been too well brought up to -possess anything of the bumpkin, or, rather, he had been too much -brought up in complicated surroundings to indulge in low tastes, even -if he had them. He took considerable interest in his own appearance, -though he was not, perhaps, invariably right in his estimate of it, and -his clothes were always good and frequently unsuitable. He was the -eldest son of an indulgent father, who had so multiplied his -possessions as to become their adjunct more than their owner; to his -mother and his two thick-ankled, elementary sisters he suggested -Adonis; and he looked to politics as a future career. Owing to some -slight natural defect, he was inclined to hang his under-lip and -breathe heavily through his nose. Though he was of middle height, his -width made him look short of it, and the impression he produced on a -stranger was one of phenomenal cleanliness and immobility. - -The way from the kirk to Morphie house lay through the fields, past the -home farm, and Lady Eliza stopped as she went by to inquire for the -health of a young cart-horse which had lamed itself. Cecilia and -Crauford waited for her at the gate of the farmyard. A string of ducks -was waddling towards a ditch with that mixture of caution and -buffoonery in their appearance which makes them irresistible to look -at, and a hen’s discordant Magnificat informed the surrounding world -that she had done her best for it; otherwise everything was still. - -‘We shall have to wait some time, I expect, if it is question of a -horse,’ observed Cecilia, sitting down upon a log just outside the -gate. - -‘_I_ shall not be impatient,’ responded Fordyce, showing two very -large, very white front teeth as he smiled. - -‘I was thinking that Mr. Fullarton might get tired of waiting for you -and drive home. The mails will have been given out long ago, and he is -probably at Morphie by this time.’ - -‘Come now, Miss Raeburn; I am afraid you think me incapable of walking -to Fullarton, when, in reality, I should find it a small thing to do -for the pleasure of sitting here with you. Confess it: you imagine me a -poor sort of fellow--one who, through the custom of being well served, -can do little for himself. I have seen it in your expression.’ - -Cecilia laughed a little. ‘Why should you fear that?’ she asked. - -‘Because I am extremely anxious for your good opinion,’ he -replied,--‘and, of course, for Lady Eliza’s also.’ - -‘I have no doubt you have got it,’ she said lightly. - -‘You are not speaking for yourself, Miss Raeburn. I hope that you think -well of me.’ - -‘Your humility does you credit.’ - -‘I wish you would be serious. It is hard to be set aside by those whom -one wishes to please.’ - -‘But I do not set you aside. You are speaking most absurdly, Mr. -Fordyce,’ said Cecilia, who was growing impatient. - -‘But you seem to find everyone else preferable to me--Speid, for -instance.’ - -‘It has never occurred to me to compare you, sir.’ - -Her voice was freezing. - -‘I hope I have not annoyed you by mentioning his name,’ said he -clumsily. - -‘You will annoy me if you go on with this conversation,’ she replied. -‘I am not fond of expressing my opinion about anyone.’ - -Fordyce looked crestfallen, and Cecilia, who was not inclined to be -harsh to anybody, was rather sorry; she felt as remorseful as though -she had offended a child; he was so solid, so humourless, so -vulnerable. She wondered what his uncle thought of him; she had -wondered often enough what Fullarton thought about most things, and, -like many others, she had never found out. It often struck her that he -was a slight peg for such friendship as Lady Eliza’s to hang on. ‘Il -y’a un qui baise et un qui tend la joue.’ She knew that very well, and -she had sometimes resented the fact for her adopted aunt, being a -person who understood resentment mainly by proxy. - -As she glanced at the man beside her she thought of the strange -difference in people’s estimates of the same thing; no doubt he -represented everything to someone, but she had spoken with absolute -truth when she said that it had not occurred to her to compare him to -Speid. She saw the same difference between the two men that she saw -between fire and clay, between the husk and the grain, between the seen -and the unseen. In her twenty-four years she had contrived to pierce -the veils and shadows that hide the eyes of life, and, having looked -upon them, to care for no light but theirs. The impression produced on -her when she first saw Gilbert Speid by the dovecot was very vivid, and -it was wonderful how little it had been obliterated or altered in their -subsequent acquaintance. His quietness and the forces below it had more -meaning for her than the obvious speeches and actions of other people. -She had seen him in a flash, understood him in a flash, and, in a -flash, her nature had risen up and paused, quivering and waiting, -unconscious of its own attitude. Simple-minded people were inclined to -call Cecilia cold. - -‘I am expecting letters from home to-day,’ said Fordyce at last. ‘I -have written very fully to my father on a particular subject, and I am -hoping for an answer.’ - -‘Indeed?’ said she, assuming a look of interest; she felt none, but she -was anxious to be pleasant. - -‘I should like you to see Fordyce Castle,’ said he. ‘I must try to -persuade Lady Eliza to pay us a visit with you.’ - -‘I am afraid you will hardly be able to do that,’ she answered, -smiling. ‘I have lived with her for nearly twelve years, and I have -never once known her to leave Morphie.’ - -‘But I feel sure she would enjoy seeing Fordyce,’ he continued; ‘it is -considered one of the finest places in Lanarkshire, and my mother would -make her very welcome; my sisters, too, they will be delighted to make -your acquaintance. You would suit each other perfectly; I have often -thought that.’ - -‘You are very good,’ she said, ‘and the visit would be interesting, I -am sure. The invitation would please her, even if she did not accept -it. You can but ask her.’ - -‘Then I have your permission to write to my mother?’ said Crauford -earnestly. - -It struck Cecilia all at once that she was standing on the brink of a -chasm. Her colour changed a little. - -‘It is for my aunt to give that,’ she said. ‘I am always ready to go -anywhere with her that she pleases.’ - -The more Fordyce saw of his companion the more convinced was he, that, -apart from any inclination of his own, he had found the woman most -fitted to take the place he had made up his mind to offer her. The -occasional repulses which he suffered only suggested to him such -maidenly reserve as should develop, with marriage, into a dignity quite -admirable at every point. Her actual fascination was less plain to him -than to many others, and, though he came of good stock, his admiration -for the look of breeding strong in her was not so much grounded in his -own enjoyment of it as in the effect he foresaw it producing on the -rest of the world, in connection with himself. Her want of fortune -seemed to him almost an advantage. Was he not one of the favoured few -to whom it was unnecessary? And where would the resounding fame of King -Cophetua be without his beggar-maid? - -The letter he had written to his father contained an epitome of his -feelings--at least, so far as he was acquainted with them; and, when he -saw Lady Eliza emerge from a stable-door into the yard, and knew that -there was no more chance of being alone with Cecilia, he was all -eagerness to step out for Morphie, where his uncle had promised to call -for him on his way home from Kaims. Fullarton might even now be -carrying the all-important reply in his pocket. - -He wondered, as they took their way through the fragrant grass, how he -should act when he had received it, for he had hardly settled whether -to address Miss Raeburn in person or to lay his hopes before Lady -Eliza, with a due statement of the prospects he represented. He leaned -towards the latter course, feeling certain that the elder woman must -welcome so excellent a fate for her charge, and would surely influence -her were she blind enough to her own happiness to refuse him. But she -would never refuse him. Why should she? He could name twenty or thirty -who would be glad to be in her place. He had accused her of preferring -Speid’s company to his own, but he had only half believed the words he -spoke. For what was Whanland? and what were the couple of thousand a -year Speid possessed? - -Yet poor Crauford knew, though he would scarce admit the knowledge to -himself, that the only situation in which he felt at a disadvantage was -in Speid’s society. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -KING COPHETUA’S CORRESPONDENCE - - - ‘FORDYCE CASTLE, - - ‘LANARK. - - ‘_June_ 26, 1801. - -‘MY DEAR SON, - -‘Your letter, with the very important matter it contains, took me -somewhat by surprise, for although you had mentioned the name of the -young lady and that of Lady Eliza Lamont, I was hardly prepared to hear -that you intended to do her the honour you contemplate. A father’s -approval is not to be lightly asked or rashly bestowed, and I have -taken time to consider my reply. You tell me that Miss Raeburn is -peculiarly fitted, both in mind and person, to fill the position she -will, as your wife, be called upon to occupy. With regard to her birth -I am satisfied. She is, we know, connected with families whose names -are familiar to all whose approval is of any value. I may say, without -undue pride, that my son’s exceptional prospects might have led him to -form a more brilliant alliance, and I have no doubt that Miss Cecilia -Raeburn, possessing such qualities of mind as you describe, will -understand how high a compliment you pay to her charms in overlooking -the fact. Your statement that she is dowerless is one upon which we -need not dwell; it would be hard indeed were the family you represent -dependent upon the purses of those who have the distinction of entering -it. I am happy to say that my eldest son need be hampered by no such -considerations, and that Mrs. Crauford Fordyce will lack nothing -suitable to her station, and to the interest that she must inevitably -create in the society of this county. It now only remains for me to add -that, having expressed my feelings upon your choice, I am prepared to -consent. - -‘Your mother is, I understand, writing to you, though I have only your -sister’s authority for saying so, for I have been so much occupied -during the last day or two as to be obliged to lock the door of my -study. I am afraid, my dear Crauford (between ourselves), that, though -she knows my decision, your mother is a little disappointed--upset, I -should say. I think that she had allowed herself to believe, from the -pleasure you one day expressed in the society of Lady Maria Milwright -when she was with us, that you were interested in that direction. -Personally, though Lord Milborough is an old friend of the family, and -his daughter’s connection with it would have been eminently suitable, -her appearance would lead me to hesitate, were I in your place and -contemplating marriage. But that is an objection, perhaps, that your -mother hardly understands. - - ‘I am, my dear Crauford, - - ‘Your affectionate father, - - ‘THOMAS FORDYCE.’ - -‘P.S.--Agneta and Mary desire their fond love to their brother.’ - - -Fordyce was sitting in his room at Fullarton with his correspondence in -front of him; he had received two letters and undergone a purgatory of -suspense, for, by the time he reached Morphie, his uncle had been kept -waiting for him some time. Finding nothing for himself in his private -mail-bag, Fullarton had it put under the driving-seat, and the -suggestion hazarded by his nephew that it should be brought out only -resulted in a curt refusal. The elder man hated to be kept waiting, and -the culprit had been forced to get through the homeward drive with what -patience he might summon. - -Lady Fordyce’s letter lay unopened by that of Sir Thomas, and Crauford, -in spite of his satisfaction with the one he had just read, eyed it -rather apprehensively. But, after all, the main point was gained, or -what he looked upon as the main point, for to the rest of the affair -there could be but one issue. He broke the seal of his mother’s -envelope, and found a second communication inside it from one of his -sisters. - - -‘MY DEAR CRAUFORD (began Lady Fordyce), - -‘As your father is writing to you I will add a few words to convey my -good wishes to my son upon the _decided step_ he is about to take. Had -I been consulted I should have advised a little more reflection, but as -you are _bent on pleasing yourself_, and your father (_whether rightly -or wrongly_ I cannot pretend to say) is upholding you, I have no choice -left but to express my _cordial good wishes_, and to hope that you _may -never live to regret it_. Miss Cecilia Raeburn may be all you say, _or -she may not_, and I should fail in my duty if I did not remind you that -a young lady brought up in a provincial neighbourhood is not likely to -step into _such a position as that of the wife of Sir Thomas Fordyce’s -eldest son_ without the risk of having her head turned, or, _worse -still_, of being incapable of maintaining her dignity. As I have not -had the privilege of speaking to your father alone for two days, and as -he has _found it convenient_ to sit up till all hours, I do not know -whether the consent he has (apparently) given is an unwilling one, but -I should be acting _against my conscience_ were I to hide from you that -I suspect it most strongly. With _heartfelt wishes_ for your truest -welfare, - - ‘I remain, my dear Crauford, - - ‘Your affectionate mother, - - ‘LOUISA CHARLOTTE FORDYCE.’ - -‘P.S.--Would it not be _wise_ to delay your plans until you have been -once more at home, and had every opportunity of thinking it over? You -might return here in a few days, and conclude your visit to your uncle -_later on_--say, at the end of September.’ - - -Crauford laid down the sheet of paper; he was not apt to seize on -hidden things, but the little touch of nature which cropped up, like a -daisy from a rubbish-heap, in the end of his father’s letter gave him -sympathy to imagine what the atmosphere of Fordyce Castle must have -been when it was written. He respected his mother, not by nature, but -from habit, and the experiences he had sometimes undergone had never -shaken his feelings, but only produced a sort of distressed -bewilderment. He was almost bewildered now. He turned again to Sir -Thomas’s letter, and re-read it for comfort. - -The enclosure he had found from his sister was much shorter. - - -‘MY DEAR BROTHER, - -‘Mary and I wish to send you our very kind love, and we hope that you -will be happy. Is Miss Raeburn dark or fair? We hope she is fond of -tambour-work. We have some new patterns from Edinburgh which are very -pretty. We shall be very glad when you return. Our mother is not very -well. There is no interesting news. Mrs. Fitz-Allen is to give a -fête-champêtre with illuminations next week, but we do not know whether -we shall be allowed to go as she behaved _most unbecomingly_ to our -mother, trying to take precedence of her at the prize-giving in the -Lanark flower show. Lady Maria Milwright is coming to visit us in -September. We shall be very pleased. - - ‘Your affectionate sister, - - ‘AGNETA FORDYCE.’ - - -Fullarton’s good-humour was quite restored as uncle and nephew paced up -and down the twilit avenue that evening. A long silence followed the -announcement which the young man had just made. - -‘Do you think I am doing wisely, sir?’ he said at last. - -Fullarton smiled faintly before he replied; Crauford sometimes amused -him. - -‘In proposing to Cecilia? One can hardly tell,’ he replied; ‘that is a -thing that remains to be seen.’ - -Perplexity was written in Crauford’s face. - -‘But surely--surely--’ he began, ‘have you not a very high opinion of -Miss Raeburn?’ - -‘The highest,’ said the other dryly. - -‘But then----’ - -‘What I mean is, do you care enough to court a possible rebuff? You are -not doing wisely if you don’t consider that. I say, a _possible_ -rebuff,’ continued his uncle. - -‘Then you think she will refuse me?’ - -‘Heaven knows,’ responded Robert. ‘I can only tell you that to-day, -when Miss Robertson inquired where you were, and I said that you were -walking home from Morphie kirk with Cecilia, Speid was standing by -looking as black as thunder.’ - -To those whose ill-fortune it is never to have been crossed in -anything, a rival is another name for a rogue. Fordyce felt vindictive; -he breathed heavily. - -‘Do you think that Miss Raeburn is likely to--notice Speid?’ - -Robert’s mouth twitched. ‘It is difficult not to notice Gilbert Speid,’ -he replied. - -‘I really fail to see why everyone seems so much attracted by him.’ - -‘I am not sure that he attracts me,’ said the elder man. - -‘He looks extremely ill-tempered--most unlikely to please a young lady.’ - -‘There I do not altogether agree with you. We are always being told -that women are strange things,’ said Fullarton. - -‘I am astonished at the view you take, uncle. After all, I am unable -to see why my proposal should be less welcome than his--that is, if he -intends to make one.’ - -‘You certainly have solid advantages. After all, that is the main point -with women,’ said the man for whose sake one woman, at least, had lost -all. The habit of bitterness had grown strong. - -‘I shall go to Morphie to-morrow, and ride one of your horses, sir, if -you have no objection.’ - -‘Take one, by all means; you will make all the more favourable -impression. It is a very wise way of approaching your goddess--if you -have a good seat, of course. Speid looks mighty well in the saddle.’ - -He could not resist tormenting his nephew. - -The very sound of Gilbert’s name was beginning to annoy Fordyce, and he -changed the subject. It was not until the two men parted for the night -that it was mentioned again. - -‘I am going out early to-morrow,’ said Robert, ‘so I may not see you -before you start. Good luck, Crauford.’ - - -Fordyce rode well, and looked his best on horseback, but Cecilia having -gone into the garden, the only eye which witnessed his approach to -Morphie next day was that of a housemaid, for Lady Eliza sat writing in -the long room. - -She received him immediately. - -‘I am interrupting your ladyship,’ he remarked apologetically. - -‘Not at all, sir, not at all,’ said she, pushing her chair back from -the table with a gesture which had in it something masculine; ‘you are -always welcome, as you know very well.’ - -‘That is a pleasant hearing,’ replied he, ‘but to-day it is doubly so. -I have come on business of a--I may say--peculiar nature. Lady Eliza, I -trust you are my friend?’ - -‘I shall be happy to serve you in any way I can, Mr. Fordyce.’ - -‘Then I may count on your good offices? My uncle is so old a friend -of your ladyship’s that I am encouraged to----’ - -‘You are not in any difficulty with him, I hope,’ said Lady Eliza, -interrupting him rather shortly. - -‘Far from it; indeed, I have his expressed good wishes for the success -of my errand.’ - -‘Well, sir?’ she said, setting her face and folding her beautiful hands -together. She was beginning to see light. - -‘You may have rightly interpreted the frequency of my visits here. In -fact, I feel sure that you have attributed them--and truly--to my -admiration for Miss Raeburn.’ - -‘I have hardly attributed them to admiration for myself,’ she remarked, -with a certain grim humour. - -Crauford looked rather shocked. - -‘Have you said anything to my niece?’ she inquired, after a moment. - -‘I have waited for your approval.’ - -‘That is proper enough.’ - -Her eyes fixed themselves, seeing beyond Crauford’s clean, solemn face, -beyond the panelled walls, into the dull future when Cecilia should -have gone out from her daily life. How often her spirits had flagged -during the months she had been absent in Edinburgh! - -‘Cecilia shall do as she likes. I will not influence her in any way,’ -she said at last. - -‘But you are willing, Lady Eliza?’ - -‘----Yes.’ - -There was not the enthusiasm he expected in her voice, and this ruffled -him; a certain amount was due to him, he felt. - -‘You are aware that I can offer Miss Raeburn a very suitable -establishment,’ he said. ‘I should not have taken this step otherwise.’ - -‘Have you private means, sir?’ asked Lady Eliza, drumming her fingers -upon the table, and looking over his head. - -‘No; but that is of little importance, for I wrote to my father a -short time ago, and yesterday, after leaving you, I received his reply. -He has consented, and he assures me of his intention to be -liberal--especially liberal, I may say.’ - -She was growing a little weary of his long words and his unvaried air -of being official. She was disposed to like him personally, mainly from -the fact that he was the nephew of his uncle, but the prospect of -losing Cecilia hung heavily over any satisfaction she felt at seeing -her settled. Many and many a time had she lain awake, distressed and -wondering, how to solve the problem of the girl’s future, were she -herself to die leaving her unmarried; it had been her waking nightmare. -Now there might be an end to all that. She knew that she ought to be -glad and grateful to fate--perhaps even grateful to Crauford Fordyce. -Tears were near her eyes, and her hot heart ached in advance to think -of the days to come. The little share of companionship and affection, -the wreckage she had gathered laboriously on the sands of life, would -soon slip from her. Her companion could not understand the pain in her -look; he was smoothing out a letter on the table before her. - -She gathered herself together, sharp words coming to her tongue, as -they generally did when she was moved. - -‘I suppose my niece and I ought to be greatly flattered,’ she said; ‘I -had forgotten that part of it.’ - -‘Pray do not imagine such a thing. If you will read this letter you -will understand the view my father takes. The second sheet contains -private matters; this is the first one.’ - -‘Sit down, Mr. Fordyce; the writing is so close that I must carry it to -the light.’ - -She took the letter to one of the windows at the end of the room, and -stood by the curtain, her back turned. - -A smothered exclamation came to him from the embrasure, and he was -wondering what part of the epistle could have caused it when she faced -him suddenly, looking at him with shining eyes, and with a flush of red -blood mounting to her forehead. - -‘In all my life I have never met with such an outrageous piece of -impertinence!’ she exclaimed, tossing the paper to him. ‘How you have -had the effrontery to show me such a thing passes my understanding! -Take it, sir! Take it, and be obliging enough to leave me. You are -never likely to “live to regret” your marriage with Miss Raeburn, for, -while I have any influence with her, you will never have the chance of -making it. You may tell Lady Fordyce, from me, that the fact that she -is a member of your family is sufficient reason for my forbidding my -niece to enter it!’ - -Crauford stood aghast, almost ready to clutch at his coat like a man in -a gale of wind, and with scarcely wits left to tell him that he had -given Lady Eliza the wrong letter. The oblique attacks he had -occasionally suffered from his mother when vexed were quite unlike this -direct onslaught. He went towards her, opening his mouth to speak. She -waved him back. - -‘Not a word, sir! not a word! I will ring the bell and order your horse -to be brought.’ - -‘Lady Eliza, I beg of you, I implore you, to hear what I have got to -say!’ - -He was almost breathless. - -‘I have heard enough. Do me the favour to go, Mr. Fordyce.’ - -‘It is not my fault! I do assure you it is not my fault! I gave you the -wrong letter, ma’am. I had never dreamed of your seeing that.’ - -‘What do I care which letter it is? That such impertinence should have -been written is enough for me. Cecilia “unable to support the dignity -of being your wife”! Faugh!’ - -‘If you would only read my father’s letter,’ exclaimed Crauford, -drawing it out of his pocket, ‘you would see how very different it is. -He is prepared to do everything--anything.’ - -‘Then he may be prepared to find you a wife elsewhere,’ said Lady -Eliza. - -At this moment Cecilia’s voice was heard in the passage. He took up his -hat. - -‘I will go,’ he said, foreseeing further disaster. ‘I entreat you, Lady -Eliza, do not say anything to Miss Raeburn. I really do not know what I -should do if she were to hear of this horrible mistake!’ - -He looked such a picture of dismay that, for a moment, she pitied him. - -‘I should scarcely do such a thing,’ she replied. - -‘You have not allowed me to express my deep regret--Lady Eliza, I hardly -know what to say.’ - -‘Say nothing, Mr. Fordyce. That, at least, is a safe course.’ - -‘But what can I do? How can I induce you or Miss Raeburn to receive me? -If she were to know of what has happened, I should have no hope of her -ever listening to me! Oh, Lady Eliza--pray, pray tell me that this need -not destroy everything!’ - -The storm of her anger was abating a little, and she began to realize -that the unfortunate Crauford was deserving of some pity. And he was -Robert’s nephew. - -‘I know nothing of my niece’s feelings,’ she said, ‘but you may be -assured that I shall not mention your name to her. And you may be -assured of this also: until Lady Fordyce writes such a letter as I -shall approve when you show it to me, you will never approach her with -my consent.’ - -‘She will! she shall!’ cried Crauford, in the heat of his thankfulness. - -But it was a promise which, when he thought of it in cold blood as he -trotted back to Fullarton, made his heart sink. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE MOUSE AND THE LION - - -HE who is restrained by a paternal law from attacking the person of his -enemy need not chafe under this restriction; for he has only to attack -him in the vanity, and the result, though far less entertaining, will -be twice as effective. Gilbert Speid, in spite of his dislike to Mr. -Barclay, did not bear him the slightest ill-will; nevertheless, he had -dealt his ‘man of business’ as shrewd a blow as one foe may deal -another. Quite unwittingly, he had exposed him to some ridicule. - -The lawyer had ‘hallooed before he was out of the wood,’ with the usual -consequences. - -Kaims had grown a little weary of the way in which he thrust his -alleged intimacy at Whanland in its face, and when Speid, having come -to an end of his business interviews, had given him no encouragement to -present himself on a social footing, it did not conceal its amusement. - -As Fordyce dismounted, on his return from Morphie, Barclay was on his -way to Fullarton, for he was a busy man, and had the law business of -most of the adjoining estates on his hands. Robert, who had arranged to -meet him in the early afternoon, had been away all day, and he was told -by the servant who admitted him that Mr. Fullarton was still out, but -that Mr. Fordyce was on the lawn. The lawyer was well pleased, for he -had met Crauford on a previous visit, and had not forgotten that he was -an heir-apparent of some importance. He smoothed his hair, where the -hat had disarranged it, with a fleshy white hand, and, telling the -servant that he would find his own way, went through the house and -stepped out of a French window on to the grass. - -Fordyce was sitting on a stone seat partly concealed by a yew hedge, -and did not see Barclay nor hear his approaching footfall on the soft -turf. He had come out and sat down, feeling unable to occupy himself or -to get rid of his mortification. He had been too much horrified and -surprised at the time to resent anything Lady Eliza had said, but, on -thinking over her words again, he felt that he had been hardly treated. -He could only hope she would keep her word and say nothing to Cecilia, -and that the letter he had undertaken to produce from Lady Fordyce -would make matters straight. A ghastly fear entered his mind as he sat. -What if Lady Eliza in her rage should write to his mother? The thought -was so dreadful that his brow grew damp. He had no reason for supposing -that she would do such a thing, except that, when he left her, she had -looked capable of anything. - -‘Good heavens! good heavens!’ he ejaculated. - -He sprang up, unable to sit quiet, and found himself face to face with -Barclay. - -‘My dear sir,’ exclaimed the lawyer, ‘what is the matter?’ - -‘Oh, nothing--nothing,’ said Crauford, rather startled by the sudden -apparition. ‘Good-morning, Mr. Barclay; pray sit down.’ - -The lawyer was as inquisitive as a woman, and he complied immediately. - -‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘but I can hardly believe that. I sincerely hope -it is nothing very serious.’ - -‘It is nothing that can be helped,’ said Fordyce hurriedly; ‘only a -difficulty that I am in.’ - -‘Then I may have arrived in the nick of time,’ said Barclay. ‘Please -remember it is my function to help people out of difficulties. Come, -come--courage.’ - -He spoke with a familiarity of manner which Crauford might have -resented had he been less absorbed in his misfortunes. He had an -overwhelming longing to confide in someone. - -‘What does the proverb say? “Two heads are better than one,” eh, Mr. -Fordyce?’ - -Crauford looked at him irresolutely. - -‘I need hardly tell you that I shall be silent,’ said the lawyer in his -most professional voice. - -Fordyce had some of the instincts of a gentleman, and he hesitated a -little before he could make up his mind to mention Cecilia’s name to a -stranger like Barclay, but he was in such dire straits that a -sympathizer was everything to him, and the fact that his companion knew -so much of his uncle’s affairs made confidence seem safe. Besides -which, he was not a quick reader of character. - -‘You need not look upon me as a stranger,’ said the lawyer; ‘there is -nothing that your uncle does not tell me.’ - -This half-truth seemed so plausible to Crauford that it opened the -floodgates of his heart. - -‘You know Miss Raeburn, of course,’ he began. - -Barclay bowed and dropped his eyes ostentatiously. The action seemed to -imply that he knew her more intimately than anyone might suppose. - -‘She is a very exceptional young lady. I had made up my mind to propose -to her.’ - -‘She has not a penny,’ broke in Barclay. - -‘That is outside the subject,’ replied Fordyce, with something very -much like dignity. ‘I wrote to my father, telling him of my intention, -and yesterday I got his consent. He told me to expect a most liberal -allowance, Mr. Barclay.’ - -‘Naturally, naturally; in your circumstances that would be a matter of -course.’ - -‘I thought it best to have Lady Eliza’s permission before doing -anything further. I was right, was I not, sir?’ - -‘You acted in a most gentlemanly manner.’ - -‘I went to Morphie. Lady Eliza was cool with me, I thought. I confess -I expected she would have shown some--some----’ - -‘Some gratification--surely,’ finished Barclay. - -‘I took my father’s letter with me, and unfortunately, I had also one -in my pocket from my mother. It was not quite like my father’s in tone; -in fact, I am afraid it was written under considerable--excitement. I -think she had some other plan in her mind for me. At any rate I took it -out, mistaking it for the other, and gave it to her ladyship to read. -Mr. Barclay, it was terrible.’ - -The lawyer was too anxious to stand well with his companion to venture -a smile. - -‘Tut, tut, tut, tut!’ he said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. - -‘My only comfort is that she promised to say nothing to Miss Raeburn; I -sincerely trust she may keep her word. I am almost afraid she may write -to my mother, and I really do not know what might happen if she did. -That is what I dread, and she is capable of it.’ - -‘She is an old termagant,’ said the other. - -‘But what am I to do? What can I do?’ - -There was a silence in which the two men sat without speaking a word. -Barclay crossed his knees, and clasped his hands round them; Fordyce’s -eyes rested earnestly upon his complacent face. - -‘I suppose you know that she used to set her cap at your uncle years -ago?’ said the lawyer at last. - -‘I knew they were old friends.’ - -‘You must persuade him to go and put everything straight. He can if he -likes; she will keep quiet if he tells her to do so, trust her for -that. That’s my advice, and you will never get better.’ - -Fordyce’s face lightened; he had so lost his sense of the proportion of -things that this most obvious solution had not occurred to him. - -‘It seems so simple now that you have suggested it,’ he said. ‘I might -have thought of that for myself.’ - -‘What did I tell you about the two heads, eh?’ - -‘Then you really think that my uncle can make it smooth?’ - -‘I am perfectly sure of it. Will you take another hint from a -well-wisher, Mr. Fordyce?’ - -‘Of course, I shall be grateful!’ - -‘Well, do not let the grass grow under your feet, for Speid is looking -that way too, if I am not mistaken.’ - -Crauford made a sound of impatience. - -Barclay leaned forward, his eyes keen with interest. - -‘Then you don’t like him?’ he said. - -‘Oh, I scarcely know him,’ replied Fordyce, a look that delighted the -lawyer coming into his face. - -‘He is one of those who will know you one day and look over your head -the next. It would be a shame if you were set aside for a conceited -coxcomb of a fellow like that--a sulky brute too, I believe. I hate -him.’ - -‘So do I,’ exclaimed Crauford, suddenly and vehemently. - -Barclay wondered whether his companion had any idea of the tissue of -rumours hanging round Gilbert, but he did not, just then, give voice to -the question. It was a subject which he thought it best to keep until -another time. Fullarton might return at any minute and he would be -interrupted. The friendly relations which he determined to establish -between himself and Fordyce would afford plenty of opportunity. If he -failed to establish them, it would be a piece of folly so great as to -merit reward from a just Providence. All he could do was to blow on -Crauford’s jealousy--an inflammable thing, he suspected--with any -bellows that came to his hand. Speid should not have Cecilia while he -was there to cheer him on. - -‘You should get Mr. Fullarton to go to Morphie to-morrow, or even this -afternoon; my business with him will not take long, and I shall make a -point of going home early and leaving you free.’ - -‘You are really most kind to take so much interest,’ said Crauford. -‘How glad I am that I spoke to you about it.’ - -‘The mouse helped the king of beasts in the fable, you see,’ said the -lawyer. - -The simile struck Crauford as a happy one. He began to regain his -spirits. His personality had been almost unhinged by his recent -experience, and it was a relief to feel it coming straight again, none -the worse, apparently, for its shock. - -Barclay noted this change with satisfaction, knowing that to reunite a -man with his pride is to draw heavily on his gratitude, and, as -Fordyce’s confidence grew, he spoke unreservedly; his companion made -him feel more in his right attitude towards the world than anyone he -had met for some time. Their common dislike of one man was exhilarating -to both, and when, on seeing Fullarton emerge from the French window -some time later, they rose and strolled towards the house, they felt -that there was a bond between them almost amounting to friendship. At -least that was Crauford’s feeling; Barclay might have omitted the -qualifying word. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -GRANNY TAKES A STRONG ATTITUDE - - -IF an Englishman’s house is his castle, a Scotchman’s cottage is his -fortress. The custom prevailing in England by which the upper and -middle classes will walk, uninvited and unabashed, into a poor man’s -abode has never been tolerated by the prouder dwellers north of the -Tweed. Here, proximity does not imply familiarity. It is true that the -Englishman, or more probably the Englishwoman, who thus invades the -labouring man’s family will often do so on a charitable errand; but, -unless the Scot is already on friendly terms with his superior -neighbour, he neither desires his charity nor his company. Once invited -into the house, his visit will at all times be welcomed; but the -visitor will do well to remember, as he sits in the best chair at the -hearth, that he does so by privilege alone. The ethics of this -difference in custom are not understood by parochial England, though -its results, one would think, are plain enough. Among the working -classes of European nations the Scot is the man who stands most -pre-eminently upon his own feet, and it is likely that the Millennium, -when it dawns, will find him still doing the same thing. - -When Granny Stirk, months before, had stood at her door, and cried, -‘Haste ye back, then,’ to Gilbert Speid, she meant what she said, and -was taken at her word, for he returned some days after the roup, and -his visit was the first of many. Her racy talk, her shrewd sense, and -the masterly way in which she dominated her small world pleased him, -and he guessed that her friendship, once given, would be a solid thing. -He had accepted it, and he returned it. She made surprising confidences -and asked very direct questions, in the spring evenings when the light -was growing daily, and he would stroll out to her cottage for half an -hour’s talk. She advised him lavishly on every subject, from -underclothing to the choice of a wife and her subsequent treatment, and -from these conversations he learned much of the temper and customs of -those surrounding him. - -In the seven months which had elapsed since his arrival he had learned -to understand his poorer neighbours better than his richer ones. The -atmosphere of the place was beginning to sink into him, and his tenants -and labourers had decided that they liked him very well; for, though -there were many things in him completely foreign to their ideas, they -had taken these on trust in consideration of other merits which they -recognised. But, with his equals, he still felt himself a stranger; -there were few men of his own age among the neighbouring lairds, and -those he had met were as local in character as the landscape. Not one -had ever left his native country, or possessed much notion of anything -outside its limits. He would have been glad to see more of Fullarton, -but the elder man had an unaccountable reserve in his manner towards -him which did not encourage any advance. Crauford Fordyce he found both -ridiculous and irritating. The women to whom he had been introduced did -not impress him in any way, and four only had entered his life--the Miss -Robertsons, who were his relations; Lady Eliza, who by turns amused, -interested, and repelled him; and Cecilia Raeburn, with whom he was in -love. The two people most congenial to him were Granny Stirk and -Captain Somerville. - -Between himself and the sailor a cordial feeling had grown, as it will -often grow between men whose horizon is wider than that of the society -in which they live, and, though Somerville was almost old enough to be -Speid’s grandfather, the imperishable youth that bubbled up in his -heart kept it in touch with that wide world in which he had worked and -fought, and which he still loved like a boy. The episode at the dovecot -of Morphie had served to cement the friendship. - -Jimmy Stirk also reckoned himself among Gilbert’s allies. Silent, -sullen, fervid, his mind and energies concentrated upon the business of -his day, he mentally contrasted every gentleman he met with the laird -of Whanland, weighed him, and found him wanting. The brown horse, whose -purchase had been such an event in his life, did his work well, and the -boy expended a good deal more time upon his grooming than upon that of -the mealy chestnut which shared the shed behind the cottage with the -newcomer, and had once been its sole occupant. On finding himself owner -of a more respectable-looking piece of horseflesh than he had ever -thought to possess, he searched his mind for a name with which to -ornament his property; it took him several days to decide that Rob Roy -being, to his imagination, the most glorious hero ever created, he -would christen the horse in his honour. His grandmother, systematically -averse to new notions, cast scorn on what she called his ‘havers’; but -as time went by, and she saw that no impression was made upon Jimmy, -she ended in using the name as freely as if she had bestowed it -herself. - -It occurred to Mr. Barclay, after leaving Fullarton, that, as Granny -Stirk knew more about other people’s business than anyone he could -think of, he would do sensibly in paying her a visit. That Gilbert -often sat talking with her was perfectly well known to him, and if she -had any ideas about the state of his affections and intentions, and -could be induced to reveal her knowledge, it would be valuable matter -to retail to Fordyce. Her roof had been mended a couple of months -since, and he had made the arrangements for it, so he was no stranger -to the old woman. It behoved him in his character of ‘man of business’ -to examine the work that had been done, for he had not seen it since -its completion. He directed his man to drive to the cottage, and sat -smiling, as he rolled along, at the remembrance of Fordyce’s dilemma -and his own simple solution of it. - -Jimmy’s cart, with Rob Roy in the shafts, was standing at the door, and -had to be moved away to enable him to draw up; it had been freshly -painted, and the three divisions of the tailboard contained each a -coloured device. In the centre panel was the figure of a fish; those at -the sides bore each a mermaid holding a looking-glass; the latter were -the arms of the town of Kaims. Barclay alighted, heavily and leisurely, -from his phaeton. - -‘How is the business, my laddie?’ he inquired affably, and in a voice -which he thought suitable to the hearty habits of the lower orders. - -‘It’s fine,’ said Jimmy. - -‘The horse is doing well----eh?’ - -‘He’s fine,’ said Jimmy again. - -‘And your grandmother? I hope she is keeping well this good weather.’ - -‘She’s fine.’ - -True to his friendly pose, the lawyer walked round the cart, running -his eye over it and the animal in its shafts with as knowing an -expression as he could assume. As he paused beside Rob Roy he laid his -hand suddenly on his quarter, after the manner of people unaccustomed -to horses; the nervous little beast made a plunge forward which nearly -knocked Jimmy down, and sent Barclay flying to the sanctuary of the -doorstep. His good-humour took flight also. - -‘Nasty, restive brute!’ he exclaimed. - -The boy gave him an expressive look; he was not apt to pay much -attention to anyone, whether gentle or simple, beyond the pale of his -own affairs, and Barclay had hitherto been outside his world. He now -entered it as an object of contempt. - -The sudden rattle of the cart brought Granny to the door. - -‘That is a very dangerous horse of yours,’ said the lawyer, turning -round. - -‘Whisht! whisht!’ exclaimed she, ‘it was the laird got yon shelt to -him; he’ll na thole[1] to hear ye speak that way.’ - - [1] Endure. - -‘May I come in?’ asked Barclay, recalled to his object. - -She ushered him into the cottage. - -‘Yes, yes, I have heard about that,’ he remarked, as he sat down. ‘No -doubt Jimmy is proud of the episode; it is not often a gentleman -concerns himself so much about his tenant’s interests. I dare say, Mrs. -Stirk, that you have no wish to change your landlord, eh?’ - -‘No for onybody hereabout,’ said the old woman. - -‘Then I gather that you are no admirer of our gentry?’ - -‘A’ wasna saying that.’ - -‘But perhaps you meant it. We do not always say what we mean, do we?’ -said Barclay, raising his eyebrows facetiously. - -‘Whiles a’ do,’ replied the Queen of the Cadgers, with some truth. - -‘You speak your mind plainly enough to Mr. Speid, I believe,’ said -Barclay. - -‘Wha tell’t ye that?’ - -‘Aha! everything comes round to me in time, I assure you, my good soul; -my business is confidential--very confidential. You see, as a lawyer, I -am concerned with all the estates in this part of the country.’ - -‘Where the money is, there will the blayguards be gathered together,’ -said Granny, resenting the patronage in his tone. - -‘Come, come! that is surely rather severe,’ said Barclay, forcing a -smile. ‘You don’t treat the laird in that way when he comes to see you, -I am sure; he would not come so often if you did.’ - -‘He canna come ower muckle for me.’ - -‘What will you do when he gets a wife? He will not have so much idle -time then.’ - -‘Maybe she’ll come wi’ him.’ - -‘That’ll depend on what kind of lady she is,’ observed Barclay; ‘she -may be too proud.’ - -‘Then Whanland ’ll no tak’ her,’ replied Granny decisively. - -It did not escape Mrs. Stirk that Barclay, who had never before paid -her a visit unconnected with business, had now some special motive for -doing so. It was in her mind to state the fact baldly and gratify -herself with the sight of the result, but she decided to keep this -pleasure until she had discovered something more of his object. She sat -silent, waiting for his next observation. She had known human nature -intimately all her life, and much of it had been spent in driving -bargains. She was not going to speak first. - -‘Well, every man ought to marry,’ said Barclay at last; ‘don’t you -think so, Mrs. Stirk?’ - -‘Whiles it’s so easy done,’ said she; ‘ye havna managed it yersel’, Mr. -Barclay.’ - -‘Nobody would have me, you see,’ said the lawyer, chuckling in the -manner of one who makes so preposterous a joke that he must needs laugh -at it himself. - -‘Ye’ll just hae to bide as ye are,’ observed Granny consolingly; ‘maybe -it would be ill to change at your time of life.’ - -Barclay’s laugh died away; he seemed to be no nearer his goal than when -he sat down, and Granny’s generalities were not congenial to him. He -plunged into his subject. - -‘I think Mr. Speid should marry, at any rate,’ he said; ‘and if report -says true, it will not be long before he does so.’ - -A gleam came into the old woman’s eye; she could not imagine her -visitor’s motives, but she saw what he wanted, and determined instantly -that he should not get it. Like many others, she had heard the report -that Gilbert Speid was paying his addresses to Lady Eliza Lamont’s -adopted niece, and, in her secret soul, had made up her mind that -Cecilia was not good enough for him. All femininity, in her eyes, -shared that shortcoming. - -‘He’ll please himsel’, na doubt,’ she observed. - -‘But do you think there is any truth in what we hear?’ continued -Barclay. - -‘A’ll tell ye that when a’ ken what ye’re speirin’ about.’ - -‘Do you believe that he is courting Miss Raeburn?’ he asked, compelled -to directness. - -‘There’s jus’ twa that can answer that,’ said Granny, leaning forward -and looking mysterious; ‘ane’s Whanland, and ane’s the lassie.’ - -‘Everybody says it is true, Mrs. Stirk.’ - -‘A’body’s naebody,’ said the old woman, ‘an’ you an’ me’s less.’ - -‘It would be a very suitable match, in my opinion,’ said the lawyer, -trying another tack. - -‘Aweel, a’ll just tell Whanland ye was speirin’ about it,’ replied -Granny. ‘A’ can easy ask him. He doesna mind what a’ say to him.’ - -‘No, no, my good woman; don’t trouble yourself to do that! Good Lord! -it does not concern me.’ - -‘A’ ken that, but there’s no mony folk waits to be concairned when -they’re seeking news. A’ can easy do it, sir. A’ tell ye, he’ll no tak’ -it ill o’ me.’ - -‘Pray do not dream of doing such a thing!’ exclaimed Barclay. ‘Really, -it is of no possible interest to me. Mrs. Stirk, I must forbid you to -say anything to Mr. Speid.’ - -‘Dod! ye needna fash yersel’; a’ll do it canny-like. “Laird,” a’ll say, -“Mr. Barclay would no have ye think it concairns him, but he’d like -fine to ken if ye’re courtin’ Miss Raeburn. He came here speirin’ at -me,” a’ll say----’ - -‘You will say nothing of the sort,’ cried he. ‘Why I should even have -mentioned it to you I cannot think.’ - -‘A’ dinna understand that mysel’,’ replied Granny. - -All Barclay’s desire for discovery had flown before his keen anxiety to -obliterate the matter from his companion’s mind. He cleared his throat -noisily. - -‘Let us get to business,’ he said. ‘What I came here for was not to -talk; I have come to ask whether the repairs in the roof are -satisfactory, and to see what has been done. I have had no time to do -so before. My time is precious.’ - -‘It’ll do weel eneuch. A’ let Whanland see it when he was in-by,’ -replied she casually. - -‘It’s my duty to give personal inspection to all repairs in tenants’ -houses,’ said he, getting up. - -She rose also, and preceded him into the little scullery which opened -off the back of the kitchen; it smelt violently of fish, for Jimmy’s -working clothes hung on a peg by the door. Barclay’s nose wrinkled. - -She was pointing out the place he wished to see when a step sounded -outside, and a figure passed the window. Someone knocked with the head -of a stick upon the door. - -‘Yon’s the laird!’ exclaimed Granny, hurrying back into the kitchen. - -Barclay’s heart was turned to water, for he knew that the old woman was -quite likely to confront him with Speid, and demand in his name an -answer to the questions he had been asking. He turned quickly from the -door leading from scullery to yard, and lifted the latch softly. As he -slipped out he passed Jimmy, who, with loud hissings, was grooming Rob -Roy. - -‘Tell your grandmother that I am in a hurry,’ he cried. ‘Tell her I am -quite satisfied with the roof.’ - -‘Sit down, Whanland,’ said Granny, dusting the wooden armchair as -though the contact of the lawyer’s body had made it unfit for Gilbert’s -use; ‘yon man rinnin’ awa’s Mr. Barclay. Dinna tak’ tent o’ him, but -bide ye here till a’ tell ye this.’ - -The sun was getting low and its slanting rays streamed into the room. -As Gilbert sat down his outline was black against the window. The light -was burning gold behind him, and Granny could not see his face, or she -would have noticed that he looked harassed and tired. - -It was pure loyalty which had made her repress Barclay, for curiosity -was strong in her, and it had cost her something to forego the pleasure -of extracting what knowledge she could. But though she had denied -herself this, she meant to speak freely to Gilbert. The lawyer had -escaped through her fingers and robbed her of further sport, but she -was determined that Speid should know of his questions. She resented -them as a great impertinence to him, and as an even greater one to -herself. She was inclined to be suspicious of people in general, and -everything connected with her landlord made her smell the battle afar -off, like Job’s war-horse, and prepare to range herself on his side. - -‘Laird, are ye to get married?’ said she, seating herself opposite to -the young man. - -‘Not that I am aware of,’ said Gilbert. ‘Why do you ask, Granny? Do you -think I ought to?’ - -‘A’ couldna say as to that, but Mr. Barclay says ye should.’ - -‘What has he to do with it?’ exclaimed Gilbert, his brows lowering. - -‘Fegs! A’ would hae liked terrible to ask him that mysel’. He came ben -an’ he began, an’ says he, “A’ve heard tell he’s to get married,” says -he; an’ “What do ye think about it?” says he. A’ was that angered, ye -ken, laird, an’ a’ just says till him, “Just wait,” says I, “an’ a’ll -speir at him,” says I, “an’ then ye’ll ken. A’ll tell him ye’re -terrible taken up about it--impident deevil that ye are.” A’ didna say -“deevil” to him, ye ken, laird, but a’ warrant ye a’ thocht it. What -has the likes of him to do wi’ you? Dod! a’ could see by the face o’ -him he wasna pleased when a’ said a’d tell ye. “My good woman,” says -he--here Granny stuck out her lips in imitation of Barclay’s rather -protrusive mouth, “dinna fash yersel’ to do that;” an’ syne when ye -came in-by, he was roond about an’ up the road like an auld dog that’s -got a skelp wi’ a stick.’ - -‘Did he say anything more?’ inquired Gilbert gravely. - -‘Ay, did he--but maybe a’ll anger ye, Whanland.’ - -‘No, no, Granny, you know that. I have a reason for asking. Tell me -everything he said.’ - -‘Ye’ll see an’ no be angered, laird?’ - -‘Not with you, Granny, in any case.’ - -‘Well, he was sayin’ a’body says ye’re courtin’ Miss Raeburn. “Let me -get a sicht o’ the roof,” says he “that’s what a’ come here for.” By -Jarvit! he didna care very muckle about that, for a’ the lang words he -was spittin’ out about it!’ - -Gilbert got up, and stood on the hearth with his head turned from the -old woman. - -‘A’ve vexed ye,’ she said, when she saw his face again. - -‘Listen to me, Granny,’ he began slowly; ‘I am very much annoyed that -he--or anyone--should have joined that lady’s name and mine together. -Granny, if you have any friendship for me, if you would do me a -kindness, you will never let a word of what you have heard come from -your lips.’ - -As he stood looking down on the Queen of the Cadgers the light from the -evening sun was full upon her marked features and the gold ear-rings in -her ears. - -‘Ye needna fear, Whanland,’ she said simply. - -‘I will tell you why,’ burst out Gilbert, a sudden impulse to -confidence rushing to his heart like a wave; ‘it is true, Granny--that -is the reason. If I cannot marry her I shall never be happy again.’ - -Sitting alone that night, he asked himself why he should have spoken. - -What power, good or evil, is answerable for the sudden gusts of change -that shake us? Why do we sometimes turn traitor to our own character? -How is it that forces, foreign to everything in our nature, will, at -some undreamed-of instant, sweep us from the attitude we have -maintained all our lives? The answer is that our souls are more -sensitive than our brains. - -But Gilbert, as he thought of his act, did not blame himself. Neither -did eternal wisdom, which watched from afar and saw everything. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -PLAIN SPEAKING - - -THE outward signs of Lady Eliza’s wrath endured for a few days after -Crauford’s untimely mistake, and then began to die a lingering death; -but her determination that the enemy should make amends was unabated. -In her heart, she did not believe that Cecilia cared for her suitor, -and that being the case, she knew her well enough to be sure that -nothing would make her marry him. For this she was both glad and sorry. -It would have been easy, as Crauford had applied to her, to discover -the state of the girl’s feelings; and should she find her unwilling to -accept him, convey the fact to Fullarton and so end the matter. - -But that course was not at all to her mind; Lady Fordyce should, if -Cecilia were so inclined, pay for her words. She should write the -letter her son had undertaken to procure, and he should present it and -be refused. She was thinking of that as she sat on a bench in the -garden at Morphie, and she smiled rather fiercely. - -The development she promised herself was, perhaps, a little hard on -Crauford, but, as we all know, the sins of the fathers are visited upon -the children, and that did not concern her; written words had the -powerful effect upon her that they have upon most impulsive people. She -was no schemer, and was the last being on earth to sit down -deliberately to invent trouble for anyone; but all the abortive -maternity in her had expended itself upon Cecilia, and to slight her -was the unforgivable sin. - -She sat in the sun looking down the garden to the fruit-covered wall, -her shady hat, which, owing, perhaps, to the wig beneath it, was seldom -at the right angle, pulled over her eyes. No other lady of those days -would have worn such headgear, but Lady Eliza made her own terms with -fashion. All the hot part of the afternoon she had been working, for -her garden produce interested her, and she was apt to do a great deal -with her own hands which could more safely have been left to the -gardeners. Cecilia, who was picking fruit, had forced her to rest while -she finished the work, and her figure could be seen a little way off in -a lattice of raspberry-bushes; the elder woman’s eyes followed her -every movement. Whether she married Fordyce or whether she did not, the -bare possibility seemed to bring the eventual separation nearer, and -make it more inevitable. Lady Eliza had longed for such an event, -prayed for it; but now that it had come she dreaded it too much. It was -scarcely ever out of her mind. - -When her basket was full Cecilia came up the path and set it down -before the bench. ‘There is not room for one more,’ she said lightly. - -‘Sit down, child,’ said her companion; ‘you look quite tired. We have -got plenty now. That will be--let me see--five baskets. I shall send two -to Miss Robertson--she has only a small raspberry-bed--and the rest are -for jam.’ - -‘Then perhaps I had better go in and tell the cook, or she will put on -all five to boil.’ - -‘No, my dear, never mind; stay here. Cecilia, has it occurred to you -that we may not be together very long?’ - -The idea was so unexpected that Cecilia was startled, and the blood -left her face. For one moment she thought that Lady Eliza must have -some terrible news to break, some suddenly-acquired knowledge of a -mortal disease. - -‘Why?’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, aunt, what do you mean?’ - -‘I suppose you will marry, Cecilia. In fact, you must some day.’ - -The blood came back rather violently. - -‘Don’t let us think of that, ma’am,’ she said, turning away her head. - -‘You do not want to leave me, Cecilia?’ - -The two women looked into each other’s eyes, and the younger laid her -hand on that of her companion. The other seized it convulsively, a -spasm of pain crossing her features. - -‘My little girl,’ she said; ‘my darling!’ - -In those days, endearments, now made ineffective by use and misuse, had -some meaning. Young people addressed their elders as ‘ma’am’ and ‘sir,’ -and equals, who were also intimates, employed much formality of speech. -While this custom was an unquestionable bar to confidence between -parents and children, it emphasized any approach made by such as had -decided to depart from it; also, it bred strange mixtures. To address -those of your acquaintance who had titles as ‘your lordship’ or ‘your -ladyship’ was then no solecism. Women, in speaking to their husbands -or their men friends, would either use their full formal names or -dispense with prefix altogether; and Lady Eliza, whose years of -friendship with Fullarton more than justified his Christian name on her -tongue, called him ‘Fullarton,’ ‘Robert,’ or ‘Mr. Fullarton,’ with the -same ease, while to him she was equally ‘your ladyship’ or ‘Eliza.’ -Miss Hersey Robertson spoke to ‘Gilbert’ in the same breath in which -she addressed ‘Mr. Speid.’ - -Though Cecilia called her adopted aunt ‘ma’am,’ there existed between -them an intimacy due, not only to love, but to the quality of their -respective natures. The expectancy of youth which had died so hard in -Lady Eliza had been more nearly realized in the loyal and tender -devotion of her adopted niece than in any other circumstance in life. -There was so fine a sympathy in Cecilia, so great a faculty for seizing -the innermost soul of things, that the pathos of her aunt’s character, -its nobility, its foibles, its prejudices, its very absurdities, were -seen by her through the clear light of an understanding love. - -‘I suppose you have guessed why Mr. Crauford Fordyce has been here so -much?’ said Lady Eliza in a few minutes. ‘You know his feelings, I am -sure.’ - -‘He has said nothing to me.’ - -‘But he has spoken to me. We shall have to decide it, Cecilia. You know -it would be a very proper marriage for you, if--if---- He annoyed me -very much the other day, but there is no use in talking about it. -Marry him if you like, my dear--God knows, I ought not to prevent -you. I can’t bear his family, Cecilia, though he is Fullarton’s -nephew--insolent fellow! I have no doubt he is a very worthy young man. -You ought to consider it.’ - -‘What did you say to him, ma’am?’ - -‘Oh--well, I cannot exactly tell you, my dear. I would not bias you for -the world.’ - -‘But you promised him nothing, aunt? You do not mean that you wish me -to accept him?’ exclaimed Cecilia, growing pale again. - -‘You are to do what you please. I have no doubt he will have the face -to come again. I wish you were settled.’ - -‘If he were the only man in the world, I would not marry him,’ said the -girl firmly. - -‘Thank Heaven, Cecilia! What enormous front teeth he has--they are like -family tombstones. Take the raspberries to the cook, my dear; I am so -happy.’ - -As Cecilia went into the house a man who had ridden up to the stable -and left his horse there entered the garden. Fullarton’s shadow lay -across the path, and Lady Eliza looked up to find him standing by her. -Her thoughts had been far away, but she came back to the present with a -thrill. He took a letter from his pocket, and handed it to her, -smiling. - -‘This is from my sister,’ he said. ‘If you knew her as well as I do you -would understand that it has taken us some trouble to get it. But here -it is. Be lenient, Eliza.’ - -Robert, if he had given himself the gratification of teasing his -nephew, had yet expressed himself willing to take the part of Noah’s -dove, and go out across the troubled waters to look for a piece of dry -land and an olive-branch. His task had not been an easy one at first, -and he had been obliged to make a personal matter of it before he could -smooth the path of the unlucky lover. But his appeal was one which -could not fail, and, as a concession to himself, his friend had -consented to look with favour upon Crauford, should he return bringing -the letter she demanded. - -Having disposed of one difficulty, Fullarton found that his good -offices were not to end; he was allowed no rest until he sat down with -his pen to bring his sister, Lady Fordyce, to a more reasonable point -of view and a suitable expression of it. As he had expected, she proved -far more obdurate than Lady Eliza; for her there was no glamour round -him to ornament his requests. ‘God gave you friends, and the devil gave -you relations,’ says the proverb, but it does not go on to say which -power gave a man the woman who loves him. Perhaps it is sometimes one -and sometimes the other. Be that as it may, though Robert returned -successful from Morphie, it took him more time and pains to deal with -Lady Fordyce than he had ever thought to expend on anybody. - -He sat down upon the bench while Lady Eliza drew off her gloves and -began to break the seal with her tapered fingers. He wondered, as he -had done many times, at their whiteness and the beauty of their shape. - -‘You have the most lovely hands in the world, my lady,’ he said at -last; ‘some of the hands in Vandyke’s portraits are like them, but no -others.’ - -He was much relieved by having finished his share in a business which -had begun to weary him, and his spirits were happily attuned. She -blushed up to the edge of her wig; in all her life he had never said -such a thing to her. Her fingers shook so that she could hardly open -the letter. She gave it to him. - -‘Open it,’ she said; ‘my hands are stiff with picking fruit.’ - -He took it complacently and spread it out before her. - -It was Crauford’s distressed appeals rather than her brother’s counsels -which had moved Lady Fordyce. She was really fond of her son, and, in -company with almost every mother who has children of both sexes, -reserved her daughters as receptacles for the overflowings of her -temper; they were the hills that attract the thunderstorms from the -plain. Crauford was the plain, and Sir Thomas represented sometimes one -of these natural objects and sometimes the other. Of late the whole -household had been one long chain of mountains. - -She was unaware of what had happened to her former letter; uncle and -nephew had agreed that it was unnecessary to inform her of it, and -Robert had merely explained that Crauford would not be suffered by Lady -Eliza to approach his divinity without the recommendation of her -special approval. It was a happy way of putting it. - - -‘MY DEAR CRAUFORD, - -‘I trust that I, _of all people_, understand that it is not _wealth and -riches_ which _make true happiness_, and I shall be glad if you will -assure Lady Eliza Lamont that you have _my consent in addressing_ the -young lady who is _under her protection._ I shall hope to become -acquainted with her before she _enters our family_, and also with her -ladyship. - - ‘I remain, my dear Crauford, - - ‘Your affectionate mother, - - ‘LOUISA CHARLOTTE FORDYCE. - -‘P.S.--When do you _intend to return home?_’ - - -She ran her eyes over the paper and returned it to Fullarton. - -‘From my sister that is a great deal,’ he observed; ‘more than you can -imagine. She has always been a difficulty. As children we suffered from -her, for she was the eldest, and my life was made hard by her when I -was a little boy. Thomas Fordyce has had some experiences, I fancy.’ - -‘And this is what you propose for Cecilia?’ exclaimed Lady Eliza. - -‘My dear friend, they would not live together; Crauford will take care -of that.’ - -‘And Cecilia too. She will never marry him, Fullarton. She has told me -so already. I should like to see Lady Fordyce’s face when she hears -that he has been refused!’ she burst out. - -Fullarton stared. - -‘I think your ladyship might have spared me all this trouble,’ he said, -frowning; ‘you are making me look like a fool!’ - -‘But I only asked her to-day,’ replied she, her warmth fading, ‘not an -hour ago--not five minutes. I had meant to say nothing, and let him be -refused, but you can tell him, Fullarton--tell him it is no use.’ - -A peculiar smile was on his face. - -‘My dear Eliza,’ he said, ‘Crauford is probably on his way here now. I -undertook to bring you the letter and he is to follow it. I left him -choosing a waistcoat to propose in.’ - -‘I am sorry,’ said Lady Eliza, too much cast down by his frown to be -amused at this picture. - -‘Well, what of it?’ he said, rather sourly. ‘He must learn his hard -lessons like the rest of the world; there are enough of them and to -spare for everyone.’ - -‘You are right,’ she replied, ‘terribly right.’ - -He looked at her critically. - -‘What can you have to complain of? If anyone is fortunate, surely you -are. You are your own mistress, you are well enough off to lead the -life you choose, you have a charming companion, many friends----’ - -‘Have I? I did not know that. Who are they?’ - -‘Well, if there are few, it is your own choice. Those you possess are -devoted to you. Look at myself, for instance; have I not been your firm -friend for years?’ - -‘You have indeed,’ she said huskily. - -‘There are experiences in life which mercifully have been spared you, -Eliza. These are the things which make the real tragedies, the things -which may go on before the eyes of our neighbours without their seeing -anything of them. I would rather die to-morrow than live my life over -again. You know I speak truly; I know that you know; you made me -understand that one day.’ - -She had turned away during his speech, for she could not trust her -face, but at these last words she looked round. - -‘I have never forgiven myself for the pain I caused you,’ she said; ‘I -have never got over that. I am so rough--I know it--have you forgiven -me, Robert?’ - -‘It took me a little time, but I have done it,’ replied he, with an -approving glance at the generosity he saw in his own heart. - -‘I behaved cruelly--cruelly,’ she said. - -‘Forget it,’ said Fullarton; ‘let us only remember what has been -pleasant in our companionship. Do you know, my lady, years ago I was -fool enough to imagine myself in love with you? You never knew it, and -I soon saw my folly; mercifully, before you discovered it. We should -have been as wretched in marriage as we have been happy in friendship. -We should never have suited each other.’ - -‘What brought you to your senses?’ inquired Lady Eliza with a laugh. -She was in such agony of heart that speech or silence, tears or -laughter, seemed all immaterial, all component parts of one -overwhelming moment. - -He looked as a man looks who finds himself driven into a _cul-de-sac._ - -‘It was--she,’ said Lady Eliza. ‘Don’t think I blame you, Fullarton.’ - -She could say that to him, but, as she thought of the woman in her -grave, she pressed her hands together till the nails cut through the -skin. - -At this moment Crauford, in the waistcoat he had selected, came through -the garden door. - -As he stood before Lady Eliza the repressed feeling upon her face was -so strong that he did not fail to notice it, but his observation was -due to the fact that he saw his mother’s letter in Fullarton’s hand; -that, of course, was the cause of her agitation, he told himself. But -where was Cecilia? He looked round the garden. - -His civil, shadeless presence irritated Lady Eliza unspeakably as he -stood talking to her, evidently deterred by his uncle’s proximity from -mentioning the subject uppermost in his mind. He possessed the fell -talent for silently emphasizing any slight moment of embarrassment. -Robert watched him with grim amusement, too indolent to move away. -Fordyce was like a picture-book to him. - -The little group was broken up by Cecilia’s return; Crauford went -forward to meet her, and pompously relieved her of the two garden -baskets she carried. This act of politeness was tinged with distress at -the sight of the future Lady Fordyce burdened with such things. - -‘Let us go to the house,’ exclaimed Lady Eliza, rising from her bench. -If something were not done to facilitate Crauford’s proposal she would -never be rid of him, never at leisure to reason with her aching heart -in solitude. When would the afternoon end? She even longed for -Fullarton to go. What he had said to her was no new thing; she had -known it all, all before. But the words had fallen like blows, and, -like an animal hurt, she longed to slink away and hide her pain. - -‘Put the baskets in the tool-house, Cecilia. Fullarton, come away; we -will go in.’ - -The tool-house stood at the further end of the garden, outside the -ivy-covered wall, and Crauford was glad of the chance given him of -accompanying Cecilia, though he felt the difficulty of approaching -affairs of the heart with a garden basket in either hand. He walked -humbly beside her. She put the baskets away and turned the key on them. - -‘May I ask for a few minutes, Miss Raeburn?’ he began. ‘I have come -here for a serious purpose. My uncle is the bearer of a letter to her -ladyship. It is from my mother, and is written in corroboration of one -which I lately received from my father. I had written to ask their -approval of a step--a very important step--which I contemplate. Miss -Raeburn--or may I say Cecilia?--it concerns yourself.’ - -‘Really, sir?’ said Cecilia, the cheerfulness of despair in her voice. - -‘Yes, yourself. No young lady I have ever seen has so roused my -admiration--my affection, I may say. I have made up my mind on that -subject. Do not turn away, Miss Raeburn; it is quite true, believe me. -My happiness is involved. To-morrow I shall hope to inform my parents -that you will be my wife.’ - -He stopped in the path and would have taken her hand. She stepped back. - -‘I cannot,’ she said. ‘I am sorry, but I cannot.’ - -‘You cannot!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why?’ - -‘It is impossible, sir, really.’ - -‘But you have Lady Eliza’s permission. She told me so herself. This is -absurd, Miss Raeburn, and you are distressing me infinitely.’ - -‘Please put it out of your head, Mr. Fordyce. I cannot do it; there is -no use in thinking of it. I do not want to hurt you, but it is quite -impossible--quite.’ - -‘But why--why?’ he exclaimed. He looked bewildered. - -Cecilia’s brows drew together imperceptibly. - -‘I do not care for you,’ she said; ‘you force me to speak in this way. -I do not love you in the least.’ - -‘But what is there that you object to in me?’ he cried. ‘Surely you -understand that my father, in consenting, is ready to establish me very -well. I am the eldest son, Miss Raeburn.’ - -Cecilia’s pale face was set, and her chin rose a little higher at each -word. - -‘That is nothing to me,’ she replied; ‘it does not concern me. I do -not care what your prospects are. I thank you very much for -your--civility, but I refuse.’ - -He was at a loss for words; he felt like a man dealing with a mad -person, one to whom the very rudiments of reason and conduct seemed to -convey nothing. But the flagrant absurdity of her attitude gave him -hope; there were some things too monstrous for reality. - -‘I will give you time to think it over,’ he said at last. - -‘That is quite useless. My answer is ready now.’ - -‘But what can be your objection?’ he broke out. ‘What do you want, what -do you expect, that I cannot give you?’ - -‘I want a husband whom I can love,’ she replied, sharply. ‘I have told -you that I do not care for you, sir. Let that be the end.’ - -‘But love would come after, Miss Raeburn; I have heard that often. It -always does with a woman; you would learn to love me.’ - -He stopped and looked at her. Through her growing exasperation his very -fatuity, as he stood there, almost touched her. To her mind he was so -unfit an object for the love he spoke of, parrot-fashion, so ignorant -of realities. A man cannot understand things for which he has been -denied the capacity; like Lady Eliza, in the midst of her anger, she -could see the piteous side of him and be broad-minded enough to realize -the pathos of limitation. - -‘Don’t think I wish to hurt you,’ she said gently, ‘but do not allow -yourself to hope for anything. I could never love you--not then any more -than now. I am honestly sorry to give you pain.’ - -‘Then why do you do so?’ he asked pettishly. - -She almost laughed; his attitude was invincible. - -‘You will regret it some day,’ he said. - -‘But _you_ never will; you will be very happy one day with someone else -who finds importance in the same things as you do. I should never suit -you.’ - -‘Not suit me? Why not? You do yourself injustice.’ - -‘But it is true, sir.’ - -‘You are fitted for the very highest position,’ he said, with -solemnity. - - -That night Cecilia sat in her room at the open window. Her dark hair -fell in a long, thick rope almost to the ground as she leaned her arms -on the sill, and looked out over the dew. High in the sky the moon -sailed, the irresponsible face on her disc set above the trailing -fragments of cloud. From fields near the coast the low whistle of -plover talking came through the silence, and a night-jar shrieked -suddenly from the belt of trees near the dovecot. She turned her face -towards the sound, and saw in its shadow a piece of stonework -glimmering in the white light. To her mind’s eye appeared the whole -wall in a flare of torchlight, and a figure standing in front of it, -panting, straight and tense, with a red stain on brow and cheek. She -had told Crauford Fordyce that she could not marry him because she did -not love him, and, assuredly, she had not lied. She had spoken the -truth, but was it the whole truth? - -Out there, far over the woods, lay Whanland, with the roar of the -incoming sea sending its never-ceasing voice across the sandhills, and -the roll of its white foam crawling round the skirts of the land. It -was as though that sea-voice, which she could not hear, but had known -for years, were crying to her from the distant coast. It troubled her; -why, she knew not. In all the space of night she was so small, and life -was vast. She had been completely capable of dealing with her own -difficulties during the day, of choosing her path, of taking or leaving -what she chose. Now she felt suddenly weak in spirit. A sense of -misgiving took her, surrounded as she was by the repose of mighty -forces greater than herself, greater, more eternal, more changeless -than humanity. She laid her head upon her arms, and rested so till the -sound of midnight rang from the tongue of the stable-clock across the -sleeping house. The plover had ceased their talking. - -She drew down the blind and stretched herself among the dim curtains of -the bed, but, though she closed her eyes, she lay in a kind of waking -trance till morning; and when, at last, she fell asleep, her -consciousness was filled by the monotony of rolling waters and the roar -of the seas by Whanland. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -STORM AND BROWN SILK - - -AGNETA and Mary Fordyce were in the drawing-room of Fordyce Castle, an -immensely solemn apartment rendered more so by the blinds which were -drawn half-mast high in obedience to an order from Lady Fordyce. She -was economical, and the carpet was much too expensive to be looked upon -by the sun. In the semi-darkness which this induced the two girls were -busy, one with her singing, which she was practising, and the other -with the tambour-work she loved. Mary, the worker, was obliged to sit -as close as possible to the window in order to get light by which to -ply her needle. Agneta’s voice rose in those desolate screams which are -the exclusive privilege of the singer practising, and for the emitting -of which any other person would justly be punished. Though thin, she -was very like Crauford, with the same fresh colour and the same large -front teeth, now liberally displayed by her occupation. Mary was -short-sighted and a little round-shouldered from much stooping over her -work-frame. - -‘I am afraid from what mamma has heard that Lady Eliza Lamont is not a -very nice person; so eccentric and unfeminine, she said,’ observed -Mary. - -‘Perhaps Miss Raeburn is the same. I am afraid poor Crauford is -throwing himself away. A-a-ah-ah!’ replied Agneta, leaping an octave as -though it were a fence. - -‘He has never answered your letter, Agneta. I really wonder what she is -like. Mamma only hopes she is presentable; one can never trust a young -man’s description of the person he is in love with, she says.’ - -‘Oh-h-h-oh! A-a-a-ah! I shall be very curious to see her, shan’t you, -Mary?’ - -‘I suppose she will be invited here soon. It would be funny if she were -here with Lady Maria, would it not?’ - -‘Mamma says it is all Uncle Fullarton’s doing, because he is so much -mixed up with that dreadful Lady Eliza. Ah-a-a-a-ah!’ - -‘I know; she has always thought that very undesirable, she says. I -wonder how she has consented to write; I am sure she would never have -done it for anyone but Crauford.’ - -‘I wonder what it is like to have a sister-in-law?’ said Agneta, -pausing in her shrieks. - -‘It would depend very much what kind of person she is,’ replied her -sister, with some show of sense. - -‘Yes, but should we be allowed to go anywhere with her? Perhaps she -would take us out,’ said Agneta. - -Lady Fordyce was one of those mothers who find it unnecessary to take -their daughters into society, and yet confidently expect them to marry -well. Though Agneta, the youngest, was twenty-five, and Mary was past -thirty, Lady Maria Milwright was the only young person who had ever -stayed in the house. A couple of stiff parties were given every year, -and, when there was a county ball, the Misses Fordyce were duly driven -to it, each in a new dress made for the occasion, to stand one on -either side of their mother’s chair during the greater part of the -evening. Had anyone suggested to Lady Fordyce that Mary was an old maid -and that Agneta would soon become one, she would have been immoderately -angry. ‘When my daughters are married I shall give up the world -altogether,’ she would sometimes say; and her hearer would laugh in his -sleeve; first, at the thought of any connection between Lady Fordyce -and the world, and secondly, at the thought of any connection between -the Misses Fordyce and matrimony. Had they been houris of Paradise -their chances would have been small, and unfortunately, they were -rather plain. - -‘I should think Crauford will soon come back,’ continued Agneta, as she -put away her music. ‘I shall ask him all sorts of questions.’ - -To do Fordyce justice, he was a kind brother in an ordinary way, and -had often stood between his sisters and the maternal displeasure when -times were precarious. He did not consider them of much importance, -save as members of his own family, but he would throw them small -benefits now and again with the tolerant indulgence he might have shown -in throwing a morsel to a pet animal. - -‘He has never said whether she is pretty,’ observed Mary reflectively. -‘He always calls her “ladylike,” and I don’t think mamma believes him; -but, after all, she _may_ be, Agneta.’ - -‘Mamma says she must have had a deplorable bringing-up with Lady -Eliza.’ - -‘If she comes we must do what we can to polish her,’ rejoined Mary, who -was inclined to take herself seriously; ‘no doubt there are a lot of -little things we could show her--how to do her hair and things like -that. I dare say she is not so bad.’ - -Agneta pursed up her lips and looked severe. - -‘I think it is a great pity he did not choose Lady Maria. Of course, -she is not at all pretty, but mamma says it is nonsense to think about -such things. He has been very foolish.’ - -‘I really can hardly see this dull day,’ sighed Mary. ‘I wonder if I -might pull up the blind ever so little. You see, mamma has made a -pencil-mark on all the sashes to show the housemaids where the end of -the blind is to come, and I am afraid to raise it.’ - -‘There is no sun,’ observed her sister; ‘I think you might do it.’ - -Mary rose from her frame, but, as she did so, a step was heard outside -which sent her flying back to her place, and her mother entered. - -Lady Fordyce was a short, stout woman, whose nose and forehead made one -perpendicular outline without any depression between the brows. Her -eyes were prominent and rather like marbles; in her youth she had been -called handsome. She had married late in life, and was now well over -sixty, and her neck had shortened with advancing years; her very tight -brown silk body compressed a figure almost distressingly ample for her -age. - -She installed herself in a chair and bade her daughter continue -practising. - -‘I have practised an hour and my music is put away,’ said Agneta. ‘We -were talking about Miss Raeburn. Will she come here, ma’am?’ - -‘I suppose so,’ said Lady Fordyce; ‘but whether you will see much of -her depends upon whether I consider her desirable company for you.’ - -‘She may be nice after all,’ hazarded Mary. - -‘I trust that I am a fit judge of what a young lady should be,’ replied -her mother. ‘As Lady Eliza Lamont spends most of her time in the -stable, she is hardly the person to form my daughter-in-law -successfully.’ - -‘She is Lady Eliza’s niece, ma’am, is she not?’ - -‘She is a relation--a poor relation, and no doubt gets some sort of -salary for attending to her ladyship. I must say a paid companion is -_scarcely_ the choice that I should have made for Crauford. What a -chance for her!’ - -‘She is most fortunate,’ echoed Agneta. - -‘Fortunate? A little more than fortunate, I should think! Adventuresses -are more often called skilful than fortunate. Poor, poor boy!’ - -With this remark Lady Fordyce opened an account-book which lay on her -lap, and began to look over its items. The girls were silent. - -Mary stitched on, and Agneta spread out some music she was copying; the -leaden cloud which hung over domestic life at Fordyce Castle had -settled down upon the morning when there was a sound of arrival in the -hall outside. No bell had rung, and the sisters, astonished, suspended -their respective employments and opened their mouths. Though there were -things they proposed to teach Cecilia, their ways were not always -decorative. Lady Fordyce, who was a little deaf, read her account-book -undisturbed, and, when the door opened to admit Crauford, it slid off -her brown silk knee like an avalanche. - -‘I hardly expected you would take my hint so quickly,’ she said -graciously, when the necessary embraces were over. - -Crauford’s face, not usually complicated in expression, was a curious -study; solemnity, regret, a sense of injury, a sense of importance, -struggled on it, and he cleared his throat faintly now and then, as -some people will when they are ill at ease. - -‘I am sorry to tell you, ma’am, that your trouble has been useless. I -have had a great disappointment--a very great one: Miss Raeburn has -refused my offer.’ - -He looked round at his sisters as though appealing to them to -expostulate with Providence. - -‘What?’ cried his mother. - -‘She has refused,’ repeated Crauford. - -‘_Refused?_ Oh, my dear boy, it is impossible! _I_ refuse--I refuse to -believe it! Nonsense, my dear Crauford! It is unheard of!’ - -Mary, who had never taken her eyes off her brother’s face, laid down -her needle and came forward. - -‘Sit down!’ thundered her mother. ‘Sit down, and go on with your work! -Or you can leave the room, you and Agneta. There is nothing so -detestable as curiosity. Leave the room this moment!’ - -Dreadfully disappointed, they obeyed. Though it was safer in the hall, -the other side of the door was far more entertaining. - -Crauford moved uneasily about; he certainly was not to blame for what -had happened, but the two lightning-conductors had gone, and the clouds -looked black around him. Also he had no tact. - -‘You need not be annoyed, ma’am,’ he began; ‘you did not approve of my -choice.’ - -‘Happy as I am to see you deterred from such a fatal step, I cannot -submit to the indignity to which you--and we all--have been subjected,’ -said his mother. ‘That a _paid companion_ should have refused _my son_ -is one of those things I find it hard to accept.’ - -‘She may yet change,’ replied he. ‘I told her I should give her time.’ - -Lady Fordyce’s prominent eyes were fixed. ‘Do you mean to tell me that -you will ask her again? That you will so far degrade yourself as to -make another offer?’ - -He made a sign of assent. - -She threw up her hands. ‘What have I done?’ she exclaimed, addressing -an imaginary listener--‘what have I done that my own children should -turn against me? When have I failed in my duty towards them? Have I -ever thought of myself? Have I ever failed to sacrifice myself where -their interests were concerned?’ - -She turned suddenly on Crauford. - -‘No, never,’ he murmured. - -During her life Lady Fordyce had seldom bestirred herself for anyone, -but habit had made everybody in the house perjure themselves at moments -like the present. Declamation was one of her trump-cards; besides, her -doctor had once hinted that apoplexy was not an impossible event. - -‘As a mother, I have surely _some_ right to consideration. I do not say -much--I trust I understand these modern times too well for that--but I -beg you will spare us further mortification. Are there no young ladies -of suitable position that you must set your heart upon this -charity-girl of Lady Eliza Lamont’s?’ - -‘I don’t understand why you should be so much set against her, ma’am; -if you only saw Miss Raeburn you would be surprised.’ - -‘I have _no doubt_ that I should!’ exclaimed his mother in a sarcastic -voice; ‘indeed, I have no doubt that I should!’ - -Like violin playing, sarcasm is a thing which must be either masterly -or deplorable, but she was one of the many from whom this truth is -hidden. - -‘It would be a good thing if my sisters had one half of her looks or -manners,’ retorted he, goaded by her tone. ‘Beside her, Agneta and Mary -would look like dairy-maids.’ - -‘Am I to sit here and hear my own daughters abused and vilified?’ -exclaimed Lady Fordyce, rising and walking about. ‘You have indeed -profited by your stay among those people! I hope you are satisfied. I -hope you have done enough to pain me. I hope you will never live to -repent the way in which you have insulted me.’ - -‘My dear mother, pray, pray be calmer. What am I doing that you should -be in this state?’ - -‘You have called your sisters dairy-maids--_servants!_ You are throwing -yourself away upon this worthless creature who has been trying all the -time to entrap you.’ - -‘How can you say such a thing, ma’am, when I tell you that she has -refused me? Not that I mean to accept it.’ - -‘Refused you, indeed! I tell you I do not believe it; she merely wants -to draw you on. I ask you, _is it likely_ that a girl who has not a -penny in the world would refuse such prospects? Pshaw!’ cried Lady -Fordyce, with all the cheap sense of one who knows nothing of the -varieties of human character. - -‘I wish you could see her,’ sighed her son. - -‘If you persist in your folly I shall no doubt have that felicity in -time.’ - -‘My father has not taken this view,’ said Crauford. ‘You are very hard -upon me, ma’am.’ - -‘Let me remind you that you have shown no consideration _for me_ -throughout the whole matter,’ she replied. ‘I, of course, come last. I -ask you again, will you be guided by one who is more fitted to judge -than you can be, and put this unjustifiable marriage out of your head?’ - -She stood waiting; their eyes met, and he cast his down. - -‘I must try again,’ he said with ineffective tenacity. - -She turned from him and left the room, brown silk, account-book, and -all. - -He was accustomed to scenes like the one he had just experienced, but -generally it was someone else who played the part of victim, not -himself. For a week or more the world had used him very badly; his -visit to Lady Eliza had been startling, his interview with Cecilia -humiliating, and his reception by his mother terrific; even his uncle -had maintained an attitude towards him that he could not understand. -His thoughts went back to Barclay, the one person who seemed to see him -in his true colours, and he longed for him as a man who has had an -accident longs for the surgeon to come and bind his wounds. He had left -Fullarton hurriedly and now he was sorry for what he had done. - -He was certainly not going to accept Cecilia’s mad folly as final; his -mother had rated him for his want of pride in not abandoning his suit, -but, had she understood him, she would have known that it was his pride -which forbade him to relinquish it, and his vanity which assured him -that he must be successful in the end. Each man’s pride is a -differently constructed article, while each man is certain that his -private possession is the only genuine kind existing. - -Lady Fordyce’s own pride had received a rude blow, and she looked upon -her brother as the director of it; he it was who had thrown her son -into the society of the adventuress, he it was who had persuaded her to -give unwilling countenance to what she disapproved. From their very -infancy he had gone contrary to her. As a little boy he had roused her -impatience over every game or task that they had shared. There had -always been something in him which she disliked and which eluded her, -and one of her greatest grievances against him had been her own -inability to upset his temper. She was anything but a clever woman, and -she knew that, though his character was weaker than her own, his -understanding was stronger. Brother and sister, never alike, had grown -more unlike with the years; his inner life had bred a semi-cynical and -indolent toleration in him, and her ceaseless worldly prosperity had -brought out the arrogance of her nature and developed a vulgarity which -revolted Robert. - -As her brown silk dress rustled up the staircase, her son, driven into -an unwonted rebellion, made up his mind that, having seen his father, -he would depart as soon as he could decide where to go. He hankered -after Kaims. He had written to Barclay, bidding his ally farewell and -telling him of Cecilia’s refusal, and the ally had written a soothing -reply. He praised his determination to continue his suit, assured him -of his willingness to keep him acquainted with anything bearing on his -interests, and, finally, begged him to remember that, at any time or -season, however unpropitious, a room in his house would be at his -disposal. Protestations of an admiring friendship closed the letter. - -When the rustling was over, and he heard his mother’s door close, he -left the drawing-room with the determination of accepting the lawyer’s -offer; while he had sense enough to see that there was something -undignified in such a swift return to the neighbourhood of Morphie, he -yet so longed for the balm in Gilead that he made up his mind to brave -the opinion of Fullarton, should he meet him. He would only spend a few -quiet days in Kaims and then betake himself in some other direction. -Fordyce Castle had grown intolerable. - -While he pondered these things, Agneta, at her mother’s dictation, was -writing to Lady Milborough to ask if her daughter Maria might hasten -her promised visit, and pay it as soon as possible, instead of waiting -until the autumn. - -‘The girls were so impatient,’ said Lady Fordyce; ‘and it would be such -a kindness on Lady Milborough’s part if she could be prevailed upon to -spare her dear Maria.’ - -Thus two letters were dispatched; one by Crauford unknown to his -mother, and one by his mother unknown to Crauford. It chanced that the -two answers arrived each on the same day. - -Lady Fordyce’s serenity was somewhat restored by the one which found -its way into her hands. Her correspondent expressed herself much -gratified by the appreciation shown of her Maria. Her daughter, under -the care of an elderly maid, should start immediately. - -‘We shall all be pleased to welcome Lady Maria, shall we not, -Crauford?’ said Lady Fordyce, as the family were gathered round the -dinner-table. - -‘I shall not be here, ma’am,’ replied her son, looking up from his veal -pie. ‘I am starting on a visit the day after to-morrow.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -THE THIRD VOICE - - -SPEID stood at the corner of a field, in the place from which he had -looked up the river with Barclay on the day of his arrival. His steps -were now often turned in that direction, for the line of the Morphie -woods acted as a magnet to his gaze. Since the day he had spoken so -freely to Granny Stirk he had not once met Cecilia, and he was weary. -It was since he had last seen her that he had discovered his own heart. - -Away where the Lour lost itself in the rich land, was the casket that -held the jewel he coveted. He put his hand up to his cheek-bone. He was -glad that he would carry that scar on it to his death, for it was an -eternal reminder of the night when he had first beheld her under the -branches, as they walked in the torchlight to Morphie House. He had not -been able to examine her face till it looked into his own in the mirror -as she put the plaster on his cheek. That was a moment which he had -gone over, again and again, in his mind. It is one of the strangest -things in life that we do not recognise its turning-points till we have -passed them. - -The white cottage which Barclay had pointed out to him as the march of -his own property was a light spot in the afternoon sunshine, and the -shadows were creeping from under the high wooded banks across the -river’s bed. Beyond it the Morphie water began. By reason of the wide -curves made by the road, the way to Morphie House was longer on the -turnpike than by the path at the water-side. He crossed the fence and -went down to the Lour, striking it just above the bridge. To follow its -bank up to those woods would bring him nearer to her, even if he could -not see her. It was some weeks since he had been to Morphie, and he had -not arrived at such terms with Lady Eliza as should, to his mind, -warrant his going there uninvited. Many and many times he had thought -of writing to Cecilia and ending the strain of suspense in which he -lived, once and for all; but he had lacked courage, and he was afraid; -afraid of what his own state of mind would be when he had sent the -letter and was awaiting its answer. How could he convince her of all he -felt in a letter? He could not risk it. - -He looked round at the great, eight-spanned bridge which carried the -road high over his head, and down, between the arches, to the ribbon of -water winding out to sea; to the cliffs above that grave lying in the -corner of the kirkyard-wall; to the beeches of Whanland covering the -bank a hundred yards from where he stood. He had come to love them all. -All that had seemed uncouth, uncongenial to him, had fallen into its -place, and an affinity with the woods and the wide fields, with the -grey sea-line and the sand-hills, had entered into him. He had thought -to miss the glory of the South when he left Spain, months ago, but now -he cared no more for Spain. This misty angle of the East Coast, -conveying nothing to the casual eye in search of more obvious beauty, -had laid its iron hand on him, as it will lay it on all sojourners, and -blinded him to everything but its enduring and melancholy charm. There -are many, since Gilbert’s day, who have come to the country in which he -lived and loved and wandered, driven by some outside circumstance and -bewailing their heavy fate, who have asked nothing better than to die -in it. And now, for him, from this mist of association, from this -atmosphere of spirit-haunted land and sea, had risen the star of life. - -He crossed the march of Whanland by green places where cattle stood -flicking the flies, and went onwards, admiring the swaying heads of -mauve scabious and the tall, cream-pink valerian that brushed him as he -passed. He did not so much as know their names, but he knew that the -world grew more beautiful with each step that brought him nearer to -Morphie. - -The sun was beginning to decline as he stood half a mile below the -house, and the woods were dark above his head. A few moss-covered -boulders lay in the path and the alders which grew, with their roots -almost in the water, seemed to have stepped ashore to form a thicket -through which his way ran. The twigs touched his face as he pushed -through them. - -On the further side stood Cecilia, a few paces in front of him, at the -edge of the river. She had heard the footsteps, and was looking -straight at him as he emerged. At the sight of her face he knew, as -surely as if he had been told it, that she was thinking of him. - -They stood side by side in a pregnant silence through which that third -voice, present with every pair of lovers who meet alone, cried aloud to -both. - -‘I did not expect to see you here, sir,’ she began. - -(‘He has come because he cannot keep away; he has come because the very -sight of the trees that surround your home have a glamour for him; -because there is no peace any more for him, day nor night,’ said the -voice to her.) - -(‘She has come here to think of you, to calm her heart, to tell herself -that you are not, and never can be, anything to her, and then to -contradict her own words,’ it cried to him.) - -He could not reply; the third voice was too loud. - -‘Let us go on a little way,’ said Cecilia. - -Her lips would scarcely move, and the voice and the beating of her -heart was stopping her breath. - -Gilbert turned, and they went through the alders, he holding back the -twigs for her to pass. - -(‘He loves you! he loves you! he loves you!’ cried the voice.) - -As she brushed past him through the narrow way her nearness seemed to -make the scar on his face throb, and bring again to him the thrill of -her fingers upon his cheek. He could bear it no more. They were at the -end of the thicket, and, as she stepped out of it in front of him, he -sprang after her, catching her in his arms. - -‘Cecilia!’ he said, almost in a whisper. - -He had grown white. - -She drew herself away with an impulse which her womanhood made natural. -He followed her fiercely, on his face the set look of a man in a -trance. - -There are some things in a woman stronger than training, stronger than -anything that may have hedged her in from her birth, and they await but -the striking of an hour and the touch of one man. As he stretched out -his arms anew she turned towards him and threw herself into them. Their -lips met, again--again. He held her close in silence. - -‘Ah, I am happy,’ she exclaimed at last. - -‘And I have been afraid to tell you, torturing myself to think that you -would repulse me. Cecilia, you understand what you are saying--you will -never repent this?’ - -‘Never,’ she said. ‘I shall love you all my life.’ - -He touched the dark hair that rested against his shoulder. - -‘I am not worthy of it,’ he said. ‘My only claim to you is that I adore -you. I cannot think why the whole world is not in love with you.’ - -She laughed softly. - -‘I have been half mad,’ he went on, ‘but I am cured now. I can do -nothing by halves, Cecilia.’ - -‘I hope you may never love me by halves.’ - -‘Say Gilbert.’ - -‘Gilbert.’ - -‘How perfect it sounds on your lips! I never thought of admiring my -name before.’ - -‘Gilbert Speid,’ repeated she. ‘It is beautiful.’ - -‘Cecilia Speid is better,’ he whispered. - -She disengaged herself gently, and stood looking over the water. The -shadow lay across it and halfway up the opposite bank. He watched her. - -‘I have lived more than thirty years without you,’ he said. ‘I cannot -wait long.’ - -She made no reply. - -‘We must speak to my aunt,’ she said, after a pause. ‘We cannot tell -what she may think. At least, I shall not be going far from her.’ - -‘I cannot offer you what many others might,’ said he, coming closer. ‘I -am not a rich man. But, thank God, I can give you everything you have -had at Morphie. Nothing is good enough for you, Cecilia; but you shall -come first in everything. You know that.’ - -‘If you were a beggar, I would marry you,’ she said. - -Honesty, in those days, was not supposed to be a lady’s accomplishment, -but, to Cecilia, this moment, the most sacred she had ever known, was -not one for concealment of what lay in the very depths of truth. She -had been unconscious of it at the time, but she now knew that that -first moment at the dovecot had sealed the fate of her heart. Looking -back, she wondered why she had not understood. - -‘May God punish me if I do not make you happy,’ said Gilbert, his eyes -set upon her. ‘A woman is beyond my understanding. How can you risk so -much for a man like me? How can you know that you are not spoiling your -life?’ - -‘I think I have always known,’ said she. - -He stood, neither speaking nor approaching her. The miracle of her love -was too great for him to grasp. In spite of the gallant personality he -carried through life, in spite of the glory of his youth and strength, -he was humble-hearted, and, before this woman, he felt himself less -than the dust. In the old life in Spain which had slipped from him he -had been the prominent figure of the circle in which he lived. His men -friends had admired and envied him, and, to the younger ones, Gilbert -Speid, who kept so much to himself, who looked so quiet and could do so -many things better than they, was a model which they were inclined to -copy. To women, the paradox of his personal attraction and irregular -face, and the fact that he only occasionally cared to profit by his own -advantages, made him consistently interesting. He had left all that and -come to a world which took little heed of him, to find in it this -peerless thing of snow and flame, of truth and full womanhood, and she -was giving her life and herself into his hand. He was shaken through -and through by the charm of her eyes, her hands, her hair, her slim -whiteness, the movements of her figure, the detachment which made -approach so intoxicating. He could have knelt down on the river-bank. - -The sun had gone from the sky when the two parted and Cecilia went up -through the trees to Morphie. He left her at the edge of the woods, -standing to watch her out of sight. Above his head the heavens were -transfigured by the evening, and two golden wings were spread like a -fan across the west. The heart in his breast was transfigured too. As -he neared Whanland and looked at the white walls of the palace that was -to contain his queen, the significance of what had happened struck him -afresh. She would be there, in these rooms, going in and out of these -doors; her voice and her step would be on the stair, in the hall. He -entered in and sat down, his elbows on the table, his face hidden in -his hands, and the tears came into his eyes. - -When the lights were lit, and Macquean’s interminable comings-in and -goings-out on various pretexts were over, he gave himself up to his -dreams of the coming time. In his mind he turned the house upside down. -She liked windows that looked westward; he would go out of his own -room, which faced that point, and make it into a boudoir for her. She -liked jessamine, and jessamine should clothe every gate and wall. She -had once admired some French tapestry, and he would ruin himself in -tapestry. She should have everything that her heart or taste could -desire. - -He would buy her a horse the like of which had never been seen in the -country, and he would go to England to choose him; to London, to the -large provincial sales and fairs, until he should come upon the animal -he had in his mind. He must have a mouth like velvet, matchless manners -and paces, the temper of an angel, perfect beauty. He thought of a -liver-chestnut, mottled on the flank, with burnished gold hidden in the -shades of his coat. But that would not do. Chestnuts, children of the -sun, were hot, and he shivered at the bare idea of risking her precious -body on the back of some creature all nerves and sudden terrors and -caprices. He would not have a chestnut. He lost himself in -contemplation of a review of imaginary horses. - -She must have jewels, too. He had passed them over in his dreams, and -he remembered, with vivid pleasure, that he need not wait to gratify -his eyes with the sight of something fit to offer her. In a room near -the cellar was a strong box which Barclay had delivered to him on his -arrival, and which had lain at Mr. Speid’s bankers all the years of his -life in Spain. He had never opened it, although he kept the key in the -desk at his elbow, but he knew that it contained jewels which had -belonged to his mother. He sprang up and rang for a light; then, with -the key in his hand, he went down to the basement, carried up the box, -and set it on the table before him. - -He found that it was made in two divisions, the upper being a shelf in -which all kinds of small things and a few rings were lying; the lower -part was full of cases, some wooden and some made of faded leather. He -opened the largest and discovered a necklace, each link of which was a -pink topaz set in diamonds. The stones were clear set, for the -artificer had not foiled them at the back, as so many of his trade were -apt to do, and the light flowed through them like sunlight through -roses. Gilbert was pleased, and laid it again in its leather case -feeling that this, his first discovery, was fit even for Cecilia. - -The next thing that he opened was a polished oval wooden box, tied -round and round with a piece of embroidery silk, and having a painted -wreath of laurel-leaves encircling the ‘C. L.’ on the top of the lid. -It was a pretty, dainty little object, pre-eminently a woman’s intimate -property; a little thing which might lie on a dressing-table among -laces and fans, or be found tossed into the recesses of some frivolous, -scented cushion close to its owner. It did not look as though made to -hold jewels. Inside lay the finest and thinnest of gold chains, long -enough to go round a slender throat, and made with no clasp nor -fastening. It was evidently intended to be crossed over and knotted in -front, with the ends left hanging down, for each terminated in a -pear-shaped stone--one an emerald set in diamonds, and one a diamond set -in emeralds. The exquisite thing charmed him, and he sat looking at it, -and turning it this way and that to catch the light. He loved emeralds, -because they reminded him of the little brooch he had often seen on -Cecilia’s bosom. It should be his first gift to her. - -He next came upon the shagreen case containing the pearl necklace which -Mr. Speid had carried with him when he went to fetch his bride, and -which had adorned his mother’s neck as she drove up in the family -chariot to Whanland. He did not know its history, but he admired the -pearls and their perfect uniformity and shape, and he pictured Cecilia -wearing them. He would have her painted in them. - -Instinctively he glanced up to the wall where Clementina Speid’s -portrait hung. By his orders it had been taken from the garret, -cleaned, and brought down to the room in which he generally sat. She -had always fascinated him, and the discovery of her brilliant, wayward -face hidden in the dust, put away like a forgotten thing in gloom and -oblivion, had produced an unfading impression on his mind. What a -contrast between her smiling lips, her dancing eyes, her mass of -curling chestnut hair, and the forlorn isolation of her grave on the -shore with the remorseless inscription chosen for it by the man he -remembered! Those words were not meant to apply to her, but to him who -had laid her there. Gilbert had no right to think of her as aught but -an evil thing, but, for all that, he could not judge her. Surely, -surely, she had been judged. - -And this was her little box, her own private, intimate little toy, for -a toy it was, with its tiny, finely-finished wreath of laurel, and its -interlaced gilt monogram in the centre. He took the candle and went up -close to the wall to look at her. The rings he had found in the -jewel-box were so small that he wondered if the painted fingers -corresponded to their size. The picture hung rather high, and though he -was tall, he could not clearly see the hands, which were in shadow. He -brought a chair and stood upon it, holding the light. The portrait had -been cleaned and put up while he was absent for a few days from -Whanland, and he had not examined it closely since that time. Yes, the -fingers were very slender, and they were clasped round a small, dark -object. He pulled out his silk handkerchief and rubbed the canvas -carefully. What she held was the laurel-wreathed box. - -He took it up from the table again with an added interest, for he had -made sure that she prized it, and it pleased him to find he was right. -On the great day on which he should bring Cecilia to Whanland he would -show her what he had discovered. - -He replaced all the other cases and boxes, locking them up, but the -painted one with the emerald and diamond drops inside it he put into a -drawer of his desk--he would need it so soon. As he laid it away there -flashed across him the question of whether Cecilia knew his history. It -had never occurred to him before. He sat down on the edge of his -writing-table, looking into space. In his intoxication he had not -remembered that little cloud in the background of his life. - -That it would make any difference to Cecilia’s feelings for him he did -not insult her by supposing, but how would it affect Lady Eliza? Like a -breath of poison came the thought that it might influence her approval -of the marriage. He needed but to look back to be certain that the -shadow over his birth was a dark one. Whether the outer world were -aware of it he did not know. - -Any knowledge which had reached the ears of the neighbourhood could -only have been carried by the gossip of servants, and officially, there -was no stain resting upon him. He had been acknowledged as a son by the -man whom he had called father, he had inherited his property, he had -been received in the county as the representative of the family whose -name he bore. Lady Eliza herself had accepted him under it, and invited -him to her house. For all he knew, she might never have heard anything -about the matter. But, whether she had, or whether she had not, it was -his plain duty, as an honourable man, to put the case before her, and -when he went to Morphie to ask formally for Cecilia he would do it. - -But he could not believe that it would really go against him. From Lady -Eliza’s point of view, there was so much in his favour. She need -scarcely part with the girl who was to her as her own child. Besides -which, the idea was too hideous. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -BETWEEN LADY ELIZA AND CECILIA - - -LADY ELIZA LAMONT was like a person who has walked in the dark and been -struck to the ground by some familiar object, the existence and -position of which he has been foolish enough to forget. Straight from -her lover, Cecilia had sought her, and put what had happened plainly -before her; she did not know what view her aunt might take, but she was -not prepared for the effect of her news. She sat calm under the torrent -of excited words, her happiness dying within her, watching with -miserable eyes the changes of her companion’s face. Lady Eliza was -shaken to the depths; she had not foreseen the contingency which might -take her nearest and dearest, and set her in the very midst of the -enemy’s camp. - -Though she forced herself to be civil to Gilbert Speid, and felt no -actual enmity towards him, everything to do with him was hateful to -her. Cecilia, whom she loved as a daughter, and to whom she clung more -closely with each passing year, would be cut off from her, not in love -nor in gratitude, as she knew well enough, but by the barrier of such -surroundings as she, Lady Eliza, could never induce herself to -penetrate. That house from which, as she passed its gates, she was wont -to avert her face, would be Cecilia’s home. For some time she had been -schooling herself to the idea of their parting. When Crauford’s -laborious courtship had ended in failure, she had been glad; but, in -comparison to this new suitor, she would have welcomed him with open -arms. He had a blameless character, an even temper, excellent -prospects, and no distance to which he could have transported Cecilia -would divide them so surely as the few miles which separated Morphie -from Whanland. She would hear her called ‘Mrs. Speid’; she would -probably see her the mother of children in whose veins ran the blood of -the woman she abhorred. The tempest of her feelings stifled all justice -and all reason. - -‘Why did you not take Crauford Fordyce, if your heart was set on -leaving me?’ she cried. - -The thrust pierced Cecilia like a knife, but she knew that it was not -the real Lady Eliza who had dealt it. - -‘I did not care for him,’ she replied, ‘and I love Gilbert Speid.’ - -‘He is not Gilbert Speid!’ burst out her companion; ‘he is no more -Speid than you are! He is nothing of the sort; he is an impostor--a man -of no name!’ - -‘An impostor, ma’am?’ - -‘His mother was a bad woman. I would rather see you dead than married -to him! If you wanted to break my heart, Cecilia, you could not have -taken a better way of doing it.’ - -‘Do you mean that he is not Mr. Speid’s son?’ said Cecilia, her face -the colour of a sheet of paper. - -‘Yes, I do. He has no business in that house; he has no right to be -here; his whole position is a shameful pretence and a lie.’ - -‘But Whanland is his. He has every right to be there, ma’am.’ - -‘Mr. Speid must have been mad to leave it to him. You would not care to -be the wife of an interloper! That is what he is.’ - -‘All that can change nothing,’ said Cecilia, after a moment. ‘The man -is the same; he has done no wrong.’ - -‘His very existence is a wrong,’ cried Lady Eliza, her hand shutting -tightly on the gloves she held; ‘it is a wrong done by an infamous -woman!’ - -‘I love him,’ said Cecilia: ‘nothing can alter that. You received him, -and you told me nothing, and the thing is done--not that I would undo it -if I could. How could I know that you would be so much against it?’ - -‘I had rather anything in the world than this!’ exclaimed the -other--‘anyone but this man! What has driven you to make such a choice?’ - -‘Does it seem so hard to understand why anyone should love Gilbert -Speid?’ - -‘It is a calamity that you should; think of it again--to please me--to -make me happy. I can scarcely bear the thought, child; you do not know -the whole of this miserable business.’ - -‘And I hoped that you would be so pleased!’ - -The tears were starting to Cecilia’s eyes; her nerves, strained to the -utmost by the emotions of the day, were beginning to give way. - -‘Whanland is so near,’ she said; ‘we should scarcely have to part, dear -aunt.’ - -She was longing to know more, to ask for complete enlightenment, but -her pride struggled hard, and she shrank from the mere semblance of -misgiving about Gilbert. She had none in her heart. - -‘Is this that you have told me generally known?’ she said at last. - -‘No one knows as much as I do,’ answered the elder woman, turning her -head away. - -‘Does Mr. Fullarton know?’ asked Cecilia. - -Lady Eliza did not reply for a moment, and, when she did, her head was -still turned from the girl. - -‘I know his real history--his whole history,’ she replied in a thick -voice; ‘other people may guess at it, but they know nothing.’ - -‘You will not tell me more?’ - -‘I cannot!’ cried Lady Eliza, getting up and turning upon her almost -fiercely; ‘there is no more to be said. If you want to marry him, I -suppose you will marry him; I cannot stop you. What is it to you if my -heart breaks? What is it to you if all my love for you is forgotten?’ - -‘Aunt! Dear, dear aunt!’ cried Cecilia, ‘you have never spoken to me -like this in all your life!’ - -She threw her arms round Lady Eliza, holding her tightly. For some time -they stood clinging to each other without speaking, and the tears in -Cecilia’s eyes dropped and fell upon the shoulder that leaned against -her; now and then she stroked it softly with her fingers. - -They started apart as a servant entered, and Lady Eliza went out of the -room and out of the house, disappearing among the trees. Though her -heart was smiting her for her harshness, a power like the force of -instinct in an animal fought against the idea of connecting all she -loved with Whanland. She had called Gilbert an interloper, and an -interloper he was, come to poison the last days of her life. She -hurried on among the trees, impervious to the balm of the evening air -which played on her brow; tenderness and fierceness dragged her in two -directions, and the consciousness of having raised a barrier between -herself and Cecilia was grievous. She seemed to be warring against -everything. Of what use was it to her to have been given such powers of -love and sympathy? They had recoiled upon her all her life, as curses -are said to recoil, and merely increased the power to suffer. - -She had come to the outskirts of the trees, and, from the place in -which she stood, she could see over the wall into the road. The sound -of a horse’s trotting feet was approaching from the direction of Kaims, -and she remembered that it was Friday, the day on which the weekly -market was held, and on which those of the county men who were -agriculturally inclined made a point of meeting in the town for -business purposes. The rider was probably Fullarton. He often stopped -at Morphie on his way home, and it was likely he would do so now. She -went quickly down to a gate in the wall to intercept him. - -Yes, it was Robert trotting evenly homewards, a fine figure of a man on -his sixteen-hand black. For one moment she started as he came into -sight round the bend, for she took him for Speid. The faces of the two -men were not alike, but, for the first time, and for an instant only, -the two figures seemed to her almost identical. As he neared her the -likeness faded; Fullarton was the taller of the two, and he had lost -the distinctive lines of youth. She went out and stood on the road; he -pulled up as he saw her, and dismounted, and they walked on side by -side towards the large gate of Morphie. - -‘Crauford has come back,’ he began, ‘and I have just seen him in Kaims. -He is staying with Barclay; they seemed rather friendly when he was -with me, but I am surprised. Why he should have come back I can’t -think, for Cecilia gave him no doubt of her want of appreciation of -him. In any case, it is too soon. You don’t like Barclay, I know, my -lady.’ - -‘I can’t bear him,’ said Lady Eliza. - -‘I have tolerated him for years, so I suppose I shall go on doing so. -Sometimes it is as much trouble to lay down one’s load as to go on with -it.’ - -‘I wish I could think as you do,’ said she. - -‘Not that Barclay is exactly a load,’ he continued, pursuing his own -train of thought, ‘but he is a common, pushing fellow, and I think it a -pity that Crauford should stay with him.’ - -Lady Eliza walked on in silence, longing to unburden her mind to her -companion, and shrinking from the mention of Gilbert’s name. He thought -her dull company, and perhaps a little out of temper, and he was not -inclined to go up to the house. She stood, as he prepared to remount -his horse, laying an ungloved hand upon the shining neck of the black; -his allusion to its beauty had made her doubly and trebly careful of -it. Had he noticed her act, with its little bit of feminine vanity, he -might have thought it ridiculous; but it was so natural--a little green -sprig from stunted nature which had flowered out of season. - -‘Fullarton, Gilbert Speid has proposed to Cecilia,’ she said. - -‘And do you expect me to be astonished?’ he inquired, pausing with his -foot in the stirrup-iron. - -‘It came like a thunder-clap; I never thought of it!’ she exclaimed. - -‘Pshaw, Eliza! Why, I told Crauford long ago that he had a pretty -formidable rival in him,’ said he, from the saddle. - -‘She wants to marry him,’ said Lady Eliza, looking up at him, and -restraining the quivering of her lips with an effort. - -‘Well, if she won’t take Crauford, she had better take him; he’ll be -the more interesting husband of the two. Good-night, my lady.’ - -She went back to the house, her heart like lead, her excitement calmed -into dull misery. Fullarton did not understand, and, while she was -thankful that he did not, the fact hurt her in an unreasonable way. - -The evening was a very quiet one, for, as neither of the two women -could speak of what she felt, both took refuge in silence. It was the -first shadow that had come between them, and that thought added to the -weight of Lady Eliza’s grief. She sat in the deep window-seat, looking -out at the long light which makes northern summer nights so short, -seeming to notice nothing that went on in the room. The sight was -torture to Cecilia, for a certain protectiveness which mingled with her -love for her aunt made her feel as though she had wounded some trusting -child to death. Her anticipations of a few hours ago had been so -different from the reality she had found, and she could not bear to -think of her lover sitting in his solitary home, happy in the false -belief that all was well. If ever she had seen happiness on a human -face, she had seen it on his as they parted. To-morrow Lady Eliza would -receive his letter. - -‘Cecilia,’ she said, turning suddenly towards the girl, ‘I said things -I did not mean to you to-day; God knows I did not mean them. You must -forgive me because I am almost beside myself to-night. You don’t -understand, child, and you never will. Oh, Cecilia, life has gone so -hard with me! I am a miserable old woman with rancour in her heart, who -has made a sorry business of this world; but it is not my fault--it is -not all my fault--and it shall never divide you from me. But have -patience with me, darling; my trouble is so great.’ - -As they parted for the night, she looked back from the threshold of her -room. - -‘To-morrow I shall feel better,’ she said; ‘I will try to be different -to-morrow.’ - -Cecilia lay sleepless, thinking of many things. She recalled herself, a -little, thin girl, weak from a long illness, arriving at Morphie more -than a dozen years ago. She had been tired and shy, dreading to get out -of the carriage to face the unknown cousin with whom she was to stay -until the change had recruited her. Life, since the death of her -parents, who had gone down together in the wreck of an East Indiaman, -had been a succession of changes, and she had been bandied about from -one relation to another, at home nowhere, and weary of learning new -ways; the learning had been rough as well as smooth, and she did not -know what might await her at Morphie. Lady Eliza had come out to -receive her in a shabby riding-habit, much like the plum-coloured one -she wore now and in much the same state of repair, and she had looked -with misgiving at the determined face under the red wig. She had cried -a little, from fatigue of the long journey and strangeness, and the -formidable lady had petted her and fed her with soup, and finally -almost carried her upstairs to bed. Well could she recall the -candlelight in the room, and Lady Eliza sitting at her bedside holding -her hand until she fell asleep. She had not been accustomed to such -things. - -She remembered how, next day, she had been coaxed to talk and to amuse -herself, and how surprised she had been at the wonderful things her -new friend could do--how she could take horses by the ears as though -they were puppies, and, undaunted, slap the backs of cows who stood in -their path as they went together to search for new entertainment in the -fields. She had been shown the stable, and the great creatures, -stamping and rattling their head-ropes through the rings of their -mangers, had filled her with awe. How familiar she had been with them -since and how different life had been since that day! One by one she -recalled the little episodes of the following years--some joyful, some -pathetic, some absurd; as she had grown old enough to understand the -character beside which she lived, her attitude towards it had changed -in many ways, and, unconsciously, she had come to know herself the -stronger of the two. With the growth of strength had come also the -growth of comprehension and sympathy. She had half divined the secret -of Lady Eliza’s life, and only a knowledge of a few facts was needed to -show her the deeps of the soul whose worth was so plain to her. She was -standing very near to them now. - -She fell into a restless sleep troublous with dreams. Personalities, -scenes, chased each other through her wearied brain, which could not -distinguish the false from the true, but which was conscious of an -unvarying background of distress. Towards morning she woke and set her -door open, for she was feverish with tossing and greedy of air. As she -stood a moment on the landing, a subdued noise in her aunt’s room made -her go quickly towards it and stand listening at the door. It was the -terrible sound of Lady Eliza sobbing in the dawn. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -CECILIA PAYS HER DEBTS - - -CECILIA rose to meet a new day, each moment of which the coming years -failed to obliterate from her memory. In the first light hours she had -taken her happiness in her two hands and killed it, deliberately, for -the sake of the woman she loved. She had decided to part with Gilbert -Speid. - -She hid nothing from herself and made no concealment. She did not -pretend that she could offer herself up willingly, or with any glow of -the emotional flame of renunciation, for she had not that temperament -which can make the sacrificial altar a bed of inverted luxury. She -neither fell on her knees, nor prayed, nor called upon Heaven to -witness her deed, because there was only one thing which she cared it -should witness, and that was Lady Eliza’s peace of mind. Nor, while -purchasing this, did she omit to count the cost. The price was a higher -one than she could afford, for, when it was paid, there would be -nothing left. - -The thing which had culminated but yesterday had been growing for many -months, and only those who wait for an official stamp to be put upon -events before admitting their existence will suppose that Cecilia was -parting with what she had scarcely had time to find necessary. She was -parting with everything, and she knew it. The piteousness of her aunt’s -unquestionably real suffering was such that she determined it must end. -That someone should suffer was inevitable, and the great gallantry in -her rose up and told her that she could bear more than could Lady -Eliza. - -What she could scarcely endure to contemplate was Gilbert’s trouble, -and his almost certain disbelief in the genuineness of her love. In the -eyes of the ordinary person her position was correct enough. Her -engagement had been disapproved of by her natural guardian, and she -had, in consequence, broken it. This did not affect her in any way, for -she was one to whom more than the exterior of things was necessary. -What did affect her was that, without so much as the excuse of being -forbidden to marry her lover, she was giving him his heart’s desire and -then snatching it away. But, as either he or Lady Eliza had to be -sacrificed, she determined that it should be Speid, though she never -hesitated to admit that she loved him infinitely the better of the two. -He was young, and could mend his life again, whereas, for her aunt, -there was no future which could pay her for any present loss. And she -had had so little. She understood that there was more wrapped up in -Lady Eliza’s misery than she could fathom, and that, whatever the cause -of the enigma might be, it was something vital to her peace. - -The hours of the day dragged on. She did not know whether to dread -their striking or to long for the sound, for she had told her aunt that -she wished to see her lover, and tell him the truth with her own lips, -and a message had been sent to Whanland to summon him to Morphie in the -afternoon. There had been a curious interview between the two women, -and Lady Eliza had struggled between her love for her niece and her -hatred of the marriage she contemplated. She, also, had chastened her -soul in the night-season, and told herself that she would let no -antipathy of her own stand in the way of her happiness; but her -resolution had been half-hearted, and, unable to school her features or -her words, she had but presented a more vivid picture of distress. She -had not deceived Cecilia, nor, to tell the truth, had Cecilia entirely -succeeded in deceiving her; but her own feelings had made the -temptation to shut her eyes too great for her complete honesty of -purpose. - -Cecilia had given her reasons for her change of intention very simply, -saying merely, that, since their discussion of yesterday, she had seen -the inadvisability of the marriage. To all questions she held as brave -a front as she could, only demanding that she should see Gilbert alone, -and tell him her decision with no intervention on the part of Lady -Eliza. To be in a position to demand anything was an unusual case for a -girl of those days, but the conditions of life at Morphie were unusual, -both outwardly and inwardly, and the two women had been for years as -nearly equals as any two can be, where, though both are rich in -character, one is complicated in temperament and the other primitive. -It was on Cecilia’s side that the real balance of power dipped, however -unconsciously to herself the scale went down. - -The task before her almost took her courage away, for she had, first, -to combat Speid, when her whole heart was on his side, and then to part -from him--not perhaps, finally, in body, for she was likely to meet him -at any time, but in soul and in heart. One part of her work she would -try, Heaven helping her, to do, but the other was beyond her. Though -she would never again feel the clasp of his arm, nor hear from his lips -the words that had made yesterday the crown of her life, she would be -his till her pulses ceased to beat. Much and terribly as she longed to -see him, dread of their parting was almost stronger than the desire; -but fear lest he should suppose her decision rested on anything about -his parentage which Lady Eliza had told her kept her strong. Never -should he think that. Whatever reasons she had given her aunt, he -should not go without understanding her completely, and knowing the -truth down to the very bed-rock. She shed no tears. There would be -plenty of time for tears afterwards, she knew, when there would be -nothing for her to do, no crisis to meet, and nothing to be faced but -daily life. - -Gilbert started for Morphie carrying the note she had sent him in his -pocket. He had read and re-read it many times since its arrival that -morning had filled his whole being with gloom. The idea of his -presenting himself, full of hope, to meet the decree which awaited him -was so dreadful that she had added to her summons a few sentences -telling him that he must be prepared for bad news. She had written no -word of love, for she felt that, until she had explained her position -to him, such words could only be a mockery. - -He stood waiting in the room into which he had been ushered, listening -for her step. He suspected that he had been summoned to meet Lady -Eliza, but he did not mean to leave Morphie without an endeavour to see -Cecilia herself. When she entered he was standing quietly by the -mantelpiece. She looked like a ghost in her white dress, and under her -eyes the fingers of sleeplessness had traced dark marks. He sprang -forward, and drew her towards him. - -‘No, no!’ she cried, throwing out her hands in front of her. - -Then, as she saw his look, she faltered and dropped them, letting his -arms encircle her. The intoxication of his nearness was over her, and -the very touch of his coat against her face was rest, after the -struggle of the hours since she had seen him. - -She drew herself away at last. - -‘What does that message mean?’ he asked, as he let her go. - -She had thought of so many things to say to him, she had meant to tell -him gently, to choose her words; but, now he was beside her, she found -that everything took flight, and only the voice of her own sorrow -remained. - -‘Oh, Gilbert--Gilbert!’ she sighed, ‘there are stronger things than you -or I! Yesterday we were so happy, but it is over, and we must not think -of each other any more!’ - -‘Cecilia!’ he cried, aghast. - -‘It is true.’ - -‘What are you saying?’ he exclaimed, almost roughly. ‘What did you -promise me? You said that nothing should change you, and I believed it!’ - -‘Nothing has--nothing can--but, for all that, you must give me up. It is -for my aunt’s sake, Gilbert. If you only saw her you would understand -what I have gone through. It is no choice of mine. How can you think it -is anything to me but despair?’ - -Speid’s heart sank, and the thing whose shadow had risen as he locked -up the jewels and looked at his mother’s face on the wall loomed large -again. He guessed the undercurrent of her words. - -‘She has not forbidden me to marry you,’ continued Cecilia, ‘but she -has told me it will break her heart if I do, and I believe it is true. -What is the use of hiding anything from you? There is something in the -background that I did not know; but if you imagine that it can make any -difference to me, you are not the man I love, not the man I thought. -You believe me? You understand?’ - -‘I understand--I believe,’ he said, turning away his head. ‘Ah, my God!’ - -‘But you do not doubt me--myself?’ she cried, her heart wrung with fear. - -He turned and looked at her. Reproach, suffering, pain unutterable were -in his eyes; but there was absolute faith too. - -‘But must it be, Cecilia? I am no passive boy to let my life slip -between my fingers without an effort. Let me see Lady Eliza. Let me -make her understand what she is doing in dividing you and me. I tell -you I _will_ see her!’ - -‘She will not forbid it, for she has told me to act for myself and -leave her out of my thoughts; but she is broken-hearted. It is piteous -to see her face. There is something more than I know at the root of -this trouble--about you--and it concerns her. I have asked her, and -though she admitted I was right, she forbade me to speak of it. You -would have pitied her if you had seen her. I cannot make her suffer--I -cannot, even for you.’ - -‘And have you no pity for me?’ he broke out. - -The tears she had repressed all day rushed to her eyes. She sat down -and hid her face. There was a silence as she drew out her handkerchief, -pressing it against her wet eyelashes. - -‘Think of what I owe her,’ she continued, forcing her voice into its -natural tone--‘think what she has done for me! Everything in my life -that has been good has come from her, and I am the only creature she -has. How can I injure her? I thought that, at Whanland, we should -hardly have been divided, but it seems that we could never meet if I -were there. She has told me that.’ - -He struck the back of the chair by which he stood with his clenched -fist. - -‘And so it is all over, and I am to go?’ he cried. ‘I cannot, Cecilia--I -will not accept it! I will not give you up! You may push me away now, -but I will wait for ever, for you are mine, and I shall get you in the -end!’ - -She smiled sadly. - -‘You may waste your life in thinking of that,’ she answered. ‘To make -it afresh is the wisest thing for you to do, and you can do it. There -is the difference between you and my aunt. It is nearly over for her, -and she has had nothing; but you are young--you can remake it in time, -if you will.’ - -‘I will not. I will wait.’ - -He gazed at her, seeing into her heart and finding only truth there. - -‘You will learn to forget me,’ says the flirt and jilt, raising chaste -eyes to heaven, and laying a sisterly hand on the shoulder of the man -she is torturing, while she listens, with satisfaction, to his hot and -miserable denial. - -The only comfort in such cases is that he generally does so. But with -Cecilia there was no false sentiment, nor angling for words to minister -to her vanity. He knew that well. Thoroughly did he understand the -worth of what he was losing. He thought of the plans he had made only -last night, of the flowers to be planted, of the rooms to be -transformed, of the horse to be bought, of the jewels he had chosen for -her from the iron box. One was lying now in a drawer of his -writing-table, ready to be brought to her, and last night he had -dreamed that he was fastening it round her neck. That visionary act -would have to suffice him. - -He came across the room and sat down by her, putting his arm about her. -They were silent for a few moments, looking together into the gulf of -separation before them. Life had played both of them an evil trick, but -there was one thing she had been unable to do, and that was to shake -their faith in each other. Cecilia had told her lover that he should -make his own afresh, and had spoken in all honesty, knowing that, could -she prevent his acting on her words by the holding up of her finger, -she would not raise it an inch; but for all that, she did not believe -he would obey her. Something in herself, which also had its counterpart -in him, could foretell that. - -To struggle against her decision was, as Speid knew, hopeless, for it -was based upon what it would lower him in her eyes to oppose. To a -certain extent he saw its force, but he would not have been the man he -was, nor, indeed, a man of any kind, had he not felt hostile to Lady -Eliza. He paid small attention to the assurance that, behind her -obvious objection to his own history, there lurked a hidden personal -complication, for the details of such an all-pervading ill as the ruin -she had made for him were, to him, indifferent. He would wait -determinedly. Crauford Fordyce ran through his mind, for, though his -trust in Cecilia was complete, it had annoyed him to hear that he was -in Kaims. Evidently the young man was of a persevering nature, and, -however little worldly advantages might impress her, he knew that these -things had an almost absolute power over parents and guardians. - -‘You told me to remake my life,’ he said, ‘and I have answered that I -will not. Oh, Cecilia! I cannot tell you to do that! Do you know, it -makes me wretched to think that Fordyce is here again. Forgive me for -saying it. Tell me that you can never care for him. I do not ask to -know anything more. Darling, do not be angry.’ - -He raised her face and looked into it. There was no anger, but a little -wan ray of amusement played round her mouth. - -‘You need not be afraid; there is nothing in him to care for. His only -merits are his prospects, and Heaven knows they do not attract me,’ she -replied. - -The clock on the mantelpiece struck, and the two looked up. Outside on -the grass the shadows of the grazing sheep were long. His arm tightened -round her. - -‘I cannot go yet,’ he said. ‘A little longer, Cecilia--a few -minutes--and then the sooner it is over the better.’ - -The room grew very still, and, through the open window, came the long -fluting of a blackbird straying in the dew. All her life the sound -carried Cecilia back to that hour. There seemed nothing more to be -spoken but that last word that both were dreading. - -‘This is only torment,’ she said at last--‘go now.’ - -An overpowering longing rushed through her to break the web that -circumstances had woven between them, to take what she had renounced, -to bid him stay, to trust to chance that time would make all well. How -could she let him go when it lay in her hands to stave off the moment -that was coming? She had reached the turning-point, the last piece of -her road at which she could touch hands with happiness. - -He was holding her fast. - -‘I am going,’ he said, in a voice like the voice of a stranger--someone -a long way off. - -She could not speak. There were a thousand things which, when he was -gone, she knew that she must blame herself for not saying, but they -would not stay with her till her lips could frame them. - -‘Perhaps we shall sometimes see each other,’ he whispered, ‘but God -knows if I could bear it.’ - -They clung together in a maze of kisses and incoherent words. When they -separated, she stood trembling in the middle of the room. He looked -back at her from the threshold, and turned again. - -‘Gilbert! Gilbert!’ she cried, throwing her arms round his neck. - -Then they tore themselves apart, and the door closed between them and -upon everything that each had come to value in life. - -When the sound of his horse’s feet had died, she stayed on where he had -left her. One who is gone is never quite gone while we retain the fresh -impression of his presence. She knew that, and she was loth to leave a -place which seemed still to hold his personality. She sat on, -unconscious of time, until a servant came into shut the windows, and -then she went downstairs and stood outside the front-door upon the -flags. The blackbird was still on the grass whistling, but at the -sudden appearance of her figure in the doorway, he flew, shrieking in -rich gutturals, into cover. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -THE BOX WITH THE LAUREL-WREATH - - -SPEID rode home without seeing a step of the way, though he never put -his horse out of a walk; he was like a man inheriting a fortune which -has vanished before he has had time to do more than sign his name to -the document that makes it his. But, in spite of the misery of their -parting, he could not and would not realize that it was final. He was -hot and tingling with the determination to wear down Lady Eliza’s -opposition; for he had decided, with Cecilia’s concurrence or without -it, to see her himself, and to do what he could to bring home to her -the ruin she was making of two lives. - -He could not find any justice in her standpoint; if she had refused to -admit him to her house or her acquaintance, there might have been some -reason in her act, but she had acknowledged him as a neighbour, invited -him to Morphie, and had at times been on the verge of friendliness. She -knew that, in spite of any talk that was afloat, he had been well -received by the people of the county, for the fact that he had not -mixed much with them was due to his own want of inclination for the -company offered him. He was quite man of the world enough to see that -his presence was more than welcome wherever mothers congregated who had -daughters to dispose of, and, on one or two occasions of the sort, he -remembered that Lady Eliza had been present, and knew she must have -seen it too. - -As he had no false pride, he had also no false humility, for the two -are so much alike that it is only by the artificial light of special -occasions that their difference can be seen. He had believed that Lady -Eliza would be glad to give him Cecilia. He knew very well that the -girl had no fortune, for it was a truth which the female part of the -community were not likely to let a young bachelor of means forget; and -he had supposed that a man who could provide for her, without taking -her four miles from the gates of Morphie, would have been a desirable -suitor in Lady Eliza’s eyes. Her opposition must, as he had been told, -be rooted in an unknown obstacle; but, more ruthless than Cecilia, he -was not going to let the hidden thing rest. He would drag it to the -light, and deal with it as he would deal with anything which stood in -his way to her. Few of us are perfect; Gilbert certainly was not, and -he did not care what Lady Eliza felt. It was not often that he had set -his heart upon a woman, and he had never set his heart and soul upon -one before. If he had not been accustomed to turn back when there was -no soul in the affair, he was not going to do so now that it was a -deeper question. - -The curious thing was that, though it went against himself, he admired -Cecilia’s attitude enormously; at the same time, the feeling stopped -short of imitation. While with her he had been unable to go against -her, and the creeping shadow of their imminent parting had wrought a -feeling of exaltation in him which prevented him from thinking clearly. -But that moment had passed. He understood her feelings, and respected -them, but they were not his, and he was going to the root of the matter -without scruple. - -For all that, it was with a heavy heart that he stood at his own door -and saw Macquean, who looked upon every horse as a dangerous wild -beast, leading the roan to the stable at the full stretch of his arm. -With a heavier one still he sat, when the household had gone to bed, -contrasting to-night with yesterday. Last night Whanland had been -filled with dreams; to-night it was filled with forebodings. To-morrow -he must collect his ideas, and send his urgent request for an interview -with Lady Eliza Lamont; and, if she refused to see him, he would put -all he meant to ask into writing and despatch the letter by hand to -Morphie. - -In his writing-table drawer was the chain with the emerald and diamond -ends, which he had left there in readiness to give to Cecilia, and he -sighed as he took it out, meaning to return it to its iron -resting-place in the room by the cellar. What if it should have to rest -there for years? He opened the little laurel-wreathed box and drew out -the jewel; the drop of green fire lay in his hand like a splash of -magic. Though he had no heart for its beauty to-night, all precious -gems fascinated Gilbert, this one almost more than any he had ever -seen. Emeralds are stones for enchantresses, speaking as they do of -velvet, of poison, of serpents, of forests, of things buried in -enchanted seas, rising and falling under the green moonlight of -dream-countries beyond the bounds of the world. But all he could think -of was that he must hide it away in the dark, when it ought to be lying -on Cecilia’s bosom. - -He replaced it in its box, shutting the lid, and went to the -writing-table behind him to close the drawer; as he turned back -quickly, his coat-tail swept the whole thing off the polished mahogany, -and sent it spinning into the darkness. He saw the lid open as it went -and the chain flash into a corner of the room, like a snake with -glittering eyes. He sprang after it, and brought it back to the light -to find it unhurt, then went to recover the box. This was not easy to -do, for the lid had rolled under one piece of furniture and the lower -part under another; but, with the help of a stick, he raked both out of -the shadows, and carried them, one in either hand, to examine them -under the candle. It struck him that, for an object of its size, the -lower half was curiously heavy, and he weighed it up and down, -considering it. As he did so, it rattled, showing that the fall must -have loosened something in its construction. It was a deep box, and its -oval shape did not give the idea that it had been originally made to -hold the chain he had found in it. It was lined with silk which had -faded to a nondescript colour, and he guessed, from the presence of a -tiny knob which he could feel under the thin stuff, that it had a false -bottom and that the protuberance was the spring which opened it. This -had either got out of repair from long disuse, or else its leap across -the floor had injured it, for, press as he might, sideways or -downwards, he could produce no effect. He turned the box upside down, -and the false bottom fell out, broken, upon the table, exposing a -miniature which fitted closely into the real one behind it. - -It was the carefully-executed likeness of a young man, whose face set -some fugitive note of association vibrating in him, and made him pause -as he looked, while he mentally reviewed the various ancestors on his -walls. The portrait had been taken full face, which prevented the -actual outline of the features from being revealed, but it was the -expression which puzzled Gilbert by its familiarity. The character of -the eyebrows, drooping at the outer corner of the eyes, gave a certain -look of petulance that had nothing transient and was evidently natural -to the face. He had seen something like it quite lately, though whether -on a human countenance or a painted one, he could not tell. The young -man’s dress was of a fashion which had long died out. Under the glass -was a lock of hair, tied with a twist of gold thread and not unlike his -own in colour, and the gold rim which formed the frame was engraved -with letters so fine as to be almost illegible. He tried to take out -the miniature, but he could not do so, for it was fixed firmly into the -bottom of the box, with the evident purpose of making its concealment -certain. He drew the light close. The sentence running round the band -was ‘_Addio, anima mia_,’ and, in a circle just below the hair, was -engraved in a smaller size these words: ‘_To C. L. from R. F._, 1765.’ - -He was face to face with the secret of his own life, and, in an -instant, he understood the impression of familiarity produced upon him -by the picture, for the ‘_R. F._’ told him all that he had not -known. There was no drop in his veins of the blood of the race whose -name he bore, for he was no Speid. Now all was plain. He was Robert -Fullarton’s illegitimate son. - -He sat in the sleeping house looking at the little box which had -wrecked his hopes more effectually than anything he had experienced -that day. Now he understood Lady Eliza; now he realized how justifiable -was her opposition. How could he, knowing what he knew, and what no -doubt every soul around him knew, stand up before his neighbours and -take Cecilia by the hand? how ask her to share the name which everyone -could say was not his own? how endure that she should face with him a -state of affairs which, for the first time, he clearly understood? He -had been morally certain, before, that the bar sinister shadowed him, -but, though he could have asked her to live under it with him when its -existence was only known to herself and to him, the question being a -social, not an ethical one, it would be an impossibility when the whole -world was aware of it; when the father who could not acknowledge him -was his neighbour. Never should she spend her life in a place where she -might be pointed at as the wife of the nameless man. Ah, how well he -understood Lady Eliza! - -But, thoroughly as he believed himself able to appreciate her motives, -he had no idea of the extraordinary mixture of personal feeling in -which they were founded, and he credited her with the sole desire to -save Cecilia from an intolerable position. Though he never doubted that -those among whom he lived were as enlightened as he himself now was, -the substance of the posthumous revival of rumours, attributed by many -to gossip arising from Mr. Speid’s actions after his wife’s death, was, -in reality, the only clue possessed by anyone. - -By an act the generosity of which he admired with all his soul, his -so-called father had legitimized him as far as lay in his power. No -person could bring any proof against him of being other than he -appeared, and in the eyes of the law he was as much Speid of Whanland -as the man he had succeeded. He admired him all the more when he -remembered that it was not an overwhelming affection for himself which -had led him to take the step, but pure, abstract justice to a human -being, who, through no fault of his own, had come into the world at a -disadvantage. Nevertheless, whatever his legal position, he was an -interloper, a pretender. He had identified himself with Whanland and -loved every stick and stone in it, but he had been masquerading, for -all that. What a trick she had played him, that beautiful creature upon -the wall! - -That the initials painted on the box and engraved on the frame inside -were C. L. and not C. S. proved one thing. However guilty she had been, -it was no transient influence which had ruined Clementina. Had any -chance revealed the miniature’s existence to Mr. Speid, it would have -explained the letter he had received from her father after his own -refusal by her, and it would have shown him an everyday tragedy upon -which he had unwittingly intruded, to his own undoing and to hers. Like -many another, she had given her affections to a younger son--for Robert, -in inheriting Fullarton, had succeeded a brother--and, her parents being -ambitious, the obstacle which has sundered so many since the world -began had sundered these two also. Mr. Lauder was a violent and -determined man, and his daughter, through fear of him, had kept secret -the engagement which she knew must be a forlorn hope so soon as he -should discover it. When chance, which played traitor to the couple, -brought it to light, the sword fell, and Robert, banished from the -presence of the Lauder family, returned to Fullarton and to the society -of his devoted elder brother, who asked no more than that the younger, -so much cleverer than himself, should share all he had. The miniature, -which he had gone to Edinburgh to sit for, and for which he had caused -the little box to be contrived, was conveyed to Clementina with much -difficulty and some bribery. He had chosen Italian words to surround -it, for he had made the ‘grand tour’ with his brother, and had some -knowledge of that language. There is a fashion, even in sentiment, and, -in those days, Italian was as acceptable a vehicle for it to the polite -world as French would be now. She yielded to circumstances which she -had no more strength to fight and married Mr. Speid a couple of years -later; and she kept the relic locked away among her most cherished -treasures. She had not changed, not one whit, and when, at her -husband’s desire, she sat for her portrait to David Martin, then in the -zenith of his work in the Scottish capital, she held the little box in -her hand, telling the painter it was too pretty to go down to oblivion, -and must be immortalized also. Martin, vastly admiring his sitter, -replied gallantly, and poor Clementina, who never allowed her dangerous -treasure to leave her hand, sat in agony till it was painted, and she -could return it to the locked drawer in which it was kept. There was a -vague hope in her mind that the man she had not ceased to love might, -one day, see the portrait and understand the silent message it -contained. - -Meanwhile, at Fullarton, Robert, who had been absent when Clementina -came to Whanland as a bride, was trying to cure his grief, and, -superficially, succeeding well enough to make him think himself a -sounder man than he was. - -He went about among the neighbours far and near, plunged into the -field-sports he loved, and, in so doing, saw a great deal of Mr. -Lamont, of Morphie, and his sister, a rather peculiar but companionable -young woman, whose very absence of feminine charm made him feel an -additional freedom in her society. - -At this time his elder brother, who had a delicate heart, quitted this -world quietly one morning, leaving the household awestruck and Robert -half frantic with grief. In this second sorrow he clung more closely to -his friends, and was more than ever thrown into the company of Lady -Eliza. To her, this period was the halcyon time of her life, and to -him, there is no knowing what it might have become if Clementina Speid -had not returned from the tour she was making with her husband, to find -her old lover installed a few miles from her door. Was ever woman so -conspired against by the caprices of Fate? - -Afterwards, when her short life ended in that stirring of conscience -which opened her lips, she confessed all. She had now lain for years -expiating her sin upon the shore by Garviekirk. - -And that sin had risen to shadow her son; he remembered how he had been -moved to a certain comprehension on first seeing her pictured face, -without even knowing the sum of the forces against her. Little had he -thought how sorely the price of her misdoing was to fall upon himself. -It would be a heavy price, involving more than the loss of Cecilia, for -it would involve banishment too. He could not stay at Whanland. In -time, possibly, when she had married--he ground his teeth as he told -himself this--when she was the wife of some thrice-fortunate man whose -name was his own, he might return to the things he loved and finish his -life quietly among them. But not this year nor the next, not in five -years nor in ten. He had no more heart for pretence. This was not his -true place; he should never have come to take up a part which the very -gods must have laughed to see him assume. What a dupe, what a fool he -had been! - -He would not try to see Cecilia again, but he would write to her, and -she should know how little he had understood his real position when he -had asked for her love--how he had believed himself secure against the -stirring-up of a past which no one was sufficiently certain of to bring -against him; which was even indefinite to himself. She should hear that -he had meant to tell her all he knew, and that he believed in her so -firmly as never to doubt what the result would have been. He would bid -her good-bye, irrevocably this time; for she should understand that, -whatever her own feelings, he would not permit her to share his false -position before a world which might try to make her feel it. He -thought of the lady in the Leghorn bonnet, who had sat on the red sofa -at the Miss Robertsons’ house, and whose chance words had first made -him realize the place Cecilia had in his heart. How she and her like -would delight to exercise their clacking tongues in wounding her! How -they would welcome such an opportunity for the commonplace ill-nature -which was as meat and drink to them! But it was an opportunity he would -not give them. - -So he sat on, determining to sacrifice the greater to the less, and, in -the manliness of his soul, preparing to break the heart of the woman he -loved--to whose mind the approval or disapproval of many ladies in -Leghorn bonnets would be unremarkable, could she but call herself his. - -In less than a week he had left the country, and, following an instinct -which led him back to the times before he had known Scotland, was on -his way to Spain. - -END OF BOOK I - - - - -BOOK II - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -SIX MONTHS - - -IT was six months since Gilbert Speid had gone from Whanland. Summer, -who often lingers in the north, had stayed late into September, to be -scared away by the forest fires of her successor, Autumn. The leaves -had dropped, and the ice-green light which spreads above the horizon -after sunset on the east coast had ushered in the winter. - -Christmas, little observed in Scotland, was over; the New Year had -brought its yearly rioting and its general flavour of whisky, goodwill, -and demoralization. Many of the county people had resorted to their -‘town-houses’ in Kaims, where card-parties again held their sway, and -Mrs. Somerville, prominent among local hostesses, dispensed a genteel -hospitality. - -The friendship between Barclay and Fordyce was well established, for -the young gentleman had paid the lawyer a second visit, even more -soothing to his feelings than the first. In the minds of these allies -Gilbert’s departure had caused a great stir, for Crauford was still at -Kaims when his rival summoned Barclay, and informed him that he was -leaving Whanland for an indefinite time. But, though Fordyce had no -difficulty in deciding that Speid’s action was the result of his being -refused by Cecilia Raeburn, Kaims fitted a new and more elaborate -explanation to the event each time it was mentioned. The matter had -nothing to do with the young lady, said some. Mr. Speid was ruined. -Anyone who did not know of his disastrous West Indian speculations must -have kept his ears very tight shut. And this school of opinion--a male -one--closed its hands on the top of its cane, and assumed an aspect of -mingled caution and integrity. This view was generally expressed in the -street. - -In the drawing-rooms more luscious theories throve. Miss Raeburn, as -everyone must have seen, had made a perfect fool of poor Mr. Speid. All -the time she had been flirting--to call it by no worse a name--with that -rich young Fordyce, and had even enticed him back, when his uncle at -last succeeded in getting him out of her way. It was incredible that -Mr. Speid had only now discovered how the land lay! He had taken it -very hard, but surely, he ought to have known what she was! It was -difficult to pity those very blind people. It was also opined that Mr. -Speid’s departure was but another proof of the depravity of those who -set themselves up and were overnice in their airs. He was already a -married man, and justice, in the shape of an incensed Spanish lady--the -mother of five children--had overtaken him while dangling after Miss -Raeburn. With the greatest trouble, the stranger had been got out of -the country unseen. It was a lesson. - -Among the few who had any suspicions of the truth, or, at least, of a -part of it, was Barclay; for he had been a young clerk in his father’s -office at the time when the first Mr. Speid left Whanland in much the -same way. He could not help suspecting that something connected with -the mystery he remembered was now driving Gilbert from Scotland, for he -scorned no means of inquiry, and had heard through channels he was not -ashamed to employ, of a demeanour in Cecilia which proved it impossible -that she had sent her lover away willingly. Some obstacle had come -between them which was not money; the lawyer had good reasons for -knowing that there was enough of that. He also knew how devoted Lady -Eliza was to the young woman, and how welcome it would be to her to -have her settled within such easy reach. He did not believe that any -personal dislike on her part had set her against the marriage, for, -however little he liked Gilbert himself, he knew him for a type of man -which does not generally find its enemies among women. He was certain, -in his own mind, that she had stood in the way, and his suspicion of -her reasons for doing so he duly confided to Fordyce, bidding him pluck -up heart; he was willing, he said, to take a heavy bet that a year -hence would see Cecilia at the head of his table. Thus he expressed -himself. - -‘And I hope it may often see you at it too,’ rejoined Crauford, with -what he considered a particularly happy turn of phrase. Barclay -certainly found no fault with it. - -Though Crauford’s vanity had made the part of rejected one -insupportable, and therefore spurred him forward, he probably had less -true appreciation of Cecilia than any person who knew her, and in the -satisfactory word ‘ladylike’ he had sunk all her wonderful charm and -unobvious, but very certain, beauty; he would have to be a new man -before they could appeal to him as they appealed to Gilbert. What had -really captivated him was her eminent suitability to great-ladyhood, -for the position of being Mrs. Crauford Fordyce was such an important -one in his eyes that he felt it behoved him to offer it immediately, on -finding anyone who could so markedly adorn it. - -But, under the manipulation of Barclay, his feelings were growing more -intense, and he lashed himself into a far more ardent state of mind. -The lawyer hated Gilbert with all his heart, and therefore spared no -pains in urging on his rival. His desire to stand well with Fordyce and -his pleasure in frustrating his client jumped the same way, and he had -roused his new friend’s jealousy until he was almost as bitter against -Speid as himself. Crauford, left alone, would probably have recovered -from his disappointment and betaken himself elsewhere, had he not been -stung by Barclay into a consistent pursuit of his object; and, as it -was upon his worst qualities that the lawyer worked, his character was -beginning to suffer. For all the elder man’s vulgarity, he had a great -share of cleverness in dealing with those who had less brains than -himself, and Fordyce was being flattered into an unscrupulousness of -which no one would have believed him capable. He would have done -anything to worst Gilbert. - -Meantime, there was consternation at Fordyce Castle. Crauford had no -wish to be more at home than was necessary, and it was only towards the -end of Lady Maria Milwright’s sojourn there that he returned, to find -his mother torn between wrath at his defection and fear lest he should -escape anew. The latter feeling forced her into an acid compliance -towards him, strange to see. But he was impervious to it, and, to the -innocent admiration of Lady Maria, in whose eyes he was something of a -hero, he made no acknowledgment; his mind was elsewhere. Mary and -Agneta looked on timidly, well aware of a volcanic element working -under their feet; and Agneta, who felt rebellion in the air and had -some perception of expediency, made quite a little harvest, obtaining -concessions she had scarce hoped for through her brother, to whom Lady -Fordyce saw herself unable to deny anything in reason. It was a -self-conscious household, and poor Lady Maria, upon whom the whole -situation turned, was the only really peaceful person in it. - -Macquean was again in charge of Whanland and of such things as remained -in the house; the stable was empty, the picture which had so influenced -Gilbert was put away with its fellows, and the iron box of jewels had -returned to the bankers. The place was silent, the gates closed. - -Before leaving, Speid had gone to Kaims to bid his cousins good-bye, -and had remained closeted with Miss Hersey for over an hour. He said -nothing of his discovery, and made no allusion to the barrier which had -arisen between him and the woman he loved. He only told her that -Cecilia had refused him at Lady Eliza’s wish, and that, in -consequence, he meant to leave a place where he was continually -reminded of her and take his trouble to Spain, that he might fight it -alone. At Miss Hersey’s age there are few violent griefs, though there -may be many regrets, but it was a real sorrow to her to part with her -kinsman, so great was her pride in him. To her, Lady Eliza’s folly was -inexplicable, and the ‘ill-talk’ on account of which she no longer -visited Mrs. Somerville did not so much as enter her mind. Relations -are the last to hear gossip of their kinsfolk, and the rumours of -thirty years back had only reached her in the vaguest form, to be -looked upon by her with the scorn which scurrilous report merits. That -they had the slightest foundation was an idea which had simply never -presented itself. Very few ideas of any kind presented themselves to -Miss Caroline, and to Miss Hersey, none derogatory to her own family. - -‘Her ladyship is very wrong, and she will be punished for it,’ said the -old lady, holding her gray head very high. ‘Mr. Speid of Whanland is a -match for any young lady, I can assure her.’ - -He looked away. Evidently ‘Speid of Whanland’ sounded differently to -himself and to her. He wondered why she did not understand what had -gone against him, but he could not talk about it, even to Miss Hersey. - -‘You will find plenty as good as Miss Raeburn,’ she continued. ‘You -should show her ladyship that others know what is to their advantage -better than herself.’ - -Gilbert sighed, seeing that his point of view and hers could never -meet. Granny Stirk would have understood him, he knew, for she had -tasted life; but this frail, gentle creature had reached that sexless -femininity of mind which comes after an existence spent apart from men. -And he loved her none the less for her lack of comprehension, knowing -the loyalty of her heart. - -‘You will come back,’ she said, ‘and, maybe, bring a wife who will put -the like of Miss Raeburn out of your head. I would like to see it, -Gilbert; but Caroline and I are very old, and I think you will have to -look for news of us on the stone in the churchyard. There are just the -two names to come. But, while we are here, you must tell me anything -that I can do for you after you have gone.’ - -‘I will write to you, ma’am,’ said Speid, his voice a little thick; -‘and, in any case, I mean to ask you a favour before I go.’ - -She looked at him with loving eyes. - -‘I am going to give you my address,’ he said, ‘or, at least, an address -that will eventually find me. I am going to ask you to send me word of -anything that happens to Miss Raeburn.’ - -‘You should forget her, Gilbert, my dear.’ - -‘Oh, ma’am! you surely cannot refuse me? I have no one but you of whom -I can ask it.’ - -‘I will do it, Gilbert.’ - -It was with this understanding that they parted. - -To Jimmy Stirk and his grandmother his absence made a blank which -nothing could fill. The old woman missed his visits and his talk, his -voice and his step, his friendship which had bridged the gulf between -age and youth, between rich and poor. She was hardly consoled by the -occasional visits of Macquean, who would drop in now and then to -recapitulate to her the circumstances of a departure which had never -ceased to surprise him. He was not cut after her pattern, but she -tolerated him for his master’s sake. - -From Morphie bits of information had trickled; on the day of his last -visit the servants had let nothing escape them, and Lady Eliza’s face, -as she went about the house, was enough to convince the dullest that -there was tragedy afoot. A maid had been in the passage, who had seen -Gilbert as he left Cecilia. - -‘Ye’ll no have gotten any word o’ the laird?’ inquired Granny on one of -the first days of the young year, as Macquean stopped at her door. - -‘Na, na.’ - -The old woman sighed, but made no gesture of invitation. From behind -her, through the open half of the door, Macquean heard the sound of a -pot boiling propitiously, and a comfortable smell reached him where he -stood. - -‘A’ was saying that a’ hadna heard just very muckle,’ continued he, his -nostrils wide--‘just a sma’ word----’ - -‘Come away in-by,’ interrupted the Queen of the Cadgers, standing back, -and holding the door generously open. ‘Maybe ye’ll take a suppie brose; -they’re just newly made. Bide till a’ gie ye spune to them.’ - -It was warm inside the cottage, and he entered, and felt the contrast -between its temperature and that of the sharp January air with -satisfaction. Granny tipped some of the savoury contents of the black -pot into a basin. - -‘What was it ye was hearin’ about the laird?’ she asked, as she added a -horn spoon to the concoction, and held it out to him. - -‘Aw! it was just Wullie Nicol. He was sayin’ that he was thinkin’ the -laird was clean awa’ now. It’s a piecie cauld, d’ye no think?’ replied -Macquean, as well as he could for the pleasures of his occupation. - -‘But what else was ye to tell me?’ she said, coming nearer. - -‘There was nae mair nor that. Yon’s grand brose.’ - -With the exception of the old ladies in the close, no one but Barclay -had heard anything of Speid. Macquean received his wages from the -lawyer, and everything went on as it had done before Gilbert’s return, -now more than a year since. Business letters came to Barclay at -intervals, giving no address and containing no news of their writer, -which were answered by him to a mail office in Madrid. To any -communication which he made outside the matter in hand there was no -reply. Miss Hersey had written twice, and whatever she heard in return -from Speid she confided only to her sister. It was almost as though he -had never been among them. The little roan hack and the cabriolet with -the iron-gray mare were sold. As Wullie Nicol had said, he was ‘clean -awa’ now.’ - -Gilbert’s one thought, when he found himself again on Spanish soil, was -to obliterate each trace and remembrance of his life in Scotland, and -he set his face to Madrid. On arriving, he began to gather round him -everything which could help him to re-constitute life as it had been in -Mr. Speid’s days, and, though he could not get back the house in which -he had formerly lived, he settled not far from it with a couple of -Spanish servants and began to wonder what he should do with his time. -Nothing interested him, nothing held him. Old friends came flocking -round him and he forced himself to respond to their cordiality; but he -had no heart for them or their interests, for he had gone too far on -that journey from which no one ever returns the same, the road to the -knowledge of the strength of fate. Señor Gilbert was changed, said -everyone; it was that cold north which had done it. The only wonder was -that it had not killed him outright. And, after a time, they let him -alone. - -Miss Hersey’s letters did not tell him much; she heeded little of what -took place outside her own house and less since he had gone; only when -Sunday brought its weekly concourse to her drawing-room did she come -into touch with the people round her. Of Lady Eliza, whose Presbyterian -devotions were sheltered by Morphie kirk and who made no visits, she -saw nothing. Now and then the news would reach Spain that ‘Miss Raeburn -was well’ or that ‘Miss Raeburn had ridden into Kaims with her -ladyship,’ but that was all. Gilbert had wished to cut himself -completely adrift and he had his desire. The talk made by his departure -subsided as the circles subside when a stone has been dropped in a -duckpond; only Captain Somerville, seeing Cecilia’s face, longed to -pursue him to the uttermost parts of the earth, and, with oaths and -blows, if need be, to bring him back. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -ROCKET - - -THE January morning was moist and fresh as Lady Eliza and Cecilia -Raeburn, with a groom following them, rode towards that part of the -country where the spacious pasture-land began. The sun was at their -backs and their shadows were shortening in front of them as it rose -higher. The plum-coloured riding-habit was still in existence, a little -more weather-stained, and holding together with a tenacity that -provoked Cecilia, who had pronounced it unfit for human wear and been -disregarded. - -Rocket, the bay mare, was pulling at her rider and sidling along the -road, taking no count of remonstrance, for she had not been out for -several days. - -‘I wish you had taken Mayfly, aunt,’ remarked Cecilia, whose horse -walked soberly beside his fidgeting companion. - -‘And why, pray?’ inquired the other, testily. - -‘Rocket has never seen hounds and I am afraid she will give you some -trouble when she does. At any rate, she will tire you out.’ - -‘Pshaw!’ replied Lady Eliza. - -Six months had passed Cecilia, bringing little outward change, though, -thinking of them, she felt as though six years had gone by in their -stead; her spirits were apparently as even, her participation in her -aunt’s interests apparently the same, for she was one who, undertaking -a resolve, did not split it into two and fulfil the half she liked -best. Each of our acts is made of two parts, the spirit and the -letter, and it is wonderful how nominally honest people will divide -them. Not that there is aught wrong in the division; the mistake lies -in taking credit for the whole. She had resolved to pay for her aunt’s -peace of mind with her own happiness, as it seemed that it could be -bought at no other price, and she was determined that that peace of -mind should be complete. She gave full measure and the irrevocableness -of her gift helped her to go on with her life. It was curious that a -stranger, lately introduced to her, and hearing that she lived with -Lady Eliza Lamont, had called her ‘Mrs. Raeburn,’ in the belief that -she was a widow. It was not an unnatural mistake, for there was -something about her that suggested it. Her one day’s engagement to her -lover was a subject never touched upon by the two women. Once, Lady -Eliza had suspected that all was not well with her and had spoken; once -in her life Cecilia had fostered a misunderstanding. - -‘I could not have married him,’ she had replied; ‘I have thought over -it well.’ - -No tone in her voice had hinted at two interpretations, and the elder -woman had read the answer by the light of her own feelings. - -The laird with whose harriers they were to hunt that day lived at a -considerable distance. It was not often, in those times before railways -and horse-boxes were invented, that there was hunting of any sort -within reach of Morphie. There were no foxhounds in the county and no -other harriers, though Lady Eliza had, for years, urged Fullarton to -keep them; but the discussion had always ended in his saying that he -could not afford such an expense and in her declaring that she would -keep a pack herself. But things had gone on as they were, and a dozen -or so of days in a season was all that either could generally get. This -year she had only been out twice. - -The meet was at a group of houses too small to be called a village, but -distinguished by the presence of a public-house and the remains of an -ancient stone cross. A handful of gentlemen, among whom was Robert -Fullarton, had assembled on horseback when they arrived, and these, -with a few farmers, made up the field. Cecilia and her aunt were the -only females in the little crowd, except a drunken old woman whose -remarks were of so unbridled a nature that she had to be taken away -with some despatch, and the wife of the master, who, drawn up -decorously in a chaise at a decent distance from the public-house, cast -scathing looks upon Lady Eliza’s costume. Urchins, ploughmen, and a few -nondescript men who meant to follow on foot, made a background to the -hounds swarming round the foot of the stone cross and in and out -between the legs of the whips’ horses. The pack, a private one, -consisted of about fifteen couple. - -Rocket, who expressed her astonishment at the sight of hounds by -lashing out at them whenever occasion served, was very troublesome and -her rider was obliged to keep her pacing about outside the fringe of -bystanders until they moved off; she could not help wishing she had -done as Cecilia suggested. The mare was always hot and now she bid fair -to weary her out, snatching continually at her bit and never standing -for a moment. - -‘Her ladyship is very fond of that mare,’ observed Robert, as he and -Cecilia found themselves near each other. ‘Personally, good-looking as -she is, I could never put up with her. She has no vice, though.’ - -‘It is her first sight of hounds,’ said his companion, ‘and no other -person would have the patience to keep her as quiet as she is. My -aunt’s saddle could so easily be changed on to Mayfly. She will be worn -out before the day is over.’ - -‘He will be a bold man who suggests it,’ said he, with a smile which -irritated her unreasonably. - -‘If he were yourself, sir, he might succeed. There’s Mayfly behind that -tree with James. It could be done in a moment.’ - -‘It is not my affair, my dear young lady,’ said he. - -They were in a part of the country where they could no longer see the -Grampians as they looked into the eastern end of the Vale of -Strathmore. Brown squares of plough land were beginning to vary the -pastures, and, instead of the stone walls--or ‘dykes,’ as they are -called on the coast--the fields were divided by thorn hedges, planted -thick, and, in some cases, strengthened with fencing. On their right, -the ground ran up to a fringe of scrub and whins under which dew was -still grey round the roots; the spiders’ webs, threading innumerable -tiny drops, looked like pieces of frosted wool, as they spread their -pigmy awnings between the dried black pods of the broom and the hips of -the rose briers. - -The rank grass and the bracken had been beaten almost flat by the -storms of winter, and they could get glimpses of the pack moving about -among the bare stems and the tussocks. Fullarton and Cecilia stood in -the lower ground with Lady Eliza, whose mare had quieted down a good -deal as the little handful of riders spread further apart. - -As the three looked up, from the outer edge of the undergrowth a brown -form emerged and sped like a silent arrow down the slope towards the -fields in front of them; a quiver of sound came from the whins as a -hound’s head appeared from the scrub. Then, in an instant, the air was -alive with music, and the pack, like a white ribbon, streamed down the -hillside. The whip came slithering and sliding down the steepest part -of the bank, dispersing that portion of the field which had -injudiciously taken up its position close to its base, right and left. -The two women and Fullarton, who were well clear of the rising ground, -took their horses by the head, and Robert’s wise old horse, with -nostrils dilated and ears pointing directly on the hounds, gave an -appreciative shiver; Rocket lifted her forefeet, then, as she felt the -touch of Lady Eliza’s heel, bounded forward through the plough. - -They were almost in line as they came to the low fence which stretched -across their front, and, beyond which, the hounds were running in a -compact body. Rocket, who had been schooled at Morphie, jumped well in -the paddock, and, though Cecilia turned rather anxiously in her saddle -when she had landed on the further side of the fence, she saw, with -satisfaction, that Lady Eliza was going evenly along some forty yards -wide of her. They had got a better start than anyone else, but the rest -of the field was coming up and there seemed likely to be a crush at a -gate ahead of them which was being opened by a small boy. Fullarton -ignored it and went over the hedge; his horse, who knew many things, -and, among them, how to take care of himself, measuring the jump to an -inch and putting himself to no inconvenience. In those days few women -really rode to hounds, and, to those present who had come from a -distance, Lady Eliza and her niece were objects of some astonishment. - -‘Gosh me!’ exclaimed a rough old man on a still rougher pony, as he -came abreast of Cecilia, ‘I’ll no say but ye can ride bonnie! Wha -learned ye?’ - -‘My aunt,’ replied she. - -‘Will yon be her?’ he inquired, shifting his ash plant into his left -hand and pointing with his thumb. - -She assented. - -‘Gosh!’ said he again, as he dropped behind. - -They were running straight down the strath along the arable land; the -fields were large and Cecilia was relieved to see that Rocket was -settling down and that, though she jumped big, she was carrying Lady -Eliza well. The horse she herself was riding had a good mouth, and -liked hounds; and when they turned aside up a drain, and, crossing the -high road, were running through more broken ground, she found herself -almost the only person with them, except the master, the first whip, -and Fullarton, who was coming up behind. They were heading rather -north-west and were in sight of the Grampians again, and dykes began to -intersect the landscape. Now and then, patches of heather and bits of -swamp intruded themselves on the cultivation. Though they had really -only come a very few miles, they had got into a different part of the -world, and she was beginning to think they would have a long ride home, -considering how far they had come to the meet and how steadily they had -been running inland, when the hounds checked in a small birch -plantation. The fresh air blew from the hills through the leafless -silver stems and the heavy clouds which hung over them seemed laden -with coming rain. The ground had been rising all the way and some of -the horses were rather blown, for, though the ascent was gradual, they -had come fast. The old man on the rough pony got off and stood, the -rein over his arm, on the outskirts of the trees; though he weighed -fifteen stone he had the rudiments of humanity and his beast’s rough -coat was dripping. - -‘I’m thinking I’ll awa’ hame,’ he remarked to an acquaintance. - -Cecilia was just looking round for Lady Eliza when an old hound’s -tongue announced his discovery, and the pack made once more, with their -heads down, for the lower ground. - -‘Down again to the fields, I do believe,’ said Fullarton’s voice. ‘That -horse of yours carries you perfectly, Cecilia.’ - -‘Do you know anything of my aunt?’ said she, as the hounds turned into -a muddy lane between high banks. - -‘She was going well when I saw her,’ he replied. ‘I think she wants to -save Rocket as it is her first day. It does not do to sicken a horse -with hounds at the beginning. Yes, there they go--westward again--down -to the strath. I doubt but they changed their hare in the birches.’ - -In the first quarter of an hour he had observed how Rocket’s vehemence -was giving way to the persuasion of Lady Eliza’s excellent hands, and -how well the mare carried her over the fences they met. It was a -pleasure to see her enjoying herself, he thought; of late, he had -feared she was ageing, but to-day, she might be twenty-five, as far as -nerve or spirits were concerned. What a wonderful woman she was, how -fine a horsewoman, how loyal a friend! It did him good to see her -happy. It was a pity she had never married, though he could not imagine -her in such a situation and he smiled at the idea. But it _was_ a -pity. It looked as if Cecilia would go the same way, though he could -imagine her married well enough. Two suitors in a year, both young, -both well-off, both well-looking and both sent about their business--one -even as far as Spain! The girl was a fool. - -But, meanwhile, in spite of Fullarton’s satisfaction, Lady Eliza had -not got much good out of her day. It was when she was crossing the road -that she felt the mare going short; she was a little behind her -companions, and, by the time she had pulled up and dismounted, they -were galloping down the further side of the hedge which bounded it. -Though Rocket was resting her near foreleg she would hardly stand for a -moment; with staring eyes and head in the air she looked after the -vanishing field and Lady Eliza could hardly get near her to examine the -foot which, she suspected, had picked up a stone. She twisted round and -round, chafing and snatching at the reins; she had not had enough to -tire her in the least degree and her blood was up at the unwonted -excitement and hot with the love of what she had seen. Lady Eliza had -given orders to the groom who was riding Mayfly to keep the direction -of the hounds in his eye and to have the horse waiting, as near to -where they finished as possible, for her to ride home; as Fullarton had -said, she did not want to give Rocket a long day, and she meant, unless -the hounds were actually running, to leave them in the early afternoon. -Probably he was not far off at this moment; but, looking up and down -the road, she could see no one, not even a labourer nor a tramp. She -stood exasperated by the short-sighted stupidity of the beast. Again -and again she tried to take the foot up, but Rocket persisted in -swerving whenever she came near; of all created beings, a horse can be -the most enraging. - -At last she got in front of her, and, slipping the reins over her arm, -bent down, raising the foot almost by main force; wedged tightly -between the frog and the shoe was a three-cornered flint. - -She straightened herself with a sigh, for she felt that there was no -chance of seeing hounds again that day. The stone was firm and it would -take some time to dislodge it. She led the mare to a sign-post which -stood at the roadside with all the officious, pseudo-human air of such -objects, and tied her silly head short to it; then, having wedged her -knee between her own knees, after the manner of smiths, began to hammer -the flint with another she had picked up on a stone-heap. The thing was -as tightly fixed in the foot as if it had grown there. - -When, at last, she had succeeded in getting it out, her back was so -stiff that she sat down on a milestone which stood close by, offering -information to the world, and began to clean her gloves, which her -occupation had made very dirty. There was no use in galloping, for the -whole field must be miles away by this time, and her only chance of -coming up with it was the possibility of the hounds doubling back on -the road. She determined to stay about the place where she was and -listen. She mounted from her milestone, after endless frustrated -attempts, and walked Rocket as quietly along the road as she could -prevail upon her to go; luck was undoubtedly against her. - -Has any reader of mine ever ridden in the pitch-dark, unwitting that -there is another horse near, and been silently apprized of the fact by -the manner of going of the one under him? If so, he will know the exact -sensations which Rocket communicated to her rider. Lady Eliza’s -attention was centred in the distance in front of her, but she became -aware, through the mare, that an unseen horse was not far off. In -another moment, she saw the rough pony and the rough old man who had -accosted Cecilia emerging from a thicket half-way up the slope above -her. - -‘What ails ye?’ he enquired, as he reached the road and observed, from -her looks, that she had been struggling with something. - -‘Have you seen the hounds?’ she cried, ignoring his question. - -‘I’m awa’ hame,’ replied he, on the same principle. - -‘But which way have the hounds gone? God bless me! can’t you hear?’ she -cried, raising her voice louder. - -‘Awa’ there!’ he shouted, waving his arm in the direction in which she -was going. ‘A’ saw them coming doon again as a’ cam’ ower the brae; -they’ll be doon across the road by this. Awa’ ye go!’ - -Before the words were well out of his mouth she was off, scattering a -shower of liquid mud over him. - -‘Fiech! ye auld limmer!’ he exclaimed, as he rubbed his face, watching -her angrily out of sight. - -As she came to a bit of road where the land sloped away gently to her -left, she saw the hounds--who, as Fullarton guessed, had changed their -hare--in the fields below her. They had checked again, as they crossed -the highway, and just where she stood, there was a broken rail in the -fence. She could tell by the marks in the mud that they had gone over -it at that spot. She had an excellent chance of seeing something of the -sport yet, for Rocket was as fresh as when she had come out and the -land between her and the hounds was all good grass. - -She turned her at the broken rail, riding quietly down the slope; then, -once on the level ground of the strath, she set her going. - -She put field after field behind her; for though, on the flat, she -could not see far ahead, the ground was wet and the hoof-prints were -deep enough to guide her. Rocket could gallop, and, in spite of her -recent sins, she began to think that she liked her better than ever. -She had bought her on her own initiative, having taken a fancy to her -at a sale, and had ridden her for more than a year. It was from her -back that she had first seen Gilbert Speid at Garviekirk. Fullarton, -while admitting her good looks, had not been enthusiastic, and Cecilia -had said that she was too hot and tried to dissuade her from the -purchase; she remembered that she had been very much put out with the -girl at the time and had asked her whether she supposed her to be made -of anything breakable. Her niece had said ‘no,’ but added that she -probably would be when she had ridden the mare. Cecilia could be vastly -impudent when she chose; her aunt wondered if she had been impudent to -Fordyce. She did not pursue the speculation, for, as she sailed through -an open gate, she found herself in the same field with the tail end of -the hunt and observed that some of the horses looked as though they had -had enough. There must have been a sharp burst, she suspected, while -she was struggling with Rocket near the sign-post. Evidently Fullarton -and Cecilia were in front. - -She passed the stragglers, and saw Robert’s old black horse labouring -heavily in a strip of plough on the near side of a stout thickset hedge -which hid the hounds from her view. Rocket saw him too and began to -pull like a fiend; her stall at Morphie was next to the one in which he -invariably stood when his master rode there; that being frequently, she -knew him as well as she did her regular stable companions. Lady Eliza -let her go, rejoicing to have recovered the ground she had lost, and to -be likely, after all her difficulties, to see the end of her morning’s -sport. - -Fullarton was making for a thin place in the hedge, for his horse was -getting tired and he was a heavy man; besides which, he knew that there -was a deep drop on the other side. She resolved to take it at the same -gap and began to hold Rocket hard, in order to give him time to get -over before she was upon him. - -But Rocket did not understand. The wisdom of the old hunter was not -hers and she only knew that the woman on her back meant to baulk her -of the glories in front. Her rider tried to pull her wide of the black -horse, but in vain; she would have the same place. Robert was about -twenty yards from her when he jumped and she gathered herself together -for a rush. Lady Eliza could not hold her. - -To her unutterable horror, just as the mare was about to take off, she -saw that Robert’s horse had stumbled in landing and was there, in front -of her--below her--recovering his feet on the grass. - -With an effort of strength which those who witnessed it never forgot, -she wrenched Rocket’s head aside, almost in mid-air. As they fell -headlong, she had time, before her senses went, to see that she had -attained her object. - -For Fullarton stood, unhurt, not five paces from where she lay. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -THE BROKEN LINK - - -IN an upper room, whose window looked into a mass of bare branches, -Lady Eliza lay dying. This last act she was accomplishing with a -deliberation which she had given to nothing else in her life; for it -was two days since the little knot of horrified sportsmen had lifted -her on to the hurdle which someone had run to fetch from a neighbouring -farm. Rocket, unhurt, but for a scratch or two, had rolled over her -twice and she had not fallen clear. - -The hounds had just killed when Cecilia, summoned by a stranger who had -pursued her for nearly half a mile, came galloping back to find her -unconscious figure laid upon the grass. The men who stood round made -way for her as she sprang from her horse. She went down on her knees -beside her aunt and took one of her helpless hands. - -‘She is not dead?’ she said, looking at Fullarton with wild eyes. - -She was not dead, and, but for a few bruises, there were no marks to -show what had happened; for her injuries were internal, and, when, at -last, the endless journey home was over and the two doctors from Kaims -had made their examination, Cecilia had heard the truth. The -plum-coloured habit might be put away, for its disreputable career was -done and Lady Eliza would not need it again. She had had her last ride. -In a few days she would come out of the house; but, for the first time, -perhaps, since it had known her, she would pass the stable door without -going in. - -She had been carried every step of the way home, Cecilia and Fullarton -riding one on either side, and, while someone had gone to Kaims for a -doctor, another had pushed his tired horse forward to Morphie to get a -carriage. But, when it met them a few miles from the end of their -march, it had been found impossible to transfer her to it, for -consciousness was returning and each moment was agony. The men had -expressed their willingness to go on, and Robert, though stiff from his -fall, had taken his turn manfully. A mattress had been spread on the -large dining-room table and on it they had laid the hurdle with its -load. Another doctor had been brought from the town to assist his -partner in the examination he thought fit to make before risking the -difficult transport upstairs. Fullarton, when it was over, had taken -one of the men apart. It might be hours, it might even be a couple of -days, he was told. It was likely that there would be suffering, but -there would be no pain at the end, he thought. The spine, as well as -other organs, was injured. - -And so, at last, they had carried her up to her own room. Cecilia was -anxious to have one on the ground-floor made ready, but she had prayed -to be taken to the familiar place, and the doctors, knowing that -nothing could avail now, one way or the other, had let her have her -will. - -She had never had any doubts about her own condition. Before Cecilia -nerved herself to tell her the verdict that had been passed, she had -spoken. - -‘Cecilia, my little girl,’ she had said, ‘what will become of you? What -will you do? If it were not for you, child, God knows I should not mind -going. But I can do nothing for you.’ - -‘If I could only go with you,’ whispered Cecilia, laying her face down -on the sheet. - -‘Perhaps I was wrong,’ continued Lady Eliza, ‘perhaps I have done harm. -I knew how little I could leave you; there were others who would have -taken you. And you were such a nice little girl, Cecilia, but so thin -and shy ... and I shall not see you for a long time ... we went to see -the horses ... look, child!... tell James to come here. Can’t you see -that the mare’s head-collar is coming off?... Run, Cecilia, I tell you!’ - -In the intervals between the pain and delirium which tortured her for -the first few nights and days, her one cry was about Cecilia--what would -become of Cecilia? - -Through the dark hours the girl sat soothing her and holding the -feverish hand as she listened to the rambling talk. Now she was with -the horses, now back in the old days when her brother was alive, now -talking to Fullarton, now straying among the events of the past months; -but always returning again to what weighed on her mind, Cecilia’s -future. Occasionally she would speak to her as though she were -Fullarton, or Fordyce, or even James the groom. Worst of all were the -times when her pain was almost more than she could bear. - -A woman had been got from the town to help in nursing her, a good -enough soul, but, with one of those strange whims which torment the -sick, Lady Eliza could not endure her in the room, and she sat in the -dressing-room waiting to do anything that was wanted. Trained nurses -were unknown outside hospitals in those days. - -Robert had remained all night at Morphie after the accident and had sat -by the bedside while she was conscious of his presence. - -‘I owe you my life,’ he said to her; ‘oh, Eliza! why did you do that? -My worthless existence could have so well been spared!’ - -He went home in the morning, to return again later, and Cecilia, who -had been resting, went back to her post. The doctor now said that his -patient might linger for days and departed to his business in Kaims for -a few hours. - -‘Robert!’ said Lady Eliza, suddenly. - -‘It is I, ma’am; here I am,’ answered the girl, laying her fingers upon -her arm; there was no recognition in the eyes which stared, with -unnatural brilliance, into her face. - -‘Robert,’ said the voice from the bed, ‘I can never go to Whanland; you -shall not try to take me there ... she is not there--I know that very -well--she is out on the sands--dead and buried under the sand---- But -she can’t marry him.... I could never see her if she went to -Whanland.... How can I part with her? Cecilia, you will not go?’ - -‘Here I am, dearest aunt, here I am.’ She leaned over Lady Eliza. ‘You -can see me; I am close to you.’ - -‘Is that impostor gone?’ asked Lady Eliza. - -‘Yes, yes, he has gone,’ answered Cecilia, in a choked voice. - -A look came into Lady Eliza’s face as though her true mind were -battling, like a swimmer, with the waves of delirium. - -‘I have never told Cecilia that he is Fullarton’s son,’ she said, ‘I -have never told anyone.... She was a bad woman--she has taken him from -me and now her son will take my little girl.... Mr. Speid, your face is -cut--come away--come away. Cecilia, we will go to the house.... But that -is Fullarton standing there. Robert, I want to say something to you. -Robert, you know I did not mean to speak like that! Dear Robert, have -you forgiven me?... But what can I do about my little girl? What can I -do for her, Fullarton?’ - -She held Cecilia’s fingers convulsively. The girl kept her hand closed -round the feeble one on the bed-cover, as though she would put her own -life and strength into it with her grasp; she fancied sometimes that it -quieted the sick woman in some strange way. She sat behind the curtain -like a stone; there was little time to think over what she had just -heard, for the wheels of the doctor’s gig were sounding in the avenue -and she must collect herself to meet him. He was to stay for the night. -But now everything that had been dark was plain to her. Her lover was -Fullarton’s son! Down to the very depths she saw into her aunt’s heart, -and tears, as hot as any she had shed for her own griefs, fell from her -eyes. - -‘Thank God, I did what I could for her,’ she said. - -The night that followed was quieter than the one preceding it and she -sat up, having had a long rest, insisting that the doctor should go to -bed; while her aunt’s mind ran on things which were for her ears alone, -she did not wish for his presence. Towards morning he came in and -forced her to leave the bedside, and, worn out, she slept on till it -was almost noon. She awoke to find him standing over her. - -‘Lady Eliza is conscious,’ he said, ‘and she is not suffering--at least, -not in body. But she is very uneasy and anxious to see you. I fancy -there is something on her mind. Do what you can to soothe her, Miss -Raeburn, for I doubt if she will last the day; all we can hope for her -now is an easy death.’ - -Lady Eliza lay with her eyes closed; as Cecilia entered she opened them -and smiled. She went to the bed. - -‘How tired you look,’ said Lady Eliza. ‘It will soon be over, my dear, -and we shall have parted at last. Don’t cry, child. What a good girl -you have been! Ah, my dear, I could die happy if it were not for you. I -have nothing to leave you but a few pounds a year and my own belongings -and the horses. Morphie will go to relations I have never seen. What am -I to do for you? What are you to do? Oh, Cecilia! I should have laid by -more. But I never thought of this--of dying like this--and I looked to -your marrying. I have been a bad friend to you--I see that now that I -come to lie here.’ - -‘If you speak in that way you will break my heart,’ said Cecilia, -covering her face with her hands. - -‘Come close; come where I can see you. You must make me a promise,’ -said Lady Eliza; ‘you must promise me that you will marry. Crauford -Fordyce will come back--I know that he will, for Fullarton has told me -so. I said it was useless, but that is different now. Cecilia, I can’t -leave you like this, with no one to protect you and no money--promise me -when he comes, that you will say yes.’ - -‘Oh, aunt! oh, dear aunt!’ cried Cecilia. ‘Oh, not that, not that!’ - -‘Promise me,’ urged Lady Eliza. - -‘Oh, anything but that--do not ask me that! There is only one man in the -world I can ever love. It is the same now as on the day he left.’ - -‘Love is not for everybody,’ said Lady Eliza, slowly. ‘Some have to do -without it all their lives.’ - -There was no sound in the room for a little time. - -‘The world looks different now,’ began Lady Eliza again; ‘I don’t know -if I was right to do as I did about Gilbert Sp--about Whanland. I am a -wicked woman, my dear, and I cannot forgive--but you don’t know about -that.’ - -‘If he comes back, aunt--if he comes back?’ - -‘But you cannot wait all your life for that. He is gone and he has said -he will not come back. Put that away from you; I am thinking only of -you--believe me, my darling. I beg of you, Cecilia, I pray you. You know -I shall never be able to ask anything again, soon.’ - -‘Give me time,’ she sobbed, terribly moved. - -‘In a year, Cecilia--in a year?’ - -Cecilia rose and went to the window. Outside, over the bare boughs, -some pigeons from the dovecot were whirling in the air. Her heart was -tortured within her. Crauford was almost abhorrent to her but it seemed -as though the relentless driving of fate were forcing her towards him. -She saw no escape. Why had Gilbert gone! His letter had made no mention -of Fullarton’s name and he had only written that he could not ask her -to share with him a position, which, as he now knew, was thoroughly -understood by the world and which she would find unbearable. In his -honesty, he had said nothing that should make her think of him as -anything but a bygone episode in her life, no vow of love, none of -remembrance. Even if she knew where he had gone she could not appeal to -him after that. She looked back at Lady Eliza’s face on the pillow, -now so white, with the shadow of coming death traced on it. She had -thought that she had given up all to buy her peace, but it seemed as if -there were still a higher price to be paid. As she thought of Crauford, -of his dull vanity, of his slow perceptions, of his all-sufficing -egotism, she shuddered. His personality was odious to her. She hated -his heavy, smooth, coarse face and his heavier manner, never so hateful -as when he deemed himself most pleasant. She must think of herself, not -as a woman with a soul and a body, but as a dead thing that can neither -feel nor hope. What mattered it what became of her now? She had lost -all, absolutely all. It only remained for her to secure a quiet end to -the one creature left her for a pitiful few hours. - -She went back and stood by the pillow. The dumb question that met her -touched her to the heart. - -‘I will promise what you wish,’ she said, steadily. ‘In a year I will -marry him if he asks me. But if, if’--she faltered for a moment and -turned away--‘not if Gilbert Speid comes back. Aunt, tell me that I have -made you happy!’ - -‘I can rest now,’ said Lady Eliza. - -In spite of the predictions of the doctor, the days went on and still -she lingered, steadily losing strength, but with a mind at ease and a -simple acceptance of her case. She had not cared for Crauford, but he -would stand between Cecilia and a life of poverty, of even possible -hardship, and she knew that his faults were those that could only -injure himself. He would never be unkind to his wife, she felt sure. -The world was too bad a place for a beautiful young woman to stand -alone in, and Gilbert would not come back. Why should he when the -causes of his going could not be altered? Now, lying at the gate of -another life, this one, as she said, looked different. Cecilia had told -her, months ago, that she could never marry Speid, but her vision had -cleared enough to show her that she should not have believed her. -However, he was gone. - -Her mind was generally clear now: bouts of pain there were, and, at -night, hours of wandering talk; but her days were calm, and, as life -lost its grip, suffering was loosening its hold too. - -It was late one night when Cecilia, grudging every moment spent away -from the bedside, saw that a change had come over her. She had been -sleeping, more the sleep of exhaustion than of rest, and, as she awoke, -the girl knew that their parting must be near. The doctor was due at -any moment, for he slept at Morphie every night, going to his other -patients in the day; he was a hard-worked man. She sat listening for -his coming. - -The house was very quiet as she heard his wheels roll into the -courtyard. His answer to her question was the one she expected; there -was little time left. She ran out to the stable herself and sent a man -on horseback to Fullarton. - -‘Lose no time,’ she said, as she saw him turn away. - -When she re-entered the room the doctor looked at her with meaning -eyes. - -‘I feel very weak,’ said Lady Eliza, ‘don’t go far from me, my dear. -Cecilia, is Fullarton here?’ - -‘I have sent for him.’ - -She took her seat again within sight of the eyes that always sought her -own; they were calm now and she knew that the chain which had held the -passing soul back from peace was broken, for she had broken it with her -own hand. Whatever the consequences, whatever she might be called upon -to go through, she was glad. When the time should come to face the -cost, she would find courage for it. - -‘You do not wish to see the minister again?’ she asked, in a little -time. He had visited Lady Eliza once. - -‘There is no more to say. Cecilia, do you think I shall go before -Fullarton comes?’ - -‘I have told them to be quick. They have taken Rocket.’ - -‘Oh--Rocket. I shall not see Rocket again. She was a good mare. But I -must not think of that now; perhaps I have thought too much of horses.’ - -It was nearly an hour since her messenger had gone when Cecilia looked -anxiously at the clock. The doctor had given Lady Eliza what stimulant -she could swallow to keep her alive till Fullarton should come, and, -though she could scarcely turn her head, her dying ears were listening -for his step at the door. It came at last. - -‘I am here, my lady,’ he whispered, as he took Cecilia’s place. - -‘I have been wearying for you, Robert,’ she said, ‘it is time to say -good-bye. You have been good to me.’ - -He slipped his arm under the pillow and raised her till her head leaned -against his shoulder. She was past feeling pain. Instead of the wig she -had always insisted upon wearing, a few light locks of her own grey -hair strayed on her forehead from under the lace-edged scarf Cecilia -had put round her, softening her face. She looked strangely young. - -Robert could not speak. - -‘Eliza----’ he began, but his voice broke. - -‘Be good to Cecilia, Fullarton. My little girl--if I had done -differently----’ - -Cecilia rose from her knees and leaned over Fullarton to kiss her. - -‘Aunt, I have promised. All will be well with me.’ - -‘Yes, yes, I know. I am happy. Robert----’ - -With an effort she raised her hand, whiter, more fragile than when he -had admired it as they sat in the garden; even in her death she -remembered that moment. And, as, for the first and last time in her -life, he laid his lips upon it, the light in her eyes went out. - - * * * * * - -It was nearing sunrise when he left Cecilia in the dark house, and -daylight was beginning to look blue through the chinks of the shutter -as it met the shine of the candles. - -‘I will come back to-day,’ he said; ‘there will be a great many things -I must help you about. To-morrow you must come to Fullarton.’ - -‘And leave her?’ she exclaimed. - -‘If her friendship for me had been less,’ said he, as they parted, -‘you and I would have been happier to-day. My God! what a sacrifice!’ - -‘Do you call that friendship?’ she cried, facing him, straight and -white in the dimness of the hall. ‘Is _that_ what you call friendship? -Mr. Fullarton, have you never understood?’ - - * * * * * - -Fullarton rode home in the breaking morning, his long coat buttoned -high round his neck. It was chilly and the new day was rising on a -world poor and grey, a world which, yesterday, had held more than he -understood, and to-day, would hold less than he needed. His loss was -heavy on him and he knew that he would feel it more each hour. But what -bore him down was the tardy understanding of what he had done when he -forged the link just broken. He had accepted a life as a gift, without -thanks and without the knowledge of what he did, for he had been too -intent upon himself to see the proportions of anything. - -Now only was he to realize how much she had lightened for him the -burden of his barren life. How often he had seen in her face the -forgiveness of his ungracious words, the condoning of his little -selfishnesses, how often known her patience with his ill-humours! She, -who was so impatient, had she ever been ungentle with him? Once only. -It was not so many months since she had asked his pardon for it as they -sat on the garden bench. With what magnanimity he had forgiven her! - -He entered the house and sat down at the pale fire which a housemaid -had just lit. His heart was too worn, too numb, too old for tears; it -could only ache. His butler, an Englishman who had been with him twenty -years, came in and put some wine on the table, but he did not turn his -head; the man poured out a glass and brought it to him. - -‘It will do you good, sir,’ he said, ‘and your bed is ready upstairs. -You should try to sleep, sir, if you are going to see her ladyship -again to-day.’ - -Robert looked up. - -‘Her ladyship is dead,’ he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -CECILIA SEES THE WILD GEESE - - -THERE are some periods in life when the heart, from very excess of -misery, finds a spurious relief; when pain has so dulled the nerves, -that, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, we sink into an endurance that -is not far from peace. - -Thus it was with Cecilia Raeburn. When the vault in the little cemetery -between Morphie House and Morphie Kirk had been closed over Lady Eliza, -Robert brought her and all her belongings to Fullarton, in accordance -with a promise he had made at the bedside of his friend. She went with -him passively, once that the coffin had been taken away, for the house, -after the gloom and silence of its drawn blinds, was beginning to -resume its original look and the sight hurt her. She had been uprooted -many times since her early youth, and, like a wayfarer, she must take -the road again. Her last rest had continued for fourteen happy years -whose happiness made it all the harder to look forward. Her next would -be Fullarton, and, after that, possibly--probably, wherever the solid -heir to the house of Fordyce should pitch his tent. But a year was a -respite, for who knew what might happen in a year? He might transfer -his unwelcome attentions to someone else, or death, even, might step in -to save her; she had just seen how near he could creep without sign or -warning. She would not look forward, but, in her secret heart, she -could not banish the faint hope that Gilbert might come back. - -All the dead woman’s possessions which had passed to herself she had -brought to Fullarton. Necessity had compelled her to sell the furniture -and the horses; and the sight of the former being carried away from its -familiar place was softened to her by the fact that Robert had bought -it all. He had also secured Rocket; and, although the mare’s headlong -impatience had dug her owner’s grave, she had been so much loved by -Lady Eliza that Cecilia could scarce have endured to think of her in -strange hands. She had wished to give her to Fullarton, but he, knowing -that each pound must be of importance to her, had refused to accept the -gift. Rocket now stood in a stall next to the black horse she had -followed with such fatal haste. - -Among the many things for which Cecilia was grateful to Fullarton, not -the least was the consideration which moved him to forbid Crauford the -house. He was aware that his nephew meant to recommence his suit, and -though, knowing her and being ignorant of Lady Eliza’s dying desire, he -did not think she would accept him now more than before, he would not -allow her to be annoyed. Some weeks after the funeral Fordyce had -proposed himself as his uncle’s guest for a few days and been told -that, for some time to come, it would be inconvenient to receive him. - -During the fierce ordeal of her last days at Morphie Cecilia had had -little time to turn over in her mind the startling truth which her -aunt, in her delirious state, had revealed; but now, as she sat in the -long Spring evenings, silent while Fullarton read, she would look -earnestly at him to discover, if she might, some resemblance to his -son. Occasionally she fancied she could trace it, scarcely in feature, -but in voice and figure. Whether rightly or wrongly, what she had -learned drew her closer to him, and she took a sad satisfaction in the -thought that her lover’s father was, till she could settle some way of -existence, playing father to her too. She loved him because he had been -so much to Lady Eliza and because she now saw how profoundly the -revelation of the part he had borne in her life moved him. He had -become sadder, more cynical, more impervious to outer influence, but -she knew what was making him so and loved him for the knowledge. Only -on one point did she judge him hardly, and that was for the entire lack -of interest or sympathy he had shown to Gilbert; not realizing what -havoc had been wrought in his life by his birth nor giving due weight -to the fact that, until a year previously, he had never so much as set -eyes on him. His intense desire had been to bury his past--but for one -adored memory--as deep as the bottomless pit and Gilbert’s return had -undone the work of years. He could never look at him without the -remembrance of what he had cost. He did not know if his son were aware -of the bond between them and he was determined to check any approach, -however small, which might come of his knowledge by an unchangeable -indifference; though he could not banish him, at least he would ignore -him as much as was consistent with civility of a purely formal kind. -Lady Eliza had understood this and it had deepened her prejudice; what -small attention she had given to Speid had been the outcome of her -desire that Robert should appreciate her absolute neutrality; that he -should know she treated him as she would treat any presentable young -man who should become her neighbour; with neither hostility nor special -encouragement. - -And so Cecilia stayed on at Fullarton, silenced by Robert when she made -any mention of leaving it, until spring merged into summer and Crauford -Fordyce, making Barclay’s house the base of his operations, knocked -once more at his uncle’s door in the propitious character of wooer. He -returned in the evening to his friend with the news that Miss Raeburn -had refused to listen to his proposal: while Lady Eliza had not been a -year in her grave, she said, she had no wish to think of marrying. To -his emphatic assurance that he would return when that period should be -over she had made no reply, and, as they parted and he reiterated his -intention, she had told him to hope for nothing. - -‘I know what women are at when they say that!’ exclaimed Barclay; -‘there is nothing like perseverance, Fordyce. If you don’t get her next -time you may laugh at me for a fool. She got nothing by her ladyship’s -death, and she will find out what that means when she leaves Fullarton. -Keep up heart and trust Alexander Barclay.’ - -Crauford’s visit shook Cecilia out of the surface composure that her -unmolested life had induced, and brought home to her the truth that -every day was lessening her chance of escape. Apparently, his mind was -the same, and, meanwhile, no word of the man she would never cease to -love came to her from any source. Once she had gone to Kaims and paid a -visit to the Miss Robertsons, hoping for news of him, however meagre, -but she had been stiffly received. A woman who had driven away Gilbert -Speid by her cold refusal was scarcely a guest appreciated by Miss -Hersey, nor was the old lady one to detect anything showing another -side to the situation. She looked with some disdain upon her visitor -and longed very heartily to assure her that such a fine young fellow as -her kinsman was not likely to go solitary about the world for lack of a -wife. She reported the visit duly when she wrote to him, but without -comment. - -When winter came hope died in Cecilia; there was no one to stay her up, -no one to whom she could go for a touch of sympathy, and, should -Fordyce carry out his threat of returning in January, the time would -have come when she must redeem her word. She had felt the strength of a -lion when she saw her promise bring content to Lady Eliza; now, her -heart was beginning to fail. But, fail or not, there was but one end to -it. - -Sometimes she would go out alone and walk through the wet fields -towards the river--for the higher reaches of the Lour were almost within -sight of the windows of Fullarton--and look at its waters rolling -seaward past that bit of country which had held so much for her. She -loved it the more fiercely for the thought that she must soon turn her -back on it. Once, a skein of wild geese passed over her head on their -flight to the tidal marshes beyond Kaims, and the far-away scream in -the air held her spellbound. High up, pushing their way to the sea, -their necks outstretched as though drawn by a magnet to their goal, -they held on their course; and their cry rang with the voice of the -north--the voice of the soul of the coast. She leaned her head against a -tree and wept unrestrainedly with the relief of one not commonly given -to tears. Once more, she told herself, before leaving Fullarton, she -would ride to Morphie and look at the old house from the road; so far, -she had never had courage to turn her horse in that direction, though -she now rode almost daily. Once too, she would go and stand by the Lour -bridge where she could see the white walls of Whanland. - -While Cecilia, at Fullarton, was trying to nerve herself to the part -she must play, Crauford, at Fordyce, was spending a more peaceful time -than he had experienced since he first confided the state of his heart -to his family. Lady Fordyce’s suspicions were lulled by his demeanour -and by a fact, which, to a person of more acumen, would have been -alarming; namely, that he never, by any chance, mentioned Miss -Raeburn’s name nor the name of anything connected with her. He had said -nothing about his fruitless visit to Barclay, and Fullarton, whose -inclination it was to let sleeping dogs lie, did not supplement the -omission. His nephew no longer honoured him with his confidence and he -had no desire to provoke another correspondence with his sister. To -Cecilia also, he said nothing; while he realized that to settle herself -so well would be a good thing from a worldly point of view, his -contempt for Crauford gave him a liberal notion of her feelings when -she refused him. He knew what had happened but he dismissed the episode -without comment. - -Autumn had again brought Lady Maria Milwright as a guest to Fordyce, -and the prodigal son, having temporarily finished with his husks and -being inwardly stayed up by Cecilia’s half-implied permission to -address her again, had time for the distractions of home life. Fordyce -Castle blossomed as the rose, and Mary and Agneta would, no doubt, have -done the same thing, had it not been a little late for such an -experience. Lady Fordyce went so far as to give a dinner-party and a -school feast. - -Crauford kept his own counsel strictly, and, though he had the honesty -to make no advances to Lady Maria, her appreciation of him made her an -agreeable companion; his sisters looked on with keen interest and -Agneta was emboldened to congratulate him on his return to the paths of -wisdom. - -‘Admit, brother,’ she began one day as they found themselves alone -together, ‘that Lady Maria is vastly superior to Miss Raeburn, after -all.’ - -‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed he, taken aback. - -‘But why is it nonsense?’ continued his sister, ‘what is amiss with -Lady Maria?’ - -‘Her face,’ said Crauford shortly. - -‘But Mama says it is absurd to think of that; I heard her say so to -Papa--quite lately too.’ - -‘And what did he answer?’ enquired her brother, thinking of a sentiment -in the memorable letter Sir Thomas had written him. - -‘I think he said that he supposed all cats were grey in the dark. He -could not quite have understood what Mama said; it seemed such an odd -answer, for they had not been talking about cats. It made her rather -angry too.’ - -Crauford said nothing and the two walked on. They were on the lawn, -watching Sir Thomas and the local minister playing bowls in the shower -of dead horse-chestnut leaves, which fell, periodically, like so many -yellow fans, to the ground. - -‘Did Miss Raeburn play the harp?’ asked Agneta, at last. - -‘No; at least I have never heard her,’ he replied. - -‘Lady Maria does; did she sing?’ - -‘No.’ - -‘Lady Maria sings. She has had lessons from an Italian master; I saw a -little drawing of him that is in her workbox. What could Miss Raeburn -do that you thought her so wonderful?’ persisted Agneta. - -Crauford knit his brows. Cecilia’s general mastery of life was -difficult to explain, nor, indeed, did he quite understand it himself. - -‘She is so--so ladylike,’ he said. - -‘Why do you always say that? Miss Raeburn was only a companion; now -Lady Maria has a title.’ - -People were much more outwardly snobbish in those days than they are -now that the disease has become internal; at present, it would scarcely -be possible to make such a speech and survive it. - -‘You know nothing about it. Miss Raeburn was Lady Eliza’s relation and -she called her her niece. And why do you say “was”? She is not dead.’ - -‘I don’t know; I suppose, because we need not trouble about her any -more. Do tell me what she was like, Crauford, I have so often wanted to -know. Do, do, dear Crauford!’ - -‘If I tell you a great many things, will you promise to keep them -entirely to yourself?’ he enquired, in an access of gracious elder -brotherhood. He longed for a confidant. - -‘Oh, yes! yes!’ cried Agneta, running her arm through his, ‘I will not -even tell Mary.’ - -‘I think she has seen the folly of her refusal,’ said he, gravely. ‘I -saw her a few weeks ago; in fact, I renewed my offer, but she said she -could not listen to me so soon after her aunt’s death. I am going back -next January and I have reason to suppose, in fact, Barc---- I am almost -sure she will accept me then. I trust you will receive her kindly, -Agneta. I shall look to you.’ - -Between gratification at his words and apprehension for the future his -sister was almost struck dumb. - -‘What will Mama say?’ she exclaimed when she found her tongue. - -‘I am afraid it does not much matter what Mama says,’ replied Crauford, -with playful intrepidity. - -He knew very well that he would not be at Fordyce to hear. - -But there was no use in meeting troubles half-way and Agneta was dying -to know more. - -‘Is she tall, brother?’ - -‘Rather tall,’ he replied. ‘She has a beautiful figure--very slender.’ - -‘As thin as Lady Maria?’ - -‘Good gracious, no!’ exclaimed Crauford. - -‘And what is her hair like, dark or fair?’ - -‘Rather dark, but not black.’ - -‘And her eyes?’ - -‘Remarkable eyes--in fact, rather too extraordinary. Not quite usual.’ - -‘She does not squint?’ cried Agneta, seized with horror. - -‘Should I wish for a wife who squinted?’ asked he, rather huffily. - -‘No, no, of course not; don’t be angry, Crauford. Why do you not like -her eyes?’ - -‘Oh, I do like them; only I wish they were more like other people’s, -wider open and bluer; you will see her for yourself, Agneta. There was -another man who wanted to marry her not long ago, a sulky-looking -fellow called Speid; but she soon sent him away and he has gone off to -Spain.’ - -‘Because of her? Did he really?’ exclaimed Agneta, taking a long breath -as she recognised the desperate matters life could contain. - -Lady Maria’s parasol, which was seen advancing in the distance between -the laurel bushes, put an end to further confidences, for Lady Maria’s -eyes, round enough and blue enough to satisfy anybody, had discovered -the brother and sister and she was coming towards them. - -Crauford, having been absent from the breakfast table, had not met the -young lady that morning. He made a stiff, serio-comic bow, laying his -hand on his heart. He could unbend sometimes. - -‘I hope your ladyship is well to-day,’ he observed. - -She blushed awkwardly, not knowing how to take his pleasantries. She -looked good and modest, and, in feature, rather as if she had changed -faces with a pea-hen. Agneta surveyed her from head to heel, earnestly -and covertly; she did not look as if she would drive anyone to Spain. -She was rather impressed by the idea of a sister-in-law who could so -ruffle her brother and his sex, for, though she was over twenty-six -years old, she had only read of such things in books; she had an -overwhelming respect for men, and it had scarcely occurred to her that -women whom one might meet every day, and who were not constitutionally -wicked, could deal with them so high-handedly. The possibilities of -womanhood had never dawned on her, any more than they dawn on hundreds -of others, both well and ill-favoured, who live contentedly, marry -early, have children frequently, and, finally, die lamented, knowing as -much of the enthralling trade of being a woman as they did on the day -they were born. - -But Agneta was groping along the edge of a world of strange -discoveries, as she stood by the bowling-green and mechanically watched -the figures of her father and the Reverend Samuel Mackay straddling as -they appraised their shots. Crauford and Lady Maria had long vanished -into the house by the time she turned to look after them, and the -bowl-players had finished their game, discussed it, and begun another. -She felt that being in her brother’s confidence had given her a great -stride in life. - -Four months later, she stood in the same place by the bowling-green and -saw him drive up the avenue to the Castle; he had been at Fullarton for -nearly a week and she went round to the front door to meet him. - -‘My news is important, Agneta,’ he said, as he greeted her. ‘Miss -Raeburn has consented; I have come to fetch some clothes I want and am -going away again to-morrow. Say nothing.’ - -‘Oh!’ said his sister. ‘I----’ - -The sentence was never completed, for Lady Fordyce appeared in the -hall. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -AN EMPTY HOUSE - - -WHEN the decisive step had been taken and Crauford’s perseverance was -at last crowned with success, he straightway informed his uncle of his -good fortune; also, he begged him to say nothing of the matter till he -should have gone to Fordyce Castle to announce his news. As we have -seen, he did not mean to announce it in person, but he wished to see -Agneta before retiring to a safe distance and writing to Sir Thomas, of -whose consent the past had made him sure; from his sister he counted on -hearing how soon it would be wise for him to face Lady Fordyce. Before -he left Fullarton he had allowed himself one day to be spent with -Cecilia. - -‘You cannot expect me to go to-morrow,’ he said to her, with solemn -gallantry, as he emerged from Fullarton’s study, where he had been to -declare the engagement. - -‘Do you not think your parents might be offended if you delay?’ she -suggested faintly. - -‘Let them!’ exclaimed Crauford. - -All next day she had clung to Fullarton’s proximity, hating to be alone -with the man with whom she was to pass her life, and feeling half -desperate when Robert closeted himself with a tenant who had come to -see him on business. Crauford’s blunt lack of perception made him -difficult to keep at a distance, and she had now no right to hurt his -feelings. On her finger was the ring he had, with much forethought, -brought with him; and, had it been an iron chain on her neck, it could -not have galled her more. When, at last, he had driven away, she -rushed to her room and pulled it off; then she dipped her handkerchief -in rose-water and dabbed her face and lips; for, though she had tried -to say good-bye to him in Fullarton’s presence, she had not succeeded -and she had paid heavily for her failure. - -For whatever motive she was accepting his name, his protection, and the -ease of life he would give her, she must treat him fairly; she felt -this strongly. She had not hid from him a truth which she would have -liked him better for finding more unpalatable, namely, that she did not -love him. - -‘You will learn to, in time,’ he had observed, complacently. - -If he had said that he loved her well enough for two, or some such -trite folly as men will say in like circumstances, it would have been -less hateful. But he had merely changed the subject with a commonplace -reflection. For all that, she felt that she was cheating him. - -To play her part with any attempt at propriety, she must have time to -bring her mind to it without the strain of his presence. He might -appear at Fullarton at any moment, with the intention of staying for -days, and Cecilia decided that she must escape from a position which -became hourly more difficult. While she racked her brain in thinking -how this might be effected, like a message from the skies, came a -letter from her friend and Fullarton’s cousin, the Lord Advocate’s -widow. ‘Though I know Mr. Crauford Fordyce very slightly,’ she wrote, -‘he is still related to me and I have to thank him warmly for being the -means of bringing my dearest Miss Raeburn into the family. Would that I -could see you to offer you my sincerest good wishes! I do not know -whether the day is yet fixed, but, should you have time to spare me a -visit, or inclination to consult the Edinburgh mantua-makers, I should -receive you with a pleasure of whose reality you know me well enough to -be assured.’ - -She had still nearly eight weeks’ respite. The wedding, which was to -take place upon the tenth of April, was, at her earnest request, to be -at Morphie Kirk, for she wanted to begin her new life near the scenes -of the old one. She was to be married from Fullarton; Robert, having -constituted himself her guardian, would give her away, and Crauford, -according to time-honoured etiquette, would be lodged in Kaims; Mr. -Barclay had offered his house. In justice to the bridegroom, she must -not fall short of the ordinary standard of bridal appearance, and she -showed Robert his cousin’s letter, saying that, with his permission, -she would go to Edinburgh to buy her wedding gown. On the plea of -ill-health Lady Fordyce had refused to be present at the ceremony, and -it was only the joint pressure brought to bear on her by brother and -husband which forced from her a reluctant consent that Mary and Agneta -should go to Fullarton and play the part of bridesmaids. Sir Thomas had -shown unusual decision. - -It was on the day before her departure that Cecilia rode out to take a -last look at Morphie. Though there was, as yet, no hint of coming -spring in the air, in a month the thrushes and blackbirds would be -proclaiming their belief in its approach, and a haze, like a red veil, -would be touching the ends of the boughs. As she stopped on the -highroad and looked across the wall at Morphie House, she felt like a -returned ghost. Its new owners had left it uninhabited and the white -blinds were drawn down like the eyelids of a dead face; her life there -seemed sometimes so real and sometimes so incredible--as if it had never -been. She saw herself going through the rooms, loitering in the garden, -and performing the hundred and one duties and behests she had done so -willingly. She smiled, though her heart ached, as she remembered her -aunt’s short figure leaning out of a window above the stable-yard, -watching the horses being brought out for exercise and calling out her -orders to the men. How silent it all was now; the only moving things -were the pigeons which had always haunted Morphie, the descendants of -those for which Gilbert had fought two years ago. She turned away and -took the road that followed the river’s course to Whanland. - -Here too, everything was still, though the entrance gate was standing -open. She had never yet been inside it; long before it had acquired -special interest for her she had felt a curiosity about the untenanted -place; but Lady Eliza had always driven by quickly, giving -unsatisfactory answers to any questions she had put. She rode in, -unable to resist her impulse, and sat on horseback looking up at the -harled walls. The front-door was ajar, and, seeing this, she was just -about to ride away, when there were footsteps behind her and Granny -Stirk, her arms loaded with fresh-cut sticks, came round a corner of -the house. She let her bundle fall in a clattering shower and came up -to Cecilia. Since Gilbert had left she had not seen the woman who, she -was sure, had been the cause of his departure, and her heart was as -hard against her as the heart of Miss Hersey Robertson. - -‘Do you take care of the house?’ asked Cecilia, when they had exchanged -a few words. - -‘Ay; whiles a’ come in-by an’ put on a bittie fire. The Laird asket me. -But Macquean’s no verra canny to work wi’.’ - -‘Oh, Granny, let me come in!’ cried Cecilia. ‘I want so much to see -this place, I shall never see it again--I am going away you know.’ - -The Queen of the Cadgers eyed her like an accusing angel. - -‘And what for are ye no here--you that sent the Laird awa’?’ she cried. -‘Puir lad! He cam’ in-by to me, and says he, “Ye’ve been aye fine to -me, Granny,” says he. And a’ just asket him, for a’ kenned him verra -well, “Whaur is she?” says I. “It’s a’ done, Granny,” says he, “it’s a’ -done!” An’ he sat down to the fire just wearied-like. “An’ are ye no to -get her?” says I. “Na,” says he. “_Aweel, ye’ll get better_,” says I. -A’ tell’t him that, Miss Raeburn--but he wadna believe it, puir lad.’ - -Cecilia had not spoken to one living creature who had met Gilbert Speid -since they parted and her eyes filled with tears; she slid from her -horse and stood weeping before the old woman. Her long self-control -gave way, for the picture raised by Granny’s tongue unnerved her so -completely that she seemed to be losing hold of everything but her own -despair. She had not wept since the day she had heard the wild geese. - -‘Ay! ye may greet,’ said the Queen of the Cadgers, ‘ye’ve plenty to -greet for! Was there ever a lad like Whanland?’ - -Cecilia could not speak for sobs; when the barriers of such a nature as -hers are broken down there is no power that can stay the flood. - -‘He thocht the world o’ you,’ continued Granny, folding her arms; -‘there was naething braw eneuch for you wi’ him. There wasna mony that -kent him as weel as a’ kent him. He didna say verra muckle, but it was -sair to see him.’ - -‘Granny! Granny! have pity!’ cried Cecilia, ‘I cannot bear this! Oh, -you don’t understand! I love him with all my heart and I shall never -see him again. You are so cruel, Granny Stirk--where are the reins? I am -going now.’ - -Blind with her tears, she groped about in the horse’s mane. - -‘What ailed ye to let him awa’ then?’ exclaimed the old woman, laying -her hand on the bridle. - -‘I could not help it. I cannot tell you, Granny, but I had to give him -up. Don’t ask me--I was obliged to give him up though I loved him better -than anything in the world. It was not my fault; he knew it. I am so -miserable--so miserable!’ - -‘An’ you that’s to be married to the Laird o’ Fullarton’s nephew!’ -cried Granny Stirk. - -‘I wish I were dead,’ sobbed Cecilia. - -Though Granny knew nothing of the tangle in which her companion was -held, she knew something of life and she knew real trouble when she saw -it. Her fierceness against her was turned into a dawning pity. How any -woman could give up a man she loved was a mystery to her, and how any -woman could give up the Laird of Whanland, incomprehensible. But the -ways of the gentry were past finding out. - -‘Come awa’ in,’ she said, as Cecilia dried her eyes, ‘and a’ll cry on -Macquean to tak’ the horse. Jimmy’s at the stable an’ he’ll mind it; -’twas him brocht me here i’ the cairt.’ - -She took the rein from her and walked round the house, leading the -animal. - -‘Macquean, ye thrawn brute!’ she cried, as she went, ‘tak’ yon horse to -Jimmy. He’ll no touch ye, man!’ - -Cecilia entered, and, through a passage window, she could see Macquean -in a rusty black coat, sitting on a stone-heap outside. - -‘Come here, a’ tell ye!’ cried the Queen of the Cadgers. - -Cecilia saw him shake his head. - -‘Ye’d be mair use as a golloch[1] than a man,’ said Granny, throwing -the reins to her grandson, who was coming towards them. - - [1] Blackbeetle. - -Cecilia went into a room and sat down on a window-seat; most of the -furniture was put away, and what was left had been covered up carefully -by Granny and Macquean. Clementina’s portrait was gone from the wall, -as well as that of the bay coach-horse, and the alcoves by the -fireplace were empty of books. She sat and gazed at the bare -beech-trees and the fields between Whanland and the sand-hills. He must -have looked out at that view every day, and her eyes drank it in; the -garden wall and the stable buildings broke its flat lines. Being on the -ground floor, she could not see the sea; but the heaven above, with its -long-drawn, fine clouds, wore the green-gray which suggests an -ocean-sky. She was quite calm by the time Granny came in and stood -beside her. - -The old woman, though softened and puzzled, was yet in an inquisitorial -mind; she stood before the window-seat, her arms akimbo and her skirt -turned up and drawn through the placket-hole, for she had been -cleaning. - -‘An’ what gar’d ye put Whanland awa’ if ye liket him sae weel?’ she -asked again. ‘Dod, that wasna the gait a’ wad hae gaed when a’ was a -lassie!’ - -‘I cannot speak about it,’ answered Cecilia, rising, her face set; -‘there is no use in asking me. I was forced to do it. God knows I have -no heart left. Oh, Granny! if he could but come back! In two months I -shall be married.’ - -The Queen of the Cadgers stood silent; there was so much more in the -matter than she had suspected; Cecilia might be a fool, but she was not -the cold-hearted flirt whom she had pictured torturing Gilbert for her -own entertainment. - -‘It’s ill work mendin’ ae man’s breeks when yer hairt’s in anither -ane’s pocket,’ she said. - -Though mirth was far, indeed, from her, Cecilia could not help smiling -at this crusty cutting from the loaf of wisdom. - -‘Ah! ye may lauch now,’ exclaimed Granny solemnly, ‘but what ’ll ye do -when he comes hame, an’ you married? Ye’ll need to mind yersel’ then.’ - -Neither of the women knew on how appropriate a spot the warning was -offered, as they stood within a few feet of Clementina Speid’s empty -place upon the wall. - -‘I shall be gone,’ answered Cecilia. ‘I pray that I may never see his -face again.’ - -‘Wad ye tak’ him, syne he was hame?’ - -‘Do you mean if he were to come now?’ asked Cecilia. - -‘Ay.’ - -‘Oh, Granny, stop--there is no use in thinking or hoping.’ - -‘Wad ye gang wi’ him?’ persisted the old woman. - -‘What do you think?’ cried Cecilia, facing her suddenly, ‘do you think -anything could keep me back? Do you think I have ever ceased hoping or -praying? Don’t torment me--I have enough to bear. Come, let me see -Whanland. Show me everything, dear Granny, before I go. I shall look at -it and never forget it; all my life I shall remember it. Come.’ - -The two went from room to room, Granny leading the way. Cecilia’s eyes -devoured everything, trying to stamp each detail on her mind. They went -through the lower rooms, and upstairs, their steps echoing in the -carpetless passages. There was little to see but the heavy four-post -beds, a few high-backed chairs which still stood in their places, and -the mantelpieces carved with festoon and thyrsus. They went up to the -attics and into the garret; the pictures had come back to the place in -which Gilbert had first found them. - -‘Yon’s the Laird’s mother,’ said Granny, turning Clementina’s portrait -to the light, ‘she’s bonnie, puir thing.’ - -‘Was that like her?’ - -‘The very marrows o’ her,’ replied she. - -The mother Gilbert had never seen and the bride he had never married -were come face to face. The living woman looked at the painted one, -searching for some trace of resemblance to the man from whom she had -divided her; it was too dark for her to see the little box in -Clementina’s hand. There was something in her bearing which recalled -Gilbert, something in the brows and the carriage of the head. - -‘Come away,’ she said at last, ‘I must go home now. I shall always -thank you for showing me Whanland.’ - -They went downstairs and she stood on the doorstep while Granny went to -the stable for her horse; the light was beginning to change; she would -have to ride fast to reach Fullarton before it went. To-morrow she was -to leave for Edinburgh and her return would only take place a few days -before the wedding. A page in her life was turning down. She was to go -to London with her husband, and, in a few months, they were to come -back to settle in a place in Roxburghshire belonging to Sir Thomas -Fordyce. The east coast would soon fade away from her like one of its -own mists; the voice of the North Sea, which came faintly from the -shore, was booming a farewell, for the tide was coming in beyond the -bents. - -Before she turned away she leaned down from her saddle. - -‘Someday,’ she said, ‘when--if--Mr. Speid comes back, tell him that I -came here and that----’ - -But she could not go on and rode down the short approach without ending -her sentence. ‘Good-bye!’ she called at the gate, waving her hand. - -Cecilia had reached Fullarton by the time Granny Stirk had finished her -cleaning, for her visit had taken a good piece out of the afternoon. -Though she generally was a steady worker, the old woman paused many -times and laid down her duster. She took particular care of the room in -which Gilbert slept, but, as she shook and beat the heavy curtains of -his bed, her mind was not in her task. She was willing to admit that -his passion was not altogether indefensible. As women went, Cecilia was -more than very well, and, like nearly everyone who had once spoken to -her, she did not deny her beauty. She pitied her too; though, it is to -be feared, had her dead body been of any use to Speid, she would have -stood by and seen her murdered. But, as he preferred her living, he -should have her, if she, Joann Stirk, could get him home in time. Once -let him come back and she would tell him what to do. - -‘Ye’ll hae to drive me to Kaims i’ the cairt the morn’s morn,’ she -observed to her grandson, as they bowled homewards. - -‘I’m for Blackport,’ said Jimmy, laconically. - -‘Ye’ll do as ye’re bid,’ replied the Queen of the Cadgers. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -A ROYAL VISIT - - -WHILE Granny had shaken the curtains in Gilbert’s bedroom her mind had -worked as hard as her hands; there was no doubt in it of one thing; -namely, that, by hook or by crook, he must be brought home. It was a -large idea for her to have conceived, because she scarcely knew where -he was and had no idea how he might be reached. She understood that -Barclay had means of communication with him, but, since the visit he -had paid her, ostensibly to examine her mended roof, and, really to pry -into Speid’s affairs, she had distrusted him fundamentally. The matter -was intimate and needed the intervention of someone upon whom she could -depend. As the Laird of Fullarton was uncle to the person she wished to -circumvent, he also was an impossible adviser. The Miss Robertsons, -under any aspect but that of being Gilbert’s relations, she looked upon -as futile. ‘Twa doited auld bodies wha’s lives is nae object to them,’ -as she had described them, were not worth consideration in such a case. -In her strait she suddenly bethought herself of Captain Somerville. He -had three special advantages; he was her idol’s friend, he was -exceedingly civil to herself, and she had once seen him in uniform. -This last qualification gave him something of the weight and security -of a public character. Also, a person who had fought the French--all -foreigners were French to her--in every quarter of the world, must -surely be able to put his hand on any part of it at a moment’s notice. - -As a matter of fact, she could hardly have made a better choice. The -sailor, who bore a most human love to his kind, had appraised many men -and women in his time, and he had a vast admiration for Granny. Gallant -himself, to the core of his simple soul, he loved the quality in -others, and the story of her fight with circumstances and final mastery -of them had struck him in a sensitive place. On that memorable day on -which she had seen him in uniform he was returning from Aberdeen, where -he had gone to meet an official person, and his chaise passed her -cottage. As he drove by, he saw the little upright figure standing on -the doorstep, and, remembering her history, with a sudden impulse, he -raised his hand and saluted her. - -Though he was not, perhaps, so renowned a warrior as the Queen of the -Cadgers supposed, Captain Somerville had seen a good deal of service, -and had lost his leg, not in the doing of any melodramatic act, but in -the ordinary course of a very steadily and efficiently performed duty. -As a boy, he had gone to sea when the sea was a harder profession than -it is now and when parents had had to think, not twice but many times, -before committing their sons to it. He had run away and smuggled -himself upon a merchantman lying in the harbour near his home, and -before she sailed, he had been discovered by the first mate. His irate -father, to whom he was returned, thinking to cure him of an infatuation -he could not, himself, understand, arranged with the captain that he -should be taken on the voyage--which was a short one--and made to work -hard. ‘It would show the young fool,’ he said, ‘that the Church’--for -which he was destined--‘was a more comfortable place than a ship.’ But -the treatment produced an exactly contrary result. Finally, the family -three-decker received the person of a younger brother, and, after much -discussion, His Majesty’s Navy that of a new midshipman. More than -fifteen years afterwards he got into a young man’s scrape in an -obscure seaport, and emerged from it with Mrs. Somerville in tow. It -was one from which a less honourable man would have escaped more -fortunately. The lady was accustomed to say, in after times, that she -had been ‘married from the schoolroom,’ but many who heard her -suspected that there had never been a schoolroom in the matter. He had -now been Coastguard Inspector at Kaims for over seven years. - -The sailor was sitting at the breakfast-table next morning opposite to -his wife, portions of whose figure were visible behind the urn; Miss -Lucilla was away on a visit. The house stood a little back from the -High Street, and, though the room was quiet, a cart which had stopped -at the foot of the strip of garden was unnoticed by the pair. - -‘If ye please,’ said the parlour-maid, looking in, ‘there’s a fishwife -wad like to speak wi’ you.’ - -‘We require nothing to-day,’ said Mrs. Somerville. - -‘She’s no sellin’. She’s just needing a word wi’ the Captain. It’s Mrs. -Stirk--her that bides out by Garviekirk.’ - -‘It’s Her Majesty of the Cadgers, my dear,’ said the Inspector; ‘we -must ask her to come in.’ - -The parlour-maid smiled. - -‘She says she wad like to see ye alone, sir. “It’ll no keep,” she -says.’ - -‘Impertinent woman!’ exclaimed Mrs. Somerville, ‘what can she have to -say that I am not supposed to hear?’ - -‘I would do a good deal to oblige her,’ said Somerville, dragging -himself up. ‘Show her into the next room.’ - -Granny Stirk had put on her pebble brooch; the little woollen shawl, -crossed over her chest with its long ends tied behind the waist, was of -a bright red and black check; her head was bare and her thick iron-gray -hair held by a black net; her gold earrings shone. An indefinable rush -of fresh air, brine, and tar came in with her. - -‘Sit down, Mrs. Stirk,’ said Somerville, as he stumped in. ‘What can I -do for you?’ - -‘Sir,’ said she, ‘could ye tell me what’s come of the Laird o’ -Whanland?’ - -‘God bless me!’ exclaimed the astonished sailor, ‘I think he’s in -Spain.’ - -‘Does he no write ye? A’ mind he was aye billies[1] wi’ you.’ - - [1] Friends. - -‘I have heard nothing of him since he left.’ - -She made a gesture of dismay. - -‘Mr. Barclay must know where he is,’ said he. ‘I could get his -direction for you, I dare say, if it was anything urgent.’ - -‘Fie, na!’ she exclaimed. ‘Lord’s sake! dinna say a word to the like o’ -him!’ - -‘But what is the trouble, my good woman?’ - -Before replying, Granny drew her chair close to his, throwing a -searching look round the room and at the door; unfortunately, she could -not see through the latter, but had she been able to do so, she would -have noticed Mrs. Somerville standing on the door-mat. - -She plunged into her tale. - -‘Did ye no ken that the Laird was just deein’ for yon lassie o’ her -ladyship’s? A’ ken’t it fine, but he tell’t me no to speak a word, and, -dod! a’ didna. Well, he cam’ in-by to me and tell’t me he was gangin’ -awa’ for she wadna tak’ him. That was the way o’t; that was what gar’d -the puir lad gang. Did ye ken that, sir?’ - -‘I guessed it,’ said the Inspector, enormously surprised at this -beginning. - -‘Well,’ continued the Queen of the Cadgers, leaning forward and -solemnly shaking his knee to compel attention, ‘well, she’s to be -married in April month an’ she’s greetin’ hersel’ to death for the -Laird.’ - -‘How do you know that?’ asked Somerville. - -‘A’ was puttin’ on a bittie fire at Whanland yesterday--a’ do that, -whiles--an’ she cam’ ridin’ up. “Oh, Granny, let me come in-by!” says -she. “What way are ye no here?” says I. “What way did ye let the Laird -gang?” An’ she just began greetin’ till I was near feared at her; it -was aye the Laird--the Laird. I wager she canna thole yon lad she’s to -get. Says I, “Wad ye tak’ him if he was to come back i’ the now?” “Oh!” -says she, “div ye think I wadna? Oh! if he was hame! If he was hame!” -A’ could hae greetit mysel’, Captain.’ - -‘But why did she not marry him at the beginning?’ - -‘I askit her that. “Granny,” says she, “a’ canna tell ye; a’ couldna -help mysel’. There’s things a’ canna speak o’. A’ wish a’ was dead,” -she says.--An’ there’s Whanland that doesna ken it!’ continued the old -woman. ‘Sir, we’ll need to get him hame afore it’s ower late.’ - -Somerville was silent, feeling as though he were being invited to -plunge into a torrent. He was certain that every word Granny said was -true, for, though he had only seen Cecilia once since the news of her -engagement was public, that once had been enough to show him that she -was wretched. Some miserable tragedy was certainly brewing. - -‘Suppose Mr. Speid has forgotten her?’ he hazarded. - -‘_Him_ forget?’ cried Granny, rising with a movement which made her -earrings swing. ‘By Jarvit, Captain, a’ didna think ye was sic a fule!’ - -‘Perhaps I’m not,’ said he, rather nettled; ‘but what made you come to -me?’ - -‘Was a’ to gang to the Laird o’ Fullarton that’s uncle to yon red-faced -loon? Was a’ to gang to yon tod Barclay that’s aye wi’ him an’ that -doesna like the Laird--a’ ken fine he doesna. Was a’ to gang to they twa -auld maidies i’ the Close that doesna understand naething? Not me!’ -said Granny, tossing her earrings again. - -Captain Somerville put his hand on the back of his neck and ran it up -over the top of his head till his nose got in the way; his hair looked -like a field of oats after a rain-shower. Things did seem bad. - -‘Ye’ll need to write him--that’s what ye’ll need to do. Tell him if he -doesna come hame, it’ll be ower late,’ continued Granny. - -‘But he may not want to come, Mrs. Stirk--he may have changed his mind. -Remember, it is more than a year and a half since he left.’ - -‘Have a’ no tell’t ye?’ cried she. ‘There’s naebody kens the Laird as -a’ ken him. Gang yer ain gait, sir, but, when Whanland kens the truth, -an’ when yon lassie’s awa’ wi’ the wrang lad, you an’ me’ll need to -think shame o’ oursels!’ - -There was scarcely anyone who could more fitly appreciate the horror of -Cecilia’s position than the sailor. Long years of a companionship, -whose naked uncongenialness he had decently draped with loyalty, were -behind him to give point to Granny’s words; also, he thought of her -face as he had last seen it; and he had that highest and rarest -courage, the courage that is not afraid of responsibility. The rock on -which second-rate characters go to pieces had no terrors for him. - -The silence now was so deep that Mrs. Somerville, on the mat outside, -began to fear a move and made as quiet a retreat as she could to the -breakfast-room. She had heard enough to interest her considerably. -Though the talk was resumed before she was out of earshot, she did not -dare to return, for she saw, looking at the clock, that the maid might -come up at any moment to clear the breakfast-table. - -‘I will find out where to write to him,’ said the sailor. ‘We must lose -no time, for the letter may take weeks to reach him. I am afraid it is -a forlorn hope, Mrs. Stirk, but we’ll do our best. I shall write very -urgently to Miss Raeburn and tell her what I have done.’ - -‘That’s you!’ exclaimed the old woman. - -‘I must send the letter out to Fullarton to be addressed,’ continued -he, ‘I have not heard where she is lodging in Edinburgh.’ - -‘Dinna hae ony steer wi’ that Barclay,’ said Granny. ‘He’s aye keekin’ -an’ speerin’ about what doesna concern him, an’ makin’ work wi’ Mr. -Fordyce.’ - -‘I will go to the Miss Robertsons this afternoon,’ said he, half to -himself. ‘I know Miss Hersey writes to Speid. I suppose that, when I -send my letter to him, I may say you have been here, Mrs. Stirk, and -speak of your meeting with Miss Raeburn?’ - -‘Ye can that,’ replied she, preparing to go, ‘for a’m terrible pleased -a’ did it. A’ll awa’ now, sir, an’ thank ye.’ - -Mrs. Somerville, looking out of the window, watched the Queen of the -Cadgers walk down to her cart. A sneer touched the lady’s face as the -old woman got in beside her grandson and was driven away. - -‘Well,’ said she, as her husband entered, ‘what did that impudent old -creature want? You were a long time listening to her.’ - -‘She was consulting me about private matters, my dear; and I don’t -consider Mrs. Stirk an impudent person.’ - -‘You are so fond of being mixed up with common people,’ rejoined his -wife, ‘I am sure I never could understand your tastes.’ - -Had the sailor never been mixed up with common people Mrs. Somerville -would not have been sitting where she was. - -His feelings were stirred a good deal and he was in a mood in which -pettinesses were peculiarly offensive to him. Besides that, he was -inclined to think Granny’s acquaintance something of an honour. - -‘If there were more people in the world like Mrs. Stirk, it would be a -good thing for it,’ he said shortly. ‘You are an uncommon silly woman -sometimes, Matilda.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -MRS. SOMERVILLE HAS SCRUPLES - - -MRS. SOMERVILLE retired from the breakfast-room in the height of -ill-humour: it was not often that her husband spoke to her in so plain -a manner and she was full of resentment. She was conscious that she had -behaved badly in listening at the door, and, though the act did not -seem to her such a heinous offence as it might have done to many -others, her conscience aggravated her discomfort. - -But curiosity was a tough element in her, and she was stayed up through -its faint attacks by the interesting things she had overheard. Though -her ears were not sharp, and the pair on the other side of the door had -been sometimes indistinct, she had learned enough to gather what was -afoot. Evidently, Cecilia Raeburn was now breaking her heart for -Gilbert Speid, whom she had refused, and the Inspector and Mrs. Stirk -had agreed that he should be told of it; so that, if he were still -wearing the willow for the young woman, he might return in time to -snatch her from her lawful bridegroom. - -She had heard a good deal from Barclay of the checkered progress of -Fordyce’s wooing and she saw Speid through the lawyer’s spectacles; -also, the drastic rebuke she had suffered from Miss Hersey Robertson on -his account had not modified her view. To add to this, he was extremely -friendly with Captain Somerville, and she was of a class which is -liable to resent its husband’s friends. She was jealous with the -dreadful jealousy of women of her breeding; not from love of the -person who is its object, but from an unsleeping fear for personal -prerogative. She determined to tell Barclay of her discoveries, though -she had no intention of telling him how she had come by them; and the -thought of this little secret revenge on the Inspector was sweet to her. - -Throughout the morning she maintained an injured silence which he was -too much preoccupied to observe, and when, in the afternoon, he took -his hat and the stick he used for such journeys as were short enough -for him to attempt on foot, she watched him with a sour smile. He had -not told her where he was going, but she knew and felt superior in -consequence. She wondered when Barclay would come to see her; if he did -not arrive in the course of a day or two she must send him a note. He -was accustomed to pay her a visit at least once every week, and it was -now ten days since he had been inside her doors. - -Captain Somerville, though he returned with his object attained, had -not found that attainment easy. The Miss Robertsons had always looked -favourably on him as an individual, but Miss Hersey could not forget -that he was the husband of his wife; and, since the moment when she had -risen in wrath and left the party at his house, there had been a change -in her feelings towards him. Well did she know that such a speech as -the one which had offended her could never have been uttered by the -sailor; the knowledge made no difference; Miss Hersey was strictly and -fundamentally illogical. - -Gilbert had given his address to his cousins with the request that it -should not be passed on to anyone. He wanted to have as little -communication as possible with the life he had left behind, and the -news of Cecilia, for which he had begged, was the only news he cared to -receive; business letters passing between himself and Barclay were -written and read from necessity. He wished to give himself every chance -of forgetting, though, in his attempts to do so, he was nearly as -illogical as Miss Hersey. - -The Inspector’s request for his direction was, therefore, in the old -ladies’ eyes, almost part and parcel of his wife’s effrontery, and it -was met by a stiff refusal and a silence which made it hard for him to -go further. The red chintz sofa bristled. It was only his emphatic -assurance that what he wished to tell Gilbert would affect him very -nearly which gained his point. Even then he could not get the address -and had to content himself with Miss Hersey’s promise, that, if he -would write his letter, seal it and deliver it to her, she would direct -and send it with all despatch. He returned, conscious of having -strained relations almost to breaking point, but he did not care; his -object was gained and that was what concerned him. He had become almost -as earnest as Granny. The florid lady who watched his return from -behind her drawing-room window-curtains observed the satisfaction in -his look. - -He was a slow scribe, as a rule, and it took him some time to put the -whole sum of what Granny had told him before Speid; it was only when he -came to the end of his letter that his pen warmed to the work and he -gave him a plain slice from his opinion. ‘If your feelings are the -same,’ he wrote, ‘then your place is here; for, if you stay away a day -longer than you need, you are leaving a woman in the lurch. I do not -understand this matter but I understand that much.’ Then he added the -date of the wedding, underlined it, and assured Gilbert that he was -‘his sincere friend, Wm. Somerville.’ A few minutes later, his lady, -still at the window, saw the individual who was at once coachman, -errand-boy, and gardener disappear in the direction of Miss Robertson’s -house with a sealed packet in his hand. - -It was not until evening that he sat down to think what he should say -to Cecilia. The need for haste was not so great in this case, but every -hour was of value with respect to the letter Miss Hersey was forwarding -to Gilbert. There was no knowing where he might be, nor how long it -might take in reaching him, nor how many obstacles might rise upon the -road home, even should he start the very day he received it. But, here, -it was different. The sailor bit the top of his pen as he mused; many -things had puzzled him and many things puzzled him still. He had -received a shock on hearing of Cecilia’s intended marriage. In his own -mind he had never doubted that she loved Speid, and this new placing of -her affections was the last thing he expected; if there were no -question of affection, then, so much the worse, in his eyes. He thought -little of Fordyce and imagined that she thought little of him too. He -had never supposed that money would so influence her, and his -conclusion--a reluctant one--was that the extreme poverty which must be -her portion, now Lady Eliza was gone, had driven her to the step. - -Granny Stirk’s news had opened his eyes to the probability that there -were influences at work of which he knew nothing, and he was uncommon -enough to admit such a possibility. When most people know how easily -they could manage everybody else’s business, the astonishing thing is -that they should ever be in straits on their own account. But it never -astonishes them. Captain Somerville had the capacity for being -astonished, both at himself and at other people; the world, social and -geographical, had taught him that there is no royal road to the -solution of anyone’s difficulties. The man who walks about with little -contemptuous panaceas in his pocket for his friends’ troubles is -generally the man whose hair turns prematurely gray with his own. What -had Cecilia meant when she told the old woman, weeping, that she could -not help herself? He would, at least, give her the chance of helping -herself now, and she could take it or leave it as she chose. He was not -going to advise her nor to make suggestions; he would merely tell her -what he had done. He had no difficulty in justifying his act to his -conscience; he justified it to his prudence by reflecting on what she -had given the Queen of the Cadgers to understand; namely, that, if the -exile should return, she would throw all to the winds for him. - -‘My writing-table is to be dusted to-day, and I shall leave this here,’ -he said to his wife on the following afternoon, as he put the letter he -had written on the drawing-room mantelpiece; ‘if you can hear of anyone -going in the direction of Fullarton, I should be glad to have it -carried. It is to Miss Raeburn, in Edinburgh, so Mr. Fullarton must -address it for me.’ - -The Inspector was muffled in his plaid and Mrs. Somerville knew that -his duty was taking him south of Kaims; Fullarton lay north of it. As -he left the house he hesitated a moment. What if Barclay should call, -as he often did, on his way to Fullarton and his wife should entrust -him with the letter? Granny had been urgent in telling him to keep -clear of the lawyer. But he laughed at his own doubt; for, with the -worst intentions, how should Barclay know what it contained? What had -he to do with it? The old woman’s dislike of him made her take absurd -ideas into her head. - -Mrs. Somerville placed the letter where it could lean against the -clock, and, when the front-door had shut behind him, she settled -herself to a comfortable afternoon by the fire; beside her lay the -materials for trimming a bonnet, and, within hand-stretch, a small -table-cover under which she might hide them at the approach of company. -As she had said to Lucilla, she ‘did not wish to get the name of -trimming her own bonnets.’ Her mind was so full of the object on the -mantelpiece that she did not hear a step on the stairs, and, greatly as -she desired Barclay’s visit, when he was ushered in, she had -temporarily forgotten his existence. The bonnet disappeared with a -scuffle. - -‘You are quite a stranger, I declare!’ she exclaimed when the lawyer -had seated himself. - -‘Of necessity, Mrs. Somerville--never of inclination. My time has been -scarcely my own this week past.’ - -‘And upon whom have you bestowed it, pray?’ - -‘Have no fear, ma’am. My own sex is entirely responsible. And I have -been making a slight alteration in my house; a trifle, but necessary. -I am to lodge my friend Fordyce for the wedding and his best man is -coming too--at least so he tells me. They are feather-brained, these -young fellows.’ - -Mrs. Somerville’s knowledge was hot within her, and she turned over in -her mind how she might begin to unfold it without committing herself. - -‘It will not be a large affair,’ continued he, ‘no one but myself and -Mr. Fullarton and a handful of Fordyce’s relatives; the bride makes as -much pother about her bereavement as if it had happened yesterday. Lady -Fordyce is not to be present. I think she has taken such a poor match -very much to heart.’ - -‘We were invited specially by Miss Raeburn,’ interposed the lady, who -was not averse to playing a trump card when she had one. - -Cecilia had personally asked the Inspector to the kirk, and had, -perforce, made up her mind to the natural consequence in the shape of -his wife; he had been Gilbert’s friend and she felt that his presence -would help her through the ordeal. - -‘Then you will be of the bride’s party,’ observed Barclay, looking -superior. - -‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. Somerville, settling herself snugly against the -back of her chair, ‘we shall--if there is any bride at all.’ - -He looked at her interrogatively. - -‘I said, _if there is any bride at all_, Mr. Barclay; and for that -matter, I may add, _if there is any wedding either._’ - -‘What is to hinder the wedding? My dear Mrs. Somerville, you puzzle -me.’ - -‘Ah,’ she said, nodding her head slowly up and down, ‘you are right to -ask, and I can tell you that _Mr. Speid_ may hinder the wedding.’ - -‘You are speaking in riddles,’ said the lawyer, ‘I may be dull, but I -cannot follow you.’ - -‘If I tell what I know, you will get me into trouble,’ she said, -shaking her forefinger at him; ‘there is no trusting you men.’ - -‘Surely you will make an exception in my case! What have I done to -merit your distrust?’ - -‘Many shocking things, I have no doubt,’ she replied, archly. - -‘Ma’am, you are cruel!’ he exclaimed, with a languishing look. He could -have beaten her, for he was writhing with internal curiosity. - -‘Well, well; do not take it so to heart,’ said she, ‘and promise that -you will not betray me. Yesterday, after breakfast, a disreputable -person, a Mrs. Stirk, who seems to be known about here--_I_ know nothing -about her--asked to speak to the Captain. I was sitting at the -breakfast-table, but the door was open, so what they said was forced -upon me; really _forced upon me_, Mr. Barclay. Mrs. Stirk said that she -had seen Miss Raeburn and that she was crying--it was a very improbable -story--and that she was breaking her heart for Mr. Speid; she had the -impudence to tell the Captain that he should write and bring him home.’ - -Barclay’s eyes were almost starting out of his head. - -‘You may well look surprised,’ said Mrs. Somerville, ‘but what will you -say when I tell you he has done it? And because a fishwife told him, -too! I let him know what an impudent old baggage I thought her, and I -got no thanks for my pains, I assure you!’ - -The lady’s voice had risen with each word. - -‘Written to Speid? Impossible! How does he know where to find him?’ - -‘Miss Robertson is to send the letter. There will be no wedding yet, as -I tell you.’ - -‘He cannot get home; at any rate, it is very doubtful,’ said the -lawyer, counting on his fingers, ‘for, by the time he reaches here, -Fordyce will be a married man. And he will not stop the marriage, if he -comes. Miss Raeburn would never dare to give Fordyce the slip now, for -all her high-and-mighty ways.’ - -‘But the Captain has written to her too, so she will have plenty of -time to make up her mind. Look at the letter on the mantelpiece, -waiting to be taken to Fullarton. He put it there when he went out.’ - -Barclay sat staring at the missive and arranging his ideas. He wondered -how soon he could escape and send news of what he had heard to Fordyce; -he hesitated to hurry away at once, for he had not been to see Mrs. -Somerville for a long time, and he knew he was expected to sit with -her, as he generally did, for at least an hour. One thing was certain; -that letter on the mantelpiece should not reach Cecilia if he could -help it. The other had gone beyond recall, but he doubted it getting -into Speid’s hands in time to do much harm. Meantime, there was nothing -like prompt action. - -‘It is rather curious that I should be going to Fullarton to-day; I am -on my way there at this moment. I had meant to make you a long visit -to-morrow but I could not resist the temptation of turning in as I -passed this door just now. Suppose I were to carry the letter? No good -will come of it, I am sure, but, if the Captain wishes it to go, go it -must. Can you not persuade him to think better of it?’ - -‘Indeed, if he heard you had been here on your way to Fullarton and I -had not sent it, he would be annoyed. But how am I to forgive you for -such a niggardly visit? You have hardly been here five minutes.’ - -‘By allowing me to pay you a liberal one to-morrow,’ replied the astute -Barclay. ‘I can then assure you of the safety of the letter. What am I -to do? Give me all directions.’ - -‘You are to hand it to Mr. Fullarton and ask him to address it and send -it to Miss Raeburn. It is a very queer business, is it not?’ - -‘It will smooth down. I attach no importance at all to it,’ replied he. - -‘You are mighty cool about it, seeing that Mr. Fordyce is such a -friend.’ - -‘It can come to nothing,’ said he. - -He was determined she should not suspect his feelings, which were, in -reality, tinged with dismay. If Speid should baffle them still! The -letter might reach him in time and he might easily act upon it. A -torrent of silent abuse was let loose in his heart against Granny -Stirk. He had hated her roundly for some time, and now he would have -given anything to be able to turn her off the Whanland estate -altogether. He promised himself that he would see what could be done -when this affair of Fordyce’s marriage was off his mind. - -‘Mr. Fordyce should thank me for warning you,’ said Mrs. Somerville, -‘if he has any sense he will hurry on the wedding-day after this. -Whatever happens, do not betray me!’ - -A look in her face suggested to him that she might, in her heart, -suspect what he had in his mind. He would make sure. - -‘I suppose I dare not delay this for a day or two?’ he said, -tentatively, looking from her to the letter. - -‘Oh, no! no!’ she cried, in alarm. ‘Oh! what would happen if anyone -found out that I had told you?’ - -‘I am only joking,’ he laughed, much relieved, ‘pray, pray don’t upset -yourself, ma’am.’ - -‘I really do not know whether I have not done sadly wrong in speaking,’ -said she, turning her eyes down. ‘I have many scruples. My name must -never, _never_ be mentioned.’ - -‘You insult me, Mrs. Somerville, when you talk in that way. Your name -is sacred to me, as it has ever been, and your action is most timely, -most obliging. I only regret that your own wishes forbid my telling -Fordyce of your kind interest in him--in us, I should say, for I -identify myself with my friends. I am nothing if not true. You, surely, -of all people can give me that character.’ - -Playfulness returned to her. - -‘Come, come,’ she said, ‘you may go away. I shall not tell you what I -think for fear of making you vain!’ - -Barclay left the house with the precious letter in his pocket; he had -come out that afternoon, with no intention of going anywhere near -Fullarton. On reaching his own front-door he banged it so heartily with -the knocker that his maidservant felt her heart thump too. She came -running to answer the summons. - -‘Order round the chaise immediately,’ he cried, ‘and see that the fire -is kept in till I come back!’ - -As he stood at the door, waiting for his conveyance to be brought, he -saw the strange one belonging to Captain Somerville enter the street on -its homeward way. He ran to the gate which opened on the yard behind -his house. - -‘Be quick, can’t you!’ he roared to the man harnessing the horse. - -What he feared he knew not, but the sight of the Inspector’s plaided -body sitting under the retrograde hood of his carriage, like an owl in -a hollow tree, made him long to be clear of the town. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -ALEXANDER BARCLAY DOES HIS BEST - - -THOUGH Barclay had no intention of allowing the letter he carried to -reach its final destination, he could not venture to stop its course -till it had passed Fullarton’s hands. He was too much afraid that -Somerville and Fullarton might meet within the next few days. The mail -office should be responsible for its loss, if that loss were ever -discovered; a contingency which he doubted strongly. He found it -exceedingly annoying to be obliged to take this farcical drive on such -a chilly afternoon, but Prudence demanded the sacrifice and he humoured -her, like a wise man. Fordyce’s obligations to him were becoming -colossal. - -He found Fullarton in his library and explained that he was on his way -home. He had looked in in passing, he said, to ask him to address a -letter which Captain Somerville had given him for Miss Raeburn. He was -rather hurried, and would not send his carriage to the stables; if the -letter were directed at once, he would take it with him and leave it at -the mail office, should it still be open. Robert was not in the humour -either for gossip or business and he was glad to be rid of Barclay so -easily. He took up his pen at once. In five minutes the lawyer was on -his return road to Kaims. - -The mail office was closed, as he knew it would be at that time in the -evening, and he brought his prize home; to-morrow, though he would take -several letters there in person, it would not be among their number. In -its place would be one addressed by himself to the bride-elect and -containing a formal congratulation on her marriage. Should inquiry -arise, it would be found that he had despatched a letter bearing her -name on that day. It was best that the track should lose itself on the -further side of the mail office; the rest was in the hands of -Providence. It was a badly-patched business, but it was the neatest -work he could put together at such short notice. - -When the servants had gone to bed and the house was quiet, the lawyer -locked himself into his dining-room, where a snug little mahogany table -with a suggestive load of comforts stood ready by the arm of his -easy-chair. He sat down and took from his pocket the letter he had -carried about all the afternoon, reading it through carefully. As he -refreshed himself with the port he had poured out he counted again on -his fingers. But there was no use in counting; he could come to no -conclusion, for it rested purely with accident to decide how soon -Captain Somerville’s communication should reach Gilbert. If there were -no delays, if he were at Madrid or at some place within reach of it, if -he made up his mind on the spot, if he could find means to start -immediately and met no obstacle on the way--it was possible he might -arrive within a few days of the wedding. Then, everything would depend -upon Cecilia; and it would need almost superhuman courage for a woman -to draw back in such circumstances. He had done a great thing in -possessing himself of the paper he held. Little as he knew her, he -suspected her to be a person of some character, and there was no -guessing what step she might take, were she given time to think. ‘Hope -for the best and prepare for the worst.’ He was doing this throughly. - -He emptied his glass, and, with the gold pencil on his fob-chain, made -a rough note in his pocket-book of the contents of Somerville’s letter; -then he crushed the epistle into a ball and stuffed it into the red -heart of the coals with the poker, holding it down till it was no more -than a flutter of black ash. This over, he wrote Fordyce an account -of what he had done. ‘I am not really apprehensive,’ he concluded, -‘but, hurry the wedding, if you can do so on any pretext, and never say -that Alexander Barclay did not do his best for you.’ - -Crauford was at Fordyce Castle when the news reached him and it gave -him a shock. His ally seemed to be outrunning all discretion in his -zeal; to stop a letter was such a definitely improper thing to do that -it took his breath away. Not that it was his fault, he assured himself -as he pondered on it, and it was too late to make any remonstrance; -besides which, as he had not personally committed the act, he had -nothing with which to blame himself. Things looked serious. In a few -days Speid might be on his way home. He would write to Cecilia on the -spot; nay, he would go to Edinburgh himself and persuade her to hasten -the wedding. He would invent a pretext. It was curious that, while -Barclay’s act struck him as a breach of gentlemanlike behaviour, it -never struck him from Cecilia’s point of view, though it was clear she -did not want to marry him and that she did want to marry Speid. If it -had struck him he would scarcely have understood. She was behaving most -foolishly and against her own interests; she did not seem to realize -that he had the warmest feelings for her, that he was prepared to make -her happy and give her everything she could desire. So great was the -complacency--personal and hereditary--in which he had been enveloped -since his birth, that he could not see another obvious truth which -stared him in the face: namely, that he whose wife has married one man -and loves another stands in a place which ought to terrify a demi-god. -If he hated Speid now, he might have to hate him still more in time. In -his reply to Barclay he did not remonstrate with him; what was the use -of doing so now that the thing was over? - -Heartily did he wish the wedding hurried on for many reasons; one of -them was that his mother, who had taken to her bed on hearing of his -engagement, had now arisen, though her health, she said, would not -admit of her leaving Fordyce Castle or being present at the ceremony. -Nor were the protests of her family very sincere. Agneta and Mary, who -were to go to their uncle, were looking forward feverishly to their -first taste of emancipation, and Sir Thomas, having had experience of -his wife when in contact with the outer world, thought with small gusto -of repeating it. He had insisted that his daughters should go to -Fullarton and no one but himself knew what he had undergone, Lady -Fordyce being furious with her brother for having, as she said, -arranged the marriage. Everyone agreed that her decision was a merciful -one for all concerned, and, while Sir Thomas again ‘found it -convenient’ to sit up in his study till the cocks crew, the two girls -were supported by the prospect of the coming excitement. - -Agneta and Crauford kept much together; but, though she was the only -person to whom he could speak with any freedom, he did not tell her -what he had heard from Barclay. He was a hero to his sister; and a -hero’s bride is conventionally supposed to have eyes for no one but -himself. Existing conventions were quite good enough for him. - -His engagement was scarcely a blow to Lady Maria Milwright; for though, -as has been said, he was a hero in her eyes also, she was so simple in -character and so diffident that she had never even speculated on his -notice. Ideas of the sort were foreign to her. But, as her fingers -embroidered the handkerchief-case which she sent him as a wedding-gift, -she was overwhelmed with Miss Cecilia Raeburn’s good fortune. Agneta -was with him in his room when he unpacked the little parcel and read -the letter it contained. - -‘I consider that very kind of Lady Maria; very kind indeed,’ he said. -He did not only consider it kind, he considered it forgiving and -magnanimous. - -‘I wonder if you will be as happy as if you had married her?’ said -his sister, suddenly. ‘Is Miss Raeburn devoted to you, Crauford?’ - -The question took him rather unawares. - -‘Why do you ask?’ inquired he. - -‘Oh, I don’t know. Only she refused you twice, you know, brother.’ - -‘Not twice,’ said he. ‘She gave me great encouragement the second -time.’ - -‘I am sorry it is not to be a grand wedding with lots of fine company. -I should have enjoyed that. But, all the same, it will be a great -change for me and Mary. Miss Raeburn said we were to choose our own -dresses. Do you know, we have never chosen anything for ourselves -before?’ - -‘I am going to Edinburgh to-morrow or the next day to order my own -clothes,’ said he. ‘I have chosen stuffs already. I shall wear -claret-coloured cloth with a buff waistcoat and a satin stock. That -ought to look well, I think.’ - -‘We are to wear white, and white fur tippets and Leghorn bonnets with -pink rosettes. Papa gave Mary the money to pay for what we chose, for -mamma would have nothing to do with it. It is a good thing, for she -would not have given us nearly so much. Will there really be no one but -ourselves and Uncle Fullarton at the wedding, Crauford?’ - -‘There will be our cousin Frederick Bumfield, who is to be best man, -and my friend Mr. Barclay of Kaims. He is the Fullarton man of business -and a mighty pleasant fellow. Frederick and I are to stay at his house -for the wedding. Then there are a Captain and Mrs. Somerville whom Miss -Raeburn’--he always spoke of Cecilia as ‘Miss Raeburn,’ even to his -family--‘has invited, I cannot understand why; they are dull people and -the lady is not over genteel in her connections, I believe. Morphie -Kirk is a very small place for a wedding but Miss Raeburn has made a -particular point of being married there. I often accompanied her to it -when Lady Eliza was alive and I can guess (though she has not told -me) that she feels the suitability of our being married there for that -reason. It is a pretty feeling on her part,’ said Crauford. - -Her fancy for Speid could not really go very deep, he reflected, as -this little sentiment of hers came into his mind. The meddlesome old -woman who had brought such a story to Captain Somerville might have -known how hysterical women were when there was a question of weddings. -Cecilia simply did not know her own mind. - -He would see her in Edinburgh and do his best to persuade her to settle -a new date for their marriage, even should it be only a few days -earlier than the old one. And he would buy her some jewels--they would -help on his request. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -THE SKY FALLS ON GILBERT - - -GILBERT SPEID sat in the house just outside Madrid, which had -represented home to him for most of the eighteen months of his sojourn -in Spain; he was newly returned from Granada. It had been Mr. Speid’s -custom to pass a part of each year there, and it was there that he had, -according to his wish, been buried. Gilbert had gone to look at the -grave, for the decent keeping of which he paid a man a small yearly -sum, and had found his money honestly earned; then, having satisfied -himself on that point, he had wandered about in haunts familiar to him -in his youth and early manhood. It was not three years since he had set -foot in them last and he was not much more than thirty-two years old, -but it seemed to him that he looked at them across a gulf filled with -age and time. He returned to Madrid wondering why he had left it, and -finding a certain feeling of home-coming in his pleasure at seeing his -horses. - -He made no pretence of avoiding his fellow-creatures and no efforts to -meet them; and as, though he spoke perfect Spanish, he had always been -a silent man, there was little difference in his demeanour. But it was -universally admitted among old acquaintances that his Scottish life had -spoiled him. He rode a great deal and frequented the same company; and -he would often stroll down to the fencing-school where he had learned -so much to practise with his old master, or with any new light which -had risen among the foils since he left Spain. He felt the pressing -need of settling to some definite aim in life, but he put off the -trouble of considering it from week to week and from month to month. - -Miss Hersey wrote only occasionally, for her sight was not good, and -the world did not then fly to pens and paper on the smallest pretext as -it does now. A letter was still something of a solemnity, even to the -educated. Also, Miss Hersey thought that the sooner he forgot Cecilia -the better it would be, and the sooner he would return. She hoped he -would bring back a wife with him--always provided she were not a Roman -Catholic. She had told him of Lady Eliza’s accident and death and of -Cecilia’s removal to Fullarton, adding that she understood Miss Raeburn -was to remain there until some arrangement could be made for her -future; Mr. Fullarton was said to have promised Lady Eliza, on her -deathbed, that he would act as guardian. - -It took nearly a month for a letter from Scotland to reach Madrid, and -Gilbert had asked a friend who lived near to take charge of such -correspondence as might come for him within a fortnight of his return -from Granada. He had only reached home late on the previous night, and -he was now expecting the packet to be brought to him. - -He had slept long, being tired, and when he emerged from his room the -sun was brilliant. He walked out on the whitewashed veranda which ran -round the upper story of the house, and looked out on the March -landscape which the almond-blossom was already decorating. The ground -sloped away before him, and, on the north-west, the Sierra de -Guardarama cut into the sky. The pomegranates had not yet begun to -flower, but a bush which stood near the walls cast the shadow of its -leaves and stems against the glaring white. In Scotland, the buds would -scarcely yet be formed on the trees; but the air would be full of the -fresh smell of earth and that stir of life, that first invisible -undercurrent of which the body is conscious through a certain sixth -sense, would be vibrating. The Lour would be running hard and the -spring tides setting up the coast. He stood looking, with fixed eyes, -across the almond-blossom to a far-off country that he saw lying, wide -and gray, in the north, with its sea-voice calling, calling. His -servant’s footstep behind him on the stones made him turn; he was -holding out a little packet of letters. - -‘These have been sent from Don Balthazar’s house,’ said the man, in -Spanish, indicating a few tied together with string. ‘The others were -at the mail-office this morning.’ - -Gilbert sat down on the parapet of the veranda and turned over the -letters; those that had come from his friend’s house must have been -awaiting him a week, possibly longer. There were two which interested -him, one from Miss Hersey and one directed in a hand he had seen before -but could not now identify; it was writing that he connected with -Scotland. Miss Robertson’s letter was among those which Don Balthazar -had kept and he opened it first. The old lady generally reserved any -tidings of Cecilia for the last paragraph and he forced himself to read -steadily from the beginning; for, like many high-strung people, he -found an odd attraction in such little bits of self-torture. - -Half-way down the last sheet he dropped the paper as though he were -shot and the blood ran to his face in a wave. It contained the news of -Cecilia Raeburn’s engagement; she was to marry Crauford Fordyce, and -the wedding was fixed for the middle of April. - -He seized the letter again and glutted his eyes with the hateful words. - -‘You will cease to fret about her now,’ concluded Miss Hersey simply, -‘and that will be a good thing. I hear they are to live on a property -which belongs to Sir Thomas Fordyce in Roxburghshire. See and get you a -wife somewhere else, dear Gilbert, but not a Papist. Caroline and I -would think very ill of that.’ - -It was some time before he strung up his mind to read the rest of the -correspondence strewn about his feet, but, when he broke the seal of -the other Scottish letter, he looked first at the end. It was signed -‘Wm. Somerville,’ and consisted of four closely-written pages. Before -he came to the last line he sprang up, feeling as though the sky had -fallen on him. He ran through his room into the passage, shouting at -the top of his voice for his servant; the Spaniard came flying up three -steps at a time, his dark face pale. He found Gilbert standing in the -middle of the veranda; the scattered letters were blowing about, for a -sudden puff of wind had risen. - -‘Pack up!’ he shouted, ‘get my things ready! I am going to England!’ - -‘But Señor----’ - -‘Go on! Begin! I tell you I am going to England to-night--sooner, if -possible! Bring me my purse. Send to Don Balthazar and tell him that I -am going in a few hours.’ - -He took the purse from the astonished man, and in another minute was in -the stable and slipping a bridle over one of the horse’s heads, while -the groom put on the saddle and buckled the girths. He threw himself -into it and galloped straight to the nearest inn and posting-house in -the town, for the carriage which had brought him back on the previous -night belonged to a small post-master in Toledo and could be taken no -further than Madrid. - -Here he had a piece of disguised good fortune, for, though he could get -neither cattle nor conveyance that day, a Spanish Government official -was starting for France early on the morrow, and was anxious to hear of -some gentleman who might occupy the vacant seat in the carriage he had -hired and share the expenses of the road. In those days, when people -travelled armed, any addition to a party was to be welcomed. It only -remained for him to seek his friend Don Balthazar, and, through him, to -procure an introduction to the traveller. Their ways would lie together -as far as Tours. - -Don Balthazar was a friend of his youth; a lean, serious-looking young -man who had turned from a luxuriant crop of wild oats and married a -woman with whom he was in love at this moment, a year after Gilbert had -gone to Scotland. He had never seen Speid so much excited and he -succeeded in calming him as the two talked over the details of the -journey. They made out that it would take ten days to reach Tours, -allowing three extra ones for any mishaps or delays which the crossing -of the Pyrenees might occasion. In France, the roads would be better -and travelling would improve. Twenty-three days would see him in -Scotland; setting out on the morrow, the fourteenth of March, he could -reasonably expect to get out of the Edinburgh coach at Blackport on the -sixth of April. The wedding was not to take place until the tenth. He -did not confide in Don Balthazar; he merely spoke of ‘urgent business.’ - -‘Of course it is a woman,’ said Doña Mercedes to her husband that -night. - -‘But he never used to care about women,’ replied he, stroking his long -chin; ‘at least----’ - -‘Is there _any_ man who does not care about women?’ exclaimed the -lady, twirling the laced handkerchief she held; ‘bring me one and I -will give you whatever you like!’ - -‘That would be useless, if he had seen you,’ replied Don Balthazar -gallantly. - -Doña Mercedes threw the handkerchief at him and both immediately forgot -Gilbert Speid. - -It was as if Gilbert lived, moved, and breathed in the centre of a -whirlwind until he found himself sitting in the carriage by the Spanish -official, with Madrid dropping behind him in the haze of morning. -Inaction was restful while he could see the road rolling by under the -wheels; every furlong was a step nearer his goal. His whole mind had -been, so to speak, turned upside down by Captain Somerville’s pen. He -was no longer the lover who had divided himself from his mistress -because honour demanded it, but a man, who, as the sailor said, was -leaving a woman in the lurch; that woman being the one for whom he -would cheerfully have died four times a day any time these last two -years. - -The possibility of arriving too late made him shudder; he turned cold -as he remembered how nearly he had stayed another ten days in Granada -while this unforeseen news lay waiting for him at Don Balthazar’s -house. He had a margin of some days to his credit, should anything -check his journey, and, once beyond the Pyrenees, progress would be -quicker. If delay should occur on this side of Toulouse, he could there -separate himself from his companion and drive by night as well as by -day, for he would be on the main posting-road through France. - -He had not written to Cecilia. He would travel nearly as fast as the -mail and a letter would precede his arrival only by a very short space. -There had been no time, in the hurried moments of yesterday, to write -anything to her which could have the weight of his spoken words; and, -were his arrival expected, he feared the pressure that Fordyce, and -possibly Fullarton, would bring to bear upon her before she had the -support of his presence. He did not know what influences might be -surrounding her, what difficulties hedging her about; his best course -was simply to appear without warning, take her away and marry her. He -might even bring her back to Spain. But that was a detail to be -considered afterwards. - -He remembered the sudden admission he had made to Granny Stirk in her -cottage and told himself that some unseen divinity must have stood by, -prompting him. How little did he suspect of the sequel to that day on -which he had caught Lady Eliza’s mare; how unconscious he was of the -friend standing before him in the person of the little old woman who -offered him her apron to dry his hands and said ‘haste ye back’ as he -left her door. He had written her a few lines, directing her to go to -Whanland and get his room ready, and adding that he wished his return -kept secret from everyone but Jimmy, who was to meet the Edinburgh -coach at Blackport on the sixth of April. He had no horses in Scotland -which could take him from Blackport to Whanland, but he would be able -to hire some sort of conveyance from the inn, and, on the road home, he -could learn as much as possible of what was happening from the lad. His -letter would, in all probability, arrive a day or so in advance of -himself, and Granny Stirk would have time to send her grandson to meet -him and make her own preparations. Though the Queen of the Cadgers -could not read, Jimmy, who had received some elementary schooling, was -capable of deciphering his simple directions. - -It was eight days after leaving Madrid that the fellow-travellers -parted at Tours, having met with no delay, beyond the repairing of a -wheel which had kept them standing in a wayside village for a couple of -hours, and the almost impracticable nature of the roads in the -Pyrenees. The official had called in the help of his Government in the -matter of post-horses to the frontier, and these, though often -miserable-looking brutes, were forthcoming at every stage. Owing to the -same influence, a small mounted escort awaited them as they approached -the mountains; and the Spaniard’s servants, who occupied a second -carriage and had surfeited themselves with tales--only too well -founded--of murders and robberies committed in that part of the country, -breathed more freely. - -It was with rising spirits that Speid bade his companion farewell, and, -from the window of the inn at which they had passed the night, watched -his carriage roll away on the Paris road; he had hired a decent chaise, -which was being harnessed in the courtyard below to start on the first -stage of its route to Havre, and he hoped to embark from that seaport -in three days. - -Of the future which lay beyond his arrival at Whanland he scarcely -allowed himself to think, nor did he arrange any definite plan of -action. Circumstances should guide him completely and what information -he could get from Jimmy Stirk. He had no doubt at all of Cecilia’s -courage, once they should meet, and he felt that in him which must -sweep away every opposition which anyone could bring. He would force -her to come with him. There were only two people in the world--himself -and the woman he loved--and he was ready, if need be, to go to the very -altar and take her from it. She had cried out and the echo of her voice -had reached him in far-away Spain. Now, there was no power on earth -which should stand before him. - -So he went on, intent on nothing but the end of his journey; looking no -further; and holding back from his brain, lest it should overwhelm him, -the too-intoxicating thought that, in a couple of weeks, she might be -his. - -When, at last, from a point of rising ground a few miles from the -seaboard, he saw the waters of the English Channel, his heart leaped. -He drove into Havre just at sunset on the evening of the twenty-fifth -of March. Six days later he was in London. - -He had hoped to reach it earlier, but it was with the greatest -difficulty that he was able to get a passage to Portsmouth; he had -crossed to England in a wretched fishing-boat and that bad weather, -predicted on the French shore and only risked by the boat’s owner for a -large sum of money, met and delayed him. - -He saw the dark mass of Edinburgh Castle rising from the lights of the -town on the second evening after his departure from London; the speech -which surrounded the coach, as it drew up, made him realize, with a -thrill, that now, only two divisions of his journey lay between him and -Blackport--Blackport where he would meet Jimmy, perhaps hear from him -that he had seen Cecilia. Next morning found him on the road to Perth, -where he was to sleep that night. - -The weather was cold and gusty on the last day of his travels, and the -Tay, as they crossed it after leaving Perth, yellow and swollen; but -the familiar wide fields and the distant wall of the Grampians stirred -his heart with their promise. The road ran up the Vale of Strathmore, -north-east of the Sidlaws; as their undulations fell away they would -stretch to Kaims and the sea, and he would once more be in that -enchanted spot of land where the North Lour ran and the woods of -Morphie unrolled themselves across its seaward course. - -The last change of horses was at Forfar; from there, they were to run -through the great moor of Monrummon into Blackport, where they would be -due at eight o’clock. If he could secure anything which had wheels from -one of the posting-houses, he would sleep that night at Whanland. - -The passengers buttoned their coats tightly as they went forward, for -the weather was growing worse and the wind came tearing in their faces. -Before darkness fell, fringes of rain-cloud, which had hung all day -over the Grampians, began to sweep over them. The horses laid back -their ears as heavy drops, mixed with hail, struck them in sensitive -places and the coachman’s hands were stiff on the reins from the chill -water running off his gloves. Now and again the gale raised its voice -like an angry woman, and the road reflected the lamps as though it had -been a pond. They had left Forfar some time when the coachman, in the -darkness, turned a hard, dripping face to Gilbert, who was on the -box-seat. - -‘D’ye hear yon?’ he said, lifting his whip. - -Speid leaned his head sideways and was conscious of a roar above the -voice of the blast; a tossing and rolling sea of noise in the air which -he thought must be like the sound of waves closing above the head of a -drowning man. It was the roar of the trees in Monrummon. - -As the coach plunged in, the dark ocean of wood swallowed it up, and it -began to rock and sway on one of the bad roads intersecting the moor. -The smell of raw earth and wet heather was mixed with the strong scent -of the firs that laboured, surged, buffeted overhead in the frenzy of -the wind. The burns that, in places, crossed their road had now become -turgid torrents, dragging away soil and stones in their rush. - -‘It’ll na’ do to loss oursel’s here,’ observed the coachman. ‘Haud up, -man!’ - -The last exclamation was addressed to the off wheeler, who had almost -slipped on a round stone laid bare by the water flaying the track. The -only inside passenger, a West-country merchant on his way north, let -down the window and put out his head, to draw it in promptly, outraged -by finding himself in such surroundings and by the behaviour of the -elements outside. Such things did not happen in Glasgow. - -It was when they were on the middle of the moor that the bed of a burn, -steeper than any they had yet encountered, crossed their way. It was -not much wider than an ordinary ditch, but the force of the water -driven through it had scored the bottom deep, for the soil was soft in -its course. The coachman had his team well together as they went down -the slope to it, and Gilbert watched him, roused from his abstraction -by the fascinating knowledge that a man of parts was handling the -reins. The feet of the leaders were clear of the water and those of the -wheelers washed by the red swirl in the burn’s bed, when the air seemed -to rush more quickly a few yards to their left, and, with a crack like -that of the sky splitting, the heavy head of a fir-tree came tearing -downwards through its fellows. - -The terrified horses sprang forward up the steep ground; the coach -staggered like a drunkard; the pole dipped, rocking upwards, and the -pole-chains flashed in the light of the swinging lamps as it snapped in -two. - -The traces held, for they reached the further side almost by their own -impetus, and the guard was at the leaders’ heads before the Glasgow -merchant had time to let down his window, and, with all the righteous -violence of the armchair man, to launch his reproaches at the driver; -Gilbert climbed down and began to help the guard to take out the -leaders. The coachman sat quietly in his place. - -‘Well, well; we’ll just need to bide whaur we are,’ he said, as the -swingle-trees were unhooked. - -By the light of the lamps, the pole was found to be broken, slantwise, -across the middle and there was nothing for the passengers to do but -make the best of their position and await the morning. The gale -continued to rage; and, though the guard declared it possible to lash -the breakage together and proceed carefully by daylight, such an -attempt would be out of the question in the state of the roads, while -the storm and darkness lasted. The two other outside passengers, one of -whom was a minister, were an honest pair of fellows, and they accepted -their situation as befitted men of sense. - -The window of the coach went down and the Glasgow man’s head appeared. -He had tied up his face in a woollen handkerchief with large red spots. -The ends rose above his head like rabbit’s ears. - -‘You’ll take me to the end of my journey or I’ll ken the reason!’ he -shouted to the little group. ‘I’ve paid my money to get to Aberdeen and -it’s there I’m to go!’ - -Guard and coachman smiled, the former broadly and the latter at the -side of his mouth. Neither said anything. - -‘My name’s George Anderson, and I’m very well acquaint wi’ you!’ roared -the inside passenger in the voice of one who has discovered a -conspiracy. - -He had never seen any of the party till that morning, but he did not -seem to mind that. - -‘The pole is broken, sir. You can see it for yourself if you will come -out,’ said Gilbert, going up to the coach. - -‘Na, thank ye. I’m best whaur I am,’ said the man. - -The smile now extended to the minister and his companion, and, at sight -of this, the merchant burst into fresh wrath. - -‘Am I to be kept a’ the night in this place?’ he cried. ‘I warrant ye, -I’ll have the lot o’ ye sorted for this when I get to Aberdeen!’ - -‘If you like to ride one of the leaders into Blackport, you can,’ -suggested Gilbert, with a sting in his voice; ‘the guard is going with -the mails on the other.’ - -‘Aye, ye’d best do that. Ye’d look bonnie riding into the town wi’ yon -thing on your head,’ said the minister, who had a short temper. - -The window went up. - -The united efforts of Speid and his four companions succeeded in -getting the coach to one side of the way, and three of the horses were -tied up, its shelter between them and the weather; the Glasgow merchant -remained inside while they moved it. The rain was abating and there -were a few clear patches in the sky, as, with the mail-bags slung round -him, the guard mounted the fourth horse and prepared to ride forward. - -‘If you can find a boy called Stirk at the inn,’ said Gilbert, ‘tell -him to wait for me in Blackport till morning.’ And he put some money in -the man’s hand. - -The guard touched his cap and disappeared. - -It was a long night to Speid. The three passengers built themselves a -shelter with luggage and rolled themselves in what wraps and rugs they -had; not one of them had any desire to share the inside of the coach -with its occupant. The ground was too damp to allow a fire to burn and -what wood lay at the roadside was dripping. In a few hours the guard -returned with such tools as he could collect; the road improved further -on, he said, and the remaining six miles of the stage could be done at -a walk after the sun rose. He had seen nothing of Jimmy Stirk. He and -the coachman joined the party in the shelter. - -Gilbert, unsleeping, lay with his eyes on the sky; though he had been -much tempted to go on with the guard, he would have gained little by -doing so; his choice of a night’s lodging must be between Blackport or -Monrummon, and, under the circumstances, one place was intolerable as -the other. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -AGNETA ON THE UNEXPECTED - - -GILBERT was wrong in supposing he would arrive in Scotland on the very -heels of his letter, for it reached Granny Stirk’s hands three days -before the night which ended, for him, on Monrummon Moor. Jimmy, who -had brought it from Kaims in the evening, spelt it out successfully by -the firelight. - -The old woman sat, drowned in thought, her fiery eyes on the flame; she -could not understand why Cecilia had made no response to what Captain -Somerville had written, for she had seen him on the previous day and -was aware that no word had come from Edinburgh. Though she knew that -Barclay had carried the letter to Fullarton she had no suspicion that -he had tampered with it, imagining her action and that of the sailor -unknown to anyone. How should Barclay guess its contents? Also, she had -no notion to what extent he was in Fordyce’s confidence, or what a -leading part he had played in the arrangement of the marriage. Instinct -and the remembrance of his visit to her were the only grounds for the -distrust with which she looked upon him. - -She had not doubted Cecilia’s sincerity and she did not doubt it now; -but, unlike Gilbert, she was beginning to doubt her courage. She was in -this state of mind when she heard that the wedding day was changed from -the tenth to the seventh of the month; Speid would only arrive on the -evening before the ceremony. The matter had gone beyond her help and -she could not imagine what the upshot would be. But, whatever might -come of it, she was determined to play her own part to the end. Early -to-morrow morning she would send Jimmy to Kaims to tell the sailor of -the news she had received and Macquean should go, later, to get a few -provisions for Whanland; she, herself, would have a field-day in the -laird’s bedroom with mops and dusters and see that his sheets were ‘put -to the fire.’ - -Meanwhile, at Fordyce Castle, events, almost equal to a revolutionary -movement in significance, had taken place. Like many another tyrant, -Lady Fordyce, once bearded, began to lose the hold which custom had -given her over the souls and bodies of her family. Sir Thomas had, for -the first time, established another point of view in the house, and its -inmates were now pleased and astonished to learn that they survived. -That kind of knowledge is rarely wasted. One result of the new light -was that Agneta was allowed to accompany Crauford to Edinburgh, where -she was to try on her bridesmaid’s costume, report upon Mary’s, and -make acquaintance with her future sister-in-law. - -The sight of Cecilia was a revelation to Agneta. The hide-bound -standards of home had not prepared her to meet such a person on equal -terms and she knew herself unable to do so creditably; the remembrance -of Mary’s suggestion that they might ‘give her hints’ on the doing of -her hair, and such-like details, made her feel inclined to gasp. -Cecilia suggested something selected, complicated, altogether beyond -her experience of life and outside her conception of it. Crauford, to -whom this was evident, looked on triumphantly. - -‘Well?’ he began, as they returned together to their lodging in George -Street. - -‘She is _quite_ different from what I expected, brother--quite -different.’ - -‘Did I not tell you so?’ he exclaimed. - -‘You did--you did; but I did not understand. No more will Mary till she -has seen her. I am afraid she will astonish Mama dreadfully.’ - -Fordyce chuckled. The thought of his mother had never made him chuckle -before. But times were changing. - -‘I shall write to Mary to-morrow,’ continued Agneta. ‘Crauford, I can -quite understand about the gentleman who went to Spain.’ - -At this her brother’s smile faded, for the words made him think of the -gentleman who might be returning from Spain. As soon as possible he -must address himself to the task before him, namely, that of persuading -Cecilia to make the wedding-day a fortnight earlier. - -At the risk of wearying the reader, who has followed this history -through letters, fragments of letters, receipts of letters, and even -suppression of letters, Agneta’s somewhat ungrammatical sentiments must -be given. - - -‘MY DEAR MARY’ (she wrote), - -‘I do not know what Mama will say. We have arrived safe and waited upon -Cousin Maitland where Miss Raeburn is staying. She is _not at all_ like -what we imagined. You said we could perhaps teach her to do her hair, -but it is most _beautifully done_, and she has a lovely tortoiseshell -comb handsomer than Lady Maria’s. She is not at all shy, even with -Crauford, but she was most obliging and polite to him and to me too. -Cousin Maitland says she thinks she likes her better than any young -lady she ever saw. I don’t know what Mama will say because I am quite -sure Miss Raeburn will not be afraid of her, for she looks as if she -were not afraid of anybody or cared for anybody very much, not even -Crauford. He told me she was very fond of flowers, but I think he must -be mistaken, for he brought her some roses that were _ever so -expensive_ at this time of year and she thanked him nicely but she -never looked at them after she had put them down. Cousin Maitland is a -very odd person; her chin and nose nearly meet and she wears long -earrings and said a lot of clever things I did not understand. She has -an enamel snuff-box with rather a shocking picture on it. It is very -nice being on a journey alone and ringing the bell when I want -anything, but Jane forgot to bring my best slippers which is tiresome, -as we are to dine with Cousin Maitland to-morrow. Give my love and -respects to our father and mother and also from Crauford. I send my -love to you. - - ‘Your affectionate sister, - - ‘AGNETA FORDYCE. - -‘P.S.--She has the _loveliest_ feet.’ - - -All the arguments and persuasions which Crauford could bring to bear on -his bride did not avail to shorten the time before the marriage by a -fortnight, for the dressmakers at work upon her very modest trousseau -declared themselves unable to finish it by that date, and Cecilia was -thankful for their objections. He had dressed up some bogey of family -convenience which he held up before her, but, by aid of its -ministrations, he was only able to knock off three days from the -interval and fix the occasion for the seventh instead of the tenth of -April. He wrote to Barclay, apprising him of the change. - -When the time arrived by which some result of Somerville’s letter might -reasonably be expected, the lawyer was constant in his inquiries at the -mail office. As no sign came, he determined to drive out to Whanland -and question Macquean, for he thought that if Gilbert contemplated a -sudden return, the man in charge of the house would scarcely be -ignorant of it. - -It was on the second day preceding Speid’s intended arrival that he set -out for this purpose, and, at the outskirts of the town, observed the -person he wished to see approaching with the vacillating but -self-satisfied gait peculiar to him. Rather to his surprise, Macquean -made a sign to the coachman to stop. - -‘Have ye heard the news?’ he asked abruptly, his large mouth widening. - -‘What news?’ cried the lawyer, leaning far out of his chaise. - -‘The Laird’s to be hame, no the morn’s morn, but the morn ahint it.’ - -‘Has he written?’ - -‘Granny got a letter a day syne. She bad’ me no tell, but a’ didna mind -the auld witch. A’ kent fine the Laird wad need to tell ye.’ - -‘Quite right!’ exclaimed Barclay, with fervour. ‘That old she-devil is -beyond endurance.’ - -A descriptive epithet that cannot be written down broke from Macquean. - -‘What time do you expect Mr. Speid, late or early?’ - -‘He’ll no be at Blackport or aicht o’clock Friday first, an’ gin the -coach is late, it’ll be nine. A’m thinking he’ll likely bide a’ night -i’ the toon an’ come awa’ hame i’ the morn. A’m awa’ now to see and get -proveesions.’ - -The lawyer had other business on hand, so, after a few more words with -Macquean, he drove on; the servant continued his way into Kaims. - -This was ill news. Barclay had played Crauford’s game for so long that -it had almost become his own, and he felt like a child who sees signs -of imminent collapse in the sand-castle which has stood almost to the -turn of the tide. Only three more days and baffled, probably, by an old -woman’s pestilent interference! If Speid had left Spain in such a hurry -it was not likely that he meant to have all his trouble for nothing, -and, if no delay should occur on his road, he would arrive just fifteen -hours too early. It was a close business. - -For all his oiled and curled appearance, his fat hands and his -servility, there was something of the man of action about Barclay. -Also, he was endlessly vindictive. The idea of Gilbert, triumphing at -the eleventh hour, was as bitter as gall, and he resolved, while he sat -looking like a hairdresser’s image in the chaise, that no strong -measure he could invent should be lacking to frustrate him. As far as -Crauford was concerned he had a free hand and he would use it freely. -Suggestions boiled in his brain. To delay Speid in Blackport on the -night he arrived would be advantageous, and, if he could only delay him -till the following noon, all would be well. - -He ran mentally over every possibility. Suppose, as Macquean had said, -the coach should not be up to time and the traveller should come no -further that night, he would scarcely start for home before nine on the -next day. At ten, or thereabouts, he would reach Whanland, and, by a -few minutes past eleven, Fordyce would be married to Cecilia. -Everything fitted in so nearly that, assuming that it should arrive -late--as it usually did--the slightest delay would settle the matter. - -By the time he had alighted at his own door he had made up his mind to -send a mounted messenger at once to Blackport, and, in Fordyce’s name, -to secure every post-horse to be had at the two posting-houses in the -town. The pretext should be the conveyance of wedding spectators to -Morphie; the animals should be brought to Kaims early next morning. In -the afternoon, the bridegroom was to arrive as his guest, with his best -man, and he would tell him what he had done. His approval was a -foregone conclusion. - -Should the coach come in punctually, or should Gilbert hear, in -Blackport, that the wedding was to take place at once, his plan might -yet miscarry. The chances were almost even, he told himself; there were -other horses, no doubt, which could be begged, borrowed, or stolen by a -man determined to get forward, but there would be a delay in finding -them and that delay might be the turning-point. Macquean had not -informed Barclay that Jimmy Stirk was to meet Gilbert for the simple -reason that he did not know it himself; Speid had asked Granny to say -nothing to any person of his coming, so, though obliged to tell him to -make preparations at Whanland, she had entered into no details. She had -mentioned the day and hour he was expected at Blackport and that was -all. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - -THE QUEEN OF THE CADGERS TAKES THE ROAD - - -THE next day broke cold and stormy and driving rain sped past the -windows of the Stirks’ cottage. In the morning Jimmy set out, having -decided to go afoot and to return with Gilbert in whatever vehicle he -should accomplish the last stage of his way home. As the day went on -the old woman’s restlessness grew, and, by afternoon, her inaction, -while so much was pending, grew intolerable to her. She opened the back -door and looked out seawards to where a patch of ragged light broke the -flying clouds. This deceitful suggestion of mending weather decided her -on the action for which she was hankering. To Kaims she would go. -Captain Somerville might, even now, have received some word from -Cecilia, and in any case, the sight of his face would soothe her -agitated mind. Her heart was so deep in what was going on that she was -at the mercy of her own nerves so long as she was unable to act; and -to-day, there was not even her grandson to distract her mind. The man’s -more enviable part was his. - -It was seldom, now, that she drove herself, and it was years since she -had harnessed a horse. She wrapped her body in her thick, gray plaid, -pinning it tightly round head and shoulders, and went out to the shed -where Rob Roy was dozing peacefully in the straw, in false expectation -of a holiday. Almost before he had time to realize what she wanted, she -got him on his legs, pushed the collar over his astonished face, and -led him out across the windy yard, to where the cart stood in a -sheltered corner. In a few minutes she was turning his head towards -Kaims. - -The rain held off as she splashed down the road, and, at the bridge, -the North Lour ran hard and heavy under her; the beeches round Whanland -House were swaying their upper branches when she passed, as seaweeds -sway in a pool at the in-running tide. She drove straight to the Black -Horse in the High Street, for, behind the inn-yard, was a tumbledown -shanty, where carriers, cadgers, and such of the lower classes as went -on wheels, might stable their carts when they came to the town. The -grander accommodation, which had the honour of harbouring the chaises -and phaetons of the gentry, was on the inner side of the wall. When she -had left Rob Roy she walked to the Inspector’s house and was admitted. -She was ushered straight into the Captain’s presence; he sat in his -study, dressed for the road, for he had duty near Garviekirk. The -expression he wore was one unusual to him. - -‘I have made a discovery, Mrs. Stirk,’ he said, abruptly. ‘The letter I -wrote to Miss Raeburn never reached her. She has not received it.’ - -Her eyes seemed to pierce him through; he turned his face away. - -‘I am a good deal distressed,’ he continued--‘I did not suppose -that--those one associated with--did such things.’ - -‘It’s Barclay!’ exclaimed Granny. - -‘We cannot be quite certain,’ he went on, ‘so the less we say about it -the better. He was asked to carry it to Fullarton and I have reason to -know that it never reached Miss Raeburn. I have spoken quite freely to -you; as you have identified yourself with this affair, I felt I should -not keep anything back from you. I am sick at heart, Mrs. Stirk--sick at -heart.’ - -His expression was blurred by a dull suffering. - -‘Fegs! ye needna fash about the likes o’ him, sir! I warrant ye it’s no -the first clortie[1] job he’s done!’ - - [1] Dirty. - -‘It is painful,’ said he. - -There was more than the Queen of the Cadgers could fathom in the honest -man’s trouble; more lying on his heart, as he drove away down the -street, than she, looking after him, could guess. The sordid knowledge -of his wife’s nature had been with him for years, shut behind bars -through which he would not glance, like some ignoble Caliban. That -morning he had been forced to look the hateful thing in the face. - -A letter had come to Mrs. Somerville from Cecilia, directing her to the -private entrance at Morphie Kirk. ‘I hope Captain Somerville is well,’ -was its conclusion; ‘with the exception of a note of congratulation -from Mr. Barclay I have heard nothing of anyone at Kaims since I left -Fullarton.’ - -Mrs. Somerville had read it aloud, stopping suddenly in the middle of -the last sentence, remembering Barclay’s semi-jocular suggestion of -delaying the letter, and turned scarlet. She was apt, in difficulties, -to lose her head. - -‘I’m sure it is no fault of Mr. Barclay’s!’ she exclaimed. ‘I told him -how urgent it was.’ - -‘_What?_’ exclaimed the Inspector, turning in his chair. - -Then, seeing how she had incriminated herself, she had plunged into -explanations. The door had been ajar--she had been unable to help -hearing what Mrs. Stirk had said on the day when he had written to Miss -Raeburn--the words had _forced_ themselves on her. It was not her fault. -She had never moved from where he had left her sitting at the -breakfast-table. - -Somerville looked squarely at his wife. The door had not been ajar, for -he had fastened it carefully, as he always did before hearing private -business. He remembered doing so, perfectly. - -‘It was not ajar,’ he said, in a voice she had rarely heard; ‘it was -shut. And it is impossible to hear between the two rooms.’ - -‘I always did hate that old woman!’ cried Mrs. Somerville, her face in -a flame, ‘and why you ever let her into the house I never did know! I’m -sure if Lucilla were here she would take my part. And now to be accused -of----’ - -‘What have I accused you of?’ asked her husband. ‘I have not accused -you yet. But I will. I accuse you of telling that hound, Barclay, what -you heard, and, if I sit here till to-morrow, I will have every word -you have betrayed.’ - -Piece by piece he dragged from her her treachery; evasions, tears, -lies, he waded through them all. Furious and frightened, what -confidences of Barclay’s she had, she divulged also. At the end he had -risen painfully and left the room. - -The sailor was a hot-headed, hot-hearted man. He had no proof against -the lawyer and he knew it; but he believed him capable of anything and -was prepared to maintain his belief. - -‘You may tell Barclay,’ he said, as he paused at the door, ‘that I have -no proof against him but my own conviction. If he can prove me wrong I -will apologize humbly--publicly, if he pleases. But, until that day, if -he ventures to enter my house while I can stand, I will turn him out of -it with my cane.’ - -When Granny Stirk had done a few matters of business in Kaims, she went -down the side-street to the back premises of the Black Horse. Before -her, a figure battled with the wind that rushed down the tunnel of -houses, and, as he turned into the yard gate, she saw that this person -was none other than Barclay. He went in without observing her, and -called to a man who was idling among the few vehicles which stood empty -about the place. She continued her way round the outside wall to the -spot where she had left Rob Roy, and untied the rope by which he was -tethered. Above, a large hole in the stonework let out a strong stable -smell from the row of dark stalls built against its inner face. The -occasional movement of horses mixed with the voices of two people who -were walking along the line of animals together. - -‘Yon’s them,’ said one of the unseen individuals, as a scraping of -boots on the flags suggested that the pair had come to a standstill -under the aperture. - -‘Now, how many are there exactly?’ inquired the voice of Barclay. - -‘That’ll be sax frae the Crown an’ four frae the Boniton Arms--they’ve -just got the four in now. Them’s the twa grays at the end; an’ other -twa’s up yonder, the brown, an’ yon brute wi’ the rat-tail.’ - -‘Are you quite certain that these are all that can be had? Mind you, I -want every single beast secured that is for hire in Blackport.’ - -His companion made a small, semi-contemptuous sound. - -‘That michtna be sae easy,’ he replied. ‘Whiles there may be a naig I -dinna ken i’ the toun--what are ye wantin’ wi’ sic a lot, sir?’ - -His tone implied more of the practical than the inquisitive, but the -lawyer cut him short. - -‘That’s my affair,’ he replied. ‘My order is plain enough, surely. I -want every horse that is for hire in the town secured and brought -here--_every horse_, mind you. And by eight o’clock to-night they must -be out of Blackport--here, that is.’ - -The trace which Granny was hooking slipped through her fingers, and she -stood, open-mouthed, while the footsteps of the speakers died away. It -did not take her a moment to draw the right inference; if the lawyer -had mentioned Fordyce’s name she might not have understood so easily -what was going forward; but he had spoken as though the order had -emanated from himself, and Granny, on the other side of the wall, had a -burning lamp of wrath in her soul which illuminated his deed. - -It was almost half-past five, and, in less than three hours, Gilbert -would arrive at Blackport to find that there was no available means of -getting further. She knew him well enough to be sure he would start on -foot, if need be, so soon as he should learn from Jimmy of what was to -happen on the morrow; but, meanwhile, here was Rob Roy, at the end of -the reins she held, and what belonged to the Stirk family belonged also -to the Laird of Whanland so long as she had breath to say so. She got -into her place and drove carefully out of the narrow gate into the -street. It was scarcely time for the light to fail, but the sky was -dark with rain-cloud and the weather rolling in from a wild sea that -was booming up the coast. She cared for none of these things; inland, -eight miles off, lay Blackport, and, in less than an hour, she would be -there with a horse. - -Where the side-street met the High Street, an archway joined the inn -buildings to the opposite houses, and, under it, she observed Barclay -taking shelter from the sudden squall of rain which had come up in the -last few minutes. Beneath its further end, across the way, stood two -loafers, one of whom she recognised as a cadger whose cart was now -unharnessed in the yard. Though his days in the trade had begun long -after her own had ended she knew something about him; principally, that -rumour connected him with a Blackport poaching gang which had been -active in the preceding year. He looked at her as she approached and -sent an obscene word to meet her, but she neither heard nor heeded, for -her attention was set on the lawyer whom she was about to pass. - -‘Where are you bound for?’ called Barclay. - -Her eyes flamed. - -‘Ah! ye deevil!’ she cried, ‘a’ heard ye! Look! Here’s a horse that’ll -be in Blackport the nicht!’ - -Before she was through the arch Barclay realized that she must have -been near him in the yard. By what chance she had understood his -business there he knew not--had not time to guess. He turned livid. - -‘Stop her!’ he shouted to the two men as he made a futile dash after -the cart. - -The cadger on the opposite pavement sprang forward. - -‘Go on!’ roared the lawyer, ‘go on, man! Stop her! Stop her!’ - -Granny struck Rob Roy sharply and he plunged into his collar. The -cadger sprang at his head, but the horse swerved, and his hand fell on -the rein just behind the rings of the pad. There was a curse and a -rattle; like a snake the whip-thong curled in the air and came down -across his face, with a hissing cut that Barclay could hear where he -stood, and, as the man fell back, his hands to his eyes, the gallant -old woman swung out into the middle of the street. - -‘Go on! Go after her! Five pounds if you can stop her! Ten!’ yelled -Barclay. - -‘Awa’ ye go and get yer cairt!’ cried the friend who had been standing -with the cadger. - -At the mention of money the man took his hands from his face; a red -wale lay across it and the water poured from his eyes. - -‘He’s got a cairt yonder i’ the yaird!’ cried the friend again. - -‘Quick then!’ shouted Barclay, seizing him. ‘If you stop that hell-cat -getting to Blackport to-night you shall get ten pounds and I’ll see you -come to no harm. Run!’ - -At this moment Granny, going at a smart trot, turned to look back, for -she was not yet out of sight; she saw the cadger pushed towards the inn -by Barclay, she saw him run back under the arch, and she understood. -She sat down in her place, her heel against the footboard, and let the -lash float out on Rob Roy’s shoulder. She knew the value of a good -start. - -Showers of mud flew behind her as the little horse’s hoofs smote the -earth in the fast, steady trot to which she kept him. The east wind -almost hurled her out of her seat as she passed the fringe of the town, -for she was going north, and it came in from the sea, not half a mile -off, with a violence that blew Rob Roy’s mane stiffly out from his -neck. At the further side of Kaims flowed the South Lour, making a -large tidal lake west of it; along the north side of this estuary the -Blackport road ran, straight, but for certain indecisive bends; -practically level for eight miles. As she turned along it and found the -blast at her back she increased her pace. Not far in front the way -dipped, and a sluggish stream which drained the fields on her right -hand ran under a low, stone bridge into the marsh which edged the -‘Basin of Kaims,’ as the semi-salt lake was called. The wind had -whipped the water into small waves, for it was high tide and the swirl -almost invaded her path; a couple of gulls, tilted sideways on -outspread wings, were driven over her head. The sound of the crawling -water was drowned in the gale which was growing steadily. She pressed -on, the horse well in hand, till she reached the summit of the rise -half a mile ahead and pulled up for a moment in the shelter of a broken -wall. Turning, she strained her eyes into the dusk, and, remote from -the undercurrent of the water’s voice, on the following wind there came -to her the distant beat of hoofs. - -She was old, her body’s strength was on the wane, but the fire of her -spirit was untouched, as it would be until Death’s hand, which alone -could destroy it, should find her out. Though she knew herself face to -face with a task which needed more than the force she could bring to -it, though her body was cold in the rain and the hands which steered -her were aching, her heart leaped in her as she pulled Rob Roy together -and cried to him in the wind. The Queen of the Cadgers was on the road -again. - -O faithful hands that have wrought here; that have held sword, or -plough or helm! O fighters, with souls rising to the heavy odds, nerves -steadying to the shock whose force you dare, unrecking of its weight! -What will you do in the Eternity when there will be no cause to fight -for, no Goliath of Gath, twice your size, to sally forth against with -sling and stone? In that Paradise that we are promised, where will be -your place? We cannot tell. But, if there be a just God who made your -high hearts, He will answer the question whose solution is not for us. - -The next three miles were almost level and she drove on steadily; she -had seen her pursuer’s nag in the Black Horse yard, a hairy-heeled bay -with a white nose who looked as if he had already travelled some -distance. Rob Roy had been little out of late and the cart was empty; -indeed, it was light enough to be a precarious seat for a woman of her -age. By the time she had done half her journey it had become dark -enough to make caution necessary, for few country travellers carried -lights in those days, and she was on the highroad which took an -eastward sweep to the coast between Perth and Aberdeen. She stopped -once more to listen and give Rob Roy his wind; for the last half mile -they had come up a gradual ascent whose length made up for its gentle -slope. He did not seem distressed and the gale had helped him, for it -was almost strong enough behind him to blow the cart forward without -his efforts. - -On again, this time a little faster; the solid blackness of the fields -slid by and she passed a clump of trees, creaking and swaying over a -patch of light which she knew to be a mill-pond. Three miles more, and -she might climb down from her place to rest her stiffened limbs, before -the Laird should be due and she should go to the door of the Crown to -wait for his coming. She almost wondered whether it were her -imagination which had seen the cadger run back at Barclay’s -instigation, whether she had dreamed of the horse’s feet pursuing her -near the Basin of Kaims. She let Rob Roy walk. - -Her hair was blowing over her face and she pushed back her soaking -plaid to twist it behind her ears. In a momentary lull, a clatter of -hoofs broke upon her and voices answered each other, shouting. Either -her enemy was behind with some companion of his own kidney, or there -were others abroad to-night with whom time was precious; she could hear -the wheels grind on a newly-mended piece of road she had crossed. A -cottage, passed in blind darkness, suddenly showed a lamp across the -way, and, as the driver behind her crossed the glaring stream which it -laid over his path, she saw the hairy-heeled bay’s white nose swing -into the strong light to be swallowed again by the dark. She took up -her whip. - -Hitherto, she had saved her horse, but, now that there were only three -miles to be covered, she would not spare for pace. How the white-nosed -beast had crept so close she could not imagine, until it occurred to -her that the evil short-cut taken by herself on a memorable occasion, -years ago, must have served his driver too. She laid the whip -remorselessly on Rob Roy. - -Fortunately for her aching bones, the road improved with its proximity -to the town, or she could scarce have kept her seat. As it was, she -could not see the stones and irregularities in her way and it might -well be that some sudden jerk would hurl her headlong into the gaping -dark. But she dared not slacken speed; she must elude her pursuer -before reaching the first outlying houses, for, were her haven in -Blackport discovered, she knew not what foul play he might set afoot. -She resolved that she would not leave Rob Roy until he was in Gilbert’s -hands, could she but get the cart into the tumbledown premises of the -friend whom she trusted, and for whose little backyard behind River -Street she determined to make. Blackport was a low place, and her -friend, who kept a small provision-shop, was a widow living alone. -Suppose she should be discovered! Suppose, after all, she should fail! -What Barclay had said to the cadger whose wheels she could now hear -racing behind she did not know, but his action in securing the -post-horses and in sending such a character after her showed that he -was prepared to go to most lengths to frustrate Speid. She had known of -men who lamed horses when it suited them; the thought of what might -happen made her set her teeth. She remembered that there was a long -knife inside the cart, used by her grandson for cleaning and cutting up -fish; if she could reach her destination it should not leave her hand; -and, while Rob Roy had a rest and a mouthful in the hour or two she -might have to wait for Gilbert, her friend should run to the Crown and -tell Jimmy where she was to be found. With a pang she renounced the joy -of meeting the Laird; her place would be behind the locked door with -her horse. - -Past hedge and field they went, by gates and stone-heaps. Her head was -whirling and she was growing exhausted. She could no more hear the -wheels behind for the roaring of the wind and the rattle of her own -cart. She had never driven behind Rob Roy on any errand but a slow one -and it was long years since she had been supreme on the road; but old -practice told her that it would take a better than the hairy-heeled bay -to have lived with them for the last two miles. A crooked tree that -stood over the first milestone out of Blackport was far behind them and -the gable end of the turnpike cottage cut the sky not twenty yards -ahead. - -She had forgotten the toll, and, for one moment, her stout heart -failed. But for one moment only; for the gate stood open. She could -faintly distinguish the white bars thrust back. A lantern was moving -slowly towards them; probably some vehicle had just gone by, and the -toll-keeper was about to close them. With a frantic effort, she leaned -forward and brought the whip down with all her strength on Rob Roy’s -straining back. Their rush carried them between the posts, just before -the lantern-bearer, from whom the wind’s noise had concealed their -approach, had time to slam the gate, shouting, behind them. - -In a couple of minutes her pursuer drove up, to find the swearing -toll-keeper threatening him and all his kind from behind the closed -bars. In half an hour Rob Roy stood in a rough shed, while the owner of -it was hurrying through the wet streets to the Crown with a message to -Jimmy. Inside its locked door, leaning her aching back against the -wall, sat the Queen of the Cadgers, fierce, worn, vigilant; with a long -knife across her knee. - -And Gilbert, his eyes on the wind-tormented sky, lay fuming in the -shelter of the disabled coach in the heart of Monrummon Moor. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - -MORPHIE KIRK - - -WHEN the morning of the seventh of April broke over Speid and his -companions, they lashed the damaged pole together with a coil of rope -and harnessed the wheelers. Progress was possible, though at a very -slow pace, and they started again, the guard and outside passengers -walking; from the coach’s interior, which cradled the slumbers of the -Glasgow merchant, there came no sound. - -It was past eight when they crossed the South Lour where the river -curls round Blackport before plunging into the Basin of Kaims on its -seaward course; it was almost nine when Gilbert saw Jimmy Stirk’s -anxious face at the door of the Crown. - -‘Eh, Laird! but a’m feared ye’re ower late!’ was the boy’s exclamation, -as they clasped hands. - -‘Come! Come in here,’ said Gilbert, dragging him into a room near the -doorway. - -There, in a voice lowered by reason of the slattern who was on her -knees with soap and pail, Jimmy gave him the history of the last three -days, from his grandmother’s receipt of his letter to her hurried -message of last night. - -‘She’s waitin’ ye now in River Street,’ he concluded. - -Without further ado they went out of the house together. - -What would be the upshot of the next two hours Speid did not know and -did not dare to think. Cecilia’s freedom would pass with their passing. -Captain Somerville had said in his letter that he was writing to tell -her he had summoned him, and his heart stood still as he reflected -that, in the face of this, she had hastened her marriage by three days. -He was puzzled, dismayed, for he could not guess the full depth of -Barclay’s guilt, and the boy beside him knew no more from his -grandmother’s message than that the lawyer had cleared Blackport of all -available horses. To appear before a woman who had forgotten him on her -wedding morning, only to see her give her willing hand to another -man--was that what he had come across Europe to do? His proud heart -sickened. - -Seeing that the night had passed unmolested, Granny Stirk had fallen at -daylight into an exhausted sleep; it needed Jimmy’s thunder upon the -door to awake her to the fact that Gilbert stood without. She turned -the key quickly. - -‘Whanland! Whanland!’ was all that she could say as he entered. - -Her face was haggard with watching and exertion. - -‘Oh, Granny!’ he cried. ‘You have almost killed yourself for me!’ - -‘Aye, but a’m no deid yet!’ exclaimed the old woman. ‘Eh, Laird! but -it’s fine to see ye. A’m sweer to let ye gang, but ye canna loss a -minute.’ - -Jimmy was harnessing Rob Roy. - -‘But, Granny, what does this mean? She has hurried her wedding, though -Captain Somerville told her I would come. What can I do, knowing that?’ - -‘Do? Ye’ll just hae to rin. Laird, she doesna ken onything. Yon tod--yon -damned, leein’ Barclay--he got a haud o’ the letter. The Captain tell’t -me that himsel’. Ye’ll need to drive.’ - -‘Good God!’ cried Speid. - -The sight of her worn face and the knowledge of what she had done for -him smote Gilbert hard. Though time pressed he would not consent to -start till he had taken her to the Crown and left her in the landlady’s -care, with an order for fire, food and dry clothing. Then he tore out -of the door and down the street to the spot where Jimmy awaited him -with the cart. The boy’s brown, hard face cheered him, for it seemed -the very incarnation of the country he loved. - -The world which lay round them as they drove out of Blackport was a new -one, fresh, chastened by the scourging of the storm. The sky was high, -blue and pale, and there was a scent of spring; underfoot, the wet -ground glistened and the young finger of morning light touched trees -and buildings as they rose from an under-world of mist. - -When we look on the dying glory of evening, and again, on the spectacle -of coming day, do we not regard these sights, so alike in colour and in -mystery, with an indefinable difference of feeling? The reason is that -sunset reminds us of Time and sunrise of Eternity. - -Though sunrise was long past, the remembrance of it was still abroad, -and a sense of conflict ended breathed over the ground strewn with -broken boughs, wreckage of the night. Gilbert, as he sat by his -companion and felt his heart outrunning their progress, could find no -share in this suggestion. All cried to him of peace when there was no -peace; effort was before him, possibly failure. - -He knew that, though Cecilia was to be married from Fullarton, the -actual wedding would take place at Morphie, according to her own -desire. Somerville had told him so. It was now half-past nine and Jimmy -was pressing Rob Roy to his utmost, for Fullarton was the further of -the two places, some seven miles north of Kaims, and the horse would -have to put his best work into the collar were Speid to arrive in time -to see the bride before she started for the kirk. - -The high hope and determination in which Gilbert had left Spain had -changed to a foreboding that, after all, he might find fate too strong; -but, though this fear lay, like a shadow, over him, he would not turn -from his wild errand. Till the ring was on Cecilia’s finger and she had -agreed in the face of minister and congregation to take Crauford -Fordyce as her husband, he meant to persevere. He smiled gloomily at -himself, sitting travel-stained and muddy, on the front of a springless -cart, with what was more to him than his life depending on the speed of -a cadger’s horse. - -Among the crowd of relations, acquaintances, and companions alongside -of which a man begins life, Time and Trouble, like a pair of -witch-doctors, are busy with their rites and dances and magic sticks -selecting his friends; and often the identity of the little handful -they drag from the throng is a surprise. For Gilbert they had secured a -wooden-legged naval captain, a sullen young cadger, and a retired -fishwife with gold earrings. As he watched the ground fly past the -wheels, he recognised that the dreadful functionaries had gone far to -justify their existence by the choice they had made. - -There were dark marks under pad and breeching, for the sun was growing -strong, and, though Jimmy held his horse together and used such -persuasive address as he had never been known to waste upon a human -being, he was now beginning to have recourse to the whip. Speid -realized that their pace was gradually flagging. By the time they had -done half the journey and could see, from a swelling rise, down over -the Morphie woods, it was borne in on him that Rob Roy’s step was -growing short. He made brave efforts to answer to the lash, but they -did not last, and the sweat had begun to run round his drooping ears. -The two friends looked at each other. - -‘Ma’ grannie had a sair drive last nicht,’ said Jimmy. - -‘Pull up for a moment and face him to the wind,’ cried Speid, jumping -down. - -With handfuls of rush torn from a ditch they rubbed him down, neck, -loins, and legs, and turned his head to what breeze was moving. His -eyes stared, and, though he was close to the green fringe of grass -which bordered the roadside, he made no attempt to pick at it. - -The hands of Gilbert’s watch had put ten o’clock behind them as he -looked over the far stretch to Morphie and Fullarton. Jimmy, whose -light eyes rested in dogged concern on the horse’s heaving sides, put -his shoulder under the shaft to ease off the weight of the cart. Away -beyond, on the further edge of the wood, was the kirk; even now, the -doors were probably being opened and the seats dusted for the coming -marriage. - -Speid stood summing up his chances, his eyes on the spreading -landscape; he was attempting an impossibility in trying to reach -Fullarton. - -‘There is no use in pushing on to Fullarton,’ he said, laying his hand -on Rob Roy’s mane, ‘we shall only break his heart, poor little brute. I -am going to leave you here and get across country to the kirk on my own -feet. Here is some money--go to the nearest farm and rest him; feed him -when he’ll eat, and come on to Whanland when you can. Whatever may -happen this morning, I shall be there in the afternoon.’ - -The boy nodded, measuring the miles silently that lay between them and -the distant kirk. It would be a race, he considered, but it would take -a deal to beat the Laird of Whanland. - -‘Brides is aye late,’ he remarked briefly. - -‘Who told you that?’ asked Gilbert, as he pulled off his overcoat and -threw it into the cart. - -‘Ma’ Grannie.’ - -Speid vaulted over the low wall beside them and began to descend the -slope. Half-way down it he heard Jimmy’s voice crying luck to him and -saw his cap lifted in the air. - -The rain of the previous day and night had made the ground heavy, and -he soon found that the remaining time would just serve him and no more. -He ran on at a steady pace, taking a straight line to the edge of the -woods; most of the fields were divided by stone dykes and those -obstacles gave him no trouble. Sometimes he slipped in wet places; once -or twice he was hailed by a labourer who stopped in his work to watch -the gentleman original enough to race over the open landscape for no -apparent reason. But he took no heed, plodding on. - -When he came to where the corner of the woods protruded, a dark -triangle, into the pasture land, he struck across it. The rain had made -the pines aromatic, and the strong, clean smell refreshed him as he -went over the elastic bed of pine-needles strewn underfoot. The -undignified white bobtails of rabbits disappeared, right and left, -among the stems at his approach, and once, a roe-deer fled in leaps -into the labyrinth of trunks. - -Before emerging again into the open he paused to rest and look at his -watch; walking and running, he had come well and more quickly than he -had supposed; he thanked heaven for the sound body which he had never -allowed idleness to make inactive. It wanted twenty-five minutes of -eleven, and he had covered a couple of miles in the quarter of an hour -since he had left Jimmy. He judged himself a little under two more from -Morphie kirk. The boy’s unexpected knowledge of the habits of brides -had amused him, even in his hurry, and he devoutly hoped it might prove -true. - -Standing under the firs and pines, he realized the demand he was about -to make of this particular bride. He wondered if there were a woman in -the world bold enough to do what he was going to ask Cecilia to do for -him. He was going to stand up before her friends, before the bridegroom -and his relations, the guests and the onlookers, and ask her to leave -the man to whom she had promised herself for a lover she had not seen -for nearly two years; one who had not so much as an honest name to give -her. Would she do it? He reflected, with a sigh, that Jimmy’s knowledge -would scarce tell him that. But, at the same time, loving her as he -loved her, and knowing her as he knew her, he hoped. - -He was off again, leaping out over a ditch circling the skirts of the -wood; he meant to follow the outline of the trees till he should come -to a track which he knew would lead him down to where the kirk stood -under a sloping bank. Many a time he had looked, from the further side -of the Lour, at the homely building with its stone belfry. It had no -beauty but that of plainness and would not have attracted anyone whose -motives in regarding it were quite simple. But, for him, it had been -enchanted, as common places are enchanted but a few times in our lives; -and now, he was to face the turning-point of his existence in its -shadow. - -This run across country was the last stage of a journey begun in Spain -nearly a month since. It had come down to such a fine measurement of -time as would have made him wonder, had he been capable of any -sensation but the breathless desire to get forward. His hair was damp -upon his forehead and his clothes splashed with mud as he struck into -the foot-track leading from the higher ground to the kirk. The way went -through a thicket of brier and whin, and, from its further side, came -the voices and the rough East-coast accent of men and women; he -supposed that a certain crowd had gathered to see the bride arrive and -he knew that he was in time. - -It was less than ten minutes to eleven when the assembled spectators -saw a tall man emerge from the scrub and take up his position by the -kirk door. Many recognised him and wondered, but no Whanland people -were present, and no one accosted him. He leaned a few minutes against -the wall; then, when he had recovered breath, he walked round the -building and looked in at a window. Inside, the few guests were seated, -among them Barclay, his frilled shirt making a violent spot of white in -the gloom of the kirk. Not far from him, his back to the light, was -Crauford Fordyce, stiff and immaculate in his satin stock and claret -colour; unconscious of the man who stood, not ten yards from him, at -the other side of the wall. It was evident from their bearing that, by -this hour, the minds of the allies were at rest. Gilbert returned to -the door and stood quietly by the threshold; there was an irony in the -situation which appealed to him. - -While he had raced across the country, Cecilia, in her room at -Fullarton, was putting on her wedding-gown. Agneta, who looked upon her -future sister-in-law as a kind of illustrated hand-book to life, had -come to help her to fasten her veil. One of the housemaids, a -scarlet-headed wench who loved Cecilia dearly and whose face was -swollen with tears shed for her departure, stood by with a tray full of -pins. - -‘You had better not wait, really, Jessie,’ said the bride in front of -the glass, ‘I am so afraid the rest of the servants will start without -you. Miss Fordyce will help me, I am sure. Give me my wreath and go -quickly.’ - -The servant took up her hand and kissed it loudly; then set the wreath -askew on her hair and went out, a blubbering whirl of emotion. - -‘She has been a kind, good girl to me,’ said Cecilia. - -‘Your hand is all wet!’ exclaimed Agneta, to whom such a scene was -astonishing. - -Mary and Agneta inhabited a room together and many midnight -conversations had flowed from their bed-curtains in the last few -nights. Agneta had gone completely over to the enemy, but her sister, -who, though gentler in character, was less able to free herself from -the traditions in which she had been brought up, hung back, terrified, -from an opinion formed alone. Outwardly, she was abrupt, and Cecilia -and she had made small progress in their acquaintance. - -Robert Fullarton and his brother-in-law were ready and waiting -downstairs and two carriages stood outside on the gravel sweep. Sir -Thomas and his daughters were to go in one of these, and Robert, who -was to give Cecilia away, would accompany her in the other. - -Agneta and Mary had started when Cecilia stood alone in front of her -image in the glass; she held up her veil and looked into the reflected -face. It was the last time she would see Cecilia Raeburn, and, with a -kind of curiosity, she regarded the outer shell of the woman, who, it -seemed to her, had no identity left. The Cecilia who had grown up at -Morphie was dead; as dead as that companion with whom she had shared -the old house. Between the parted friends there was this momentous -difference: while one was at rest, the other had still to carry that -picture in the mirror as bravely as she could through the world, till -the long day’s work should roll by and the two should meet. She thought -of that dark morning at Morphie and of her aunt’s dying face against -Fullarton’s shoulder, and told herself that, were the moment to return, -she would not do differently. She was glad to remember that, had -Gilbert Speid come back, he would have cast no shadow between them; the -knowledge seemed to consecrate the gleam of happiness she had known -with him so briefly. But it was hard that, when the path by which they -might have reached each other had been smoothed at so terrible a cost, -the way had been empty. She was thinking of the time when two pairs of -eyes had met in a looking-glass and she had plastered his cut cheek in -the candlelight. After to-day, she must put such remembrances from her. -She dropped her veil and turned away, for Fullarton’s voice was calling -to her to come down. - -While she sat beside him in the carriage, looking out, her hands were -pressed together in her lap. The rain-washed world was so beautiful, -and, between the woods touched with spring, the North Lour ran full. -The lights lying on field and hill seemed to smile. As they passed -Morphie House she kept her face turned from it; she could not trifle -with her strength. She was thankful that they would not be near the -coast where she could hear the sea-sound. - -As the carriage turned from the highroad into a smaller one leading up -to the kirk, Captain Somerville’s hooded phaeton approached from Kaims -and dropped behind, following. The sailor, who sat in the front seat by -the driver, was alone, and Cecilia’s eyes met his as they drew near. -She leaned forward, smiling; it did her good to see him. Mrs. -Somerville had declined to appear; she was not well enough to go out, -she said, and it seemed, to look at her face, as though this reason -were a good one. She had scarcely slept and her eyes were red with -angry weeping. Since the preceding morning, when the Inspector had -discovered what part she had played, the two had not spoken and she -felt herself unable to face Barclay in his presence. After the wedding -the men must inevitably meet; she could not imagine what her husband -might do or say, or what would happen when the lawyer should discover -that she had betrayed him. She retired to the sanctuary of her bedroom -and sent a message downstairs at the last moment, desiring the Captain -to make her excuses to Miss Raeburn and tell her that she had too bad a -cold to be able to leave the house. - -The sailor’s heart was heavy as he went and the glimpse of Cecilia -which he had caught made it no lighter. He had tried to save her and -failed. All yesterday, since his dreadful discovery, he had debated -whether or no he ought to go to Fullarton, see her, and tell her that -he had tried to bring Gilbert home; that he would, in all probability, -arrive a few hours before her marriage. He turned the question over and -over in his mind. The conclusion he came to was that, things having -gone so far, he had better hold his peace. She _could_ not draw back -now, and, being forced to go on, the knowledge that her lover would -have been in time, had she not hastened her marriage, might haunt her -all her life. If Speid arrived at the hour he was expected he would -hear from Jimmy Stirk of the wedding. Should he be determined to act, -he would do so without his--Somerville’s--intervention; and, should he -see fit to accept what now seemed the inevitable, he would, no doubt, -have the sense to leave Whanland quietly. He would go there himself, on -his return from Morphie Kirk, in the hope of finding him and inducing -him to start before anyone should see him, and before Cecilia should -learn how near to her he had been. It might well be that she would -never know it, for she was to leave Fullarton, with her husband, at two -o’clock, for Perth. They were to go south immediately. - -The sailor was not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed to -find that, apparently, Speid had made no sign. Cecilia was there to -play her part; no doubt, like many another, she would come to play it -contentedly. With all his heart he pitied Gilbert. Meanwhile, as the -carriages neared their destination, he could see the evergreen arch -which some Morphie labourers had put up over the entrance at which the -bride would alight. - -The kirk could not be seen from the gate of the enclosure in which it -stood, for the path took a turn round some thick bushes. A low dyke of -unpointed stone girdled it and kept at bay the broom and whins clothing -the hillock. When his phaeton stopped, Somerville got out, and was in -time to greet the bride as Fullarton handed her out of the carriage; he -did not fail to notice the tremor of the fingers he touched. He went on -and slipped into a group of bystanders surrounding the door without -observing the figure which stood near the kirk wall, a little apart. - -A movement went through the group as Fullarton appeared by the tall -bushes leading Cecilia. While they advanced a man walked forward and -stood in the way; a man with splashed clothes and high boots, brown -with the soil; the wet hair was dark upon his forehead and his eyes -looked straight before him to where the bride came, brave and pale, -under her green wreath. She saw him and stopped. Her hand slipped from -Fullarton’s arm. - -Unheeding Robert’s exclamation, he sprang towards her, his eyes -burning. - -‘Cecilia,’ he said, almost under his breath, ‘am I too late?’ - -The slight commotion caused by this unexpected incident had brought -Barclay to the doorway; Crauford’s face could be seen behind his -shoulder. - -‘Great Heavens! Here’s Speid!’ exclaimed the lawyer, seizing his -friend. - -Fordyce moved irresolutely, longing to rush forward, but aware that -custom decreed he should await his bride’s entrance in the kirk; he -scarcely realized the import of what had happened outside its walls -while he stood, unconscious, between them. Barclay ran out to the -little group round which the onlookers were collecting, and he -followed, unable to sacrifice his annoyance to his sense of what was -expected. Not for a moment did he believe that decency could be -outraged by anything more than an interruption. In the background stood -Mary and Agneta, aghast under their pink-rosetted bonnets. - -‘May I ask what you have come here for, sir?’ he inquired, approaching -Gilbert. - -But Speid’s back was turned, for he was looking at Cecilia. - -‘Come!’ cried Fullarton, sternly, ‘come, Cecilia! I cannot permit this. -Stand aside, Mr. Speid, if you please.’ - -‘Cecilia, what are you going to do?’ urged Gilbert, standing before -her, as though he would bar her progress to the kirk door. ‘I have come -back for you.’ - -She looked round and saw the steady eyes of Captain Somerville fixed -upon her. He had come close and was at her side, his stout figure drawn -up, his wooden leg planted firmly on the gravel; there was in his -countenance a mighty loyalty. - -‘Gilbert,’ she exclaimed, with a sob in her voice, ‘thank God you have -come.’ Then she faced the bridegroom. ‘I cannot go on with this, Mr. -Fordyce,’ she said. - -‘But it is too late!’ cried Robert. ‘There shall be no more of this -trifling. You are engaged to my nephew and you must fulfil your -engagement. I am here to see that you do.’ - -‘I will not,’ she replied.--‘Forgive me, sir--forgive me, I beg of you! -I know that I have no right to ask you to stand by me.’ - -‘I shall not do so, certainly,’ exclaimed Robert, angrily. - -She glanced round, desperate. Captain Somerville was holding out his -arm. - -‘My phaeton is outside, Miss Raeburn,’ he said, ‘and you will do me the -favour to come home with me. Speid,’ he added, ‘am I doing right?’ - -But Gilbert could scarcely answer. A great glory had dawned in his -face. - - - - -EPILOGUE - - -HERE, so far as the author’s choice is concerned, this history closes. -The man and woman, forced apart by powers greater than themselves, have -come to their own again and stand at the portal of a new life, at the -door of a structure built from the wreck of bygone things. Those who -have watched them may augur for themselves what the future is like to -be for them, and shut the book, assured that the record of these two, -for whom life held so much more than they could see with their eyes and -touch with their hands, will not fall below its mark. - -But, to that vast and ingenuous multitude which has taste for the -dotted ‘i’ and the crossed ‘t,’ there remains yet a word to be added. - -Cecilia stayed under Captain Somerville’s roof while the disturbing -events round her quieted themselves, and while Gilbert, who received a -challenge from Fordyce, settled the score. Even she scarcely felt -anxious, as she awaited the result of their meeting, for Speid chose -the sword as a weapon and had assured her he would deal as tenderly -with Crauford as though he were a new-born babe. This he proceeded to -do, so long as it amused him, after which he scratched him deftly on -the inside of the wrist and the seconds, who could scarce restrain -their smiles, agreed that honour was satisfied. - -And so the jasmine-trees were planted at Whanland, the ideal horse -bought; the necklace with the emerald drop found the resting-place -Gilbert had desired for it. Granny Stirk, accompanied by Jimmy, went to -the second wedding which was attempted in Morphie Kirk, and which, -this time, was celebrated without interruption; she drove there in a -carriage, and the bridegroom, who was standing by the pulpit as she -arrived, left his place and conducted her on his arm to a seat near the -Miss Robertsons. - -Crauford married Lady Maria Milwright, who therefore thought herself -exalted among women, and was, in reality, much too good for him. -Barclay constantly frequented his roof, making Lady Maria very happy by -his expressed admiration of her husband; he might have boasted of the -intimacy to the end of his life had he not covertly courted Agneta and -been taken in the act by Lady Fordyce. Family dignity expelled the -offender and the only person who was sorry for him was kind Lady Maria, -who rose at an unconscionable hour to preside over his breakfast before -he departed, forever, amid shame and luggage. - -Agneta eloped with an English clergyman and ended her days as a -bishop’s wife, too much occupied with her position to have a thought -for that palpitating world of romance and desperation upon which she -had once cast such covetous eyes. - -On the death of Captain Somerville, a few years later, the lawyer took -to himself his widow, who had contrived, by much lying and some luck, -to conceal from him her part in the betrayal of his schemes. She looked -as much out of the window and dispensed as much hospitality under her -new name and never failed to disparage Mrs. Speid of Whanland, whenever -that much-admired lady appeared either in the street or the -conversation. These were the only places in which she met her, for her -husband had long ceased to be connected, either by business or -acquaintance, with the family. - -THE END - - -BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD - - - - -BY THE SAME AUTHOR - -THE SHEEP-STEALERS - -In one Vol. Crown 8vo. Price 6s. - -Some Press Opinions - - -The Times: ‘Every taster of fiction knows that the most probable of the -possibilities hidden between the covers of a first novel is -disappointment. Hence the danger of hailing the occasional exception as -the achievement of genius. And yet it is possible to be grateful for a -piece of good work without comparing its creator to the giants of the -past, or prating about the finest novel of the century. Of “The -Sheep-stealers” it will be sufficient to say that it is a good piece of -work. The book is so well planned that every incident fits naturally -into its place, and helps to form a harmonious and inevitable whole. -Miss Jacob possesses a strong power of realistic description; her pen -has a life-giving knack of rendering sounds as well as scenes, and she -is not without touches of dry humour.’ - -Punch: ‘“The Sheep-stealers” breaks fresh ground, and Violet Jacob -tills it with exceeding vigour and success. The work is admirably done, -adding fresh zest to the palled appetite of the wayworn novel reader.’ - -The Spectator: ‘The emergence of a book so fresh, so original, and so -wholesome as “The Sheep-stealers” is peculiarly welcome at a time when -we are bidden to believe that all normal and native themes are -exhausted. We have been surfeited of late with the novel of “smart” -society. As an alternative to these lavishly upholstered chronicles of -corruption in high life we can cordially recommend Miss Jacob’s -powerful and engrossing romance of Herefordshire and Brecknock in the -early “forties.” It deserves to rank along with “The House with the -Green Shutters” in the limited category of those tales of the -countryside in which there is nothing provincial, particularist, or -parochial. Like all stories that deal faithfully with rural life in a -remote and unfrequented neighbourhood, it is somewhat sombre in tone; -but it is free from the crushing pessimism of the novels of Mr. Hardy, -the writer to whom on his best and most poetic side Miss Jacob is most -closely related. The portraiture of the principal characters is quite -in keeping with the remote, unsophisticated surroundings. All are -intensely and primitively human in their passions and virtues. We have -seldom read a book in which a lowly theme was treated with a happier -mixture of romance and realism. Indeed, few novelists of recent years -have set themselves so high a standard in their initial effort as Miss -Jacob, whose work is singularly free from the faults of a novice. Her -style is excellent--lucid, natural, unaffected--her energy is under -control; she understands the art of self-effacement, of omission, of -reticence, and she is as successful in dealing with her gentle as with -her simple characters. So remarkable an achievement indicates patient -preparation, and affords an excellent guarantee that the author will -not be beguiled by her immediate success into the adoption of those -methods which degrade creation into manufacture.’ - -The Scotsman: Miss Jacob has infused into her story some of that rare -topographical and atmospheric charm which is to be found in such books -as Stevenson’s “Catriona” or Hardy’s “Far from the Madding Crowd.” “The -Sheep-stealers” is a delightful book, a story interesting throughout, -well conceived, admirably sustained, and in parts very finely written.’ - -The St. James’s Gazette: ‘Good work, careful and delicate, with touches -of passion and of humour.’ - -The Daily Telegraph: ‘The name of the authoress of “The Sheep-stealers” -is unfamiliar, but it will unquestionably be heard of again. If this is -Miss Violet Jacob’s first essay in fiction, she is to be congratulated -most warmly upon a very powerful piece of work. Her characters stand -out clearly and sharply, and the local colour is as vivid as it is in -“Lorna Doone” or “The Return of the Native.” Her originality of theme -and treatment is unmistakable. “The Sheep-stealers” is a very good -novel: it only just misses being a great novel.’ - -The Field: ‘A close, sympathetic, and thoroughly sensible study of -rural life in the early nineteenth-century days. It is an admirably -constructed story.’ - -The Morning Post: ‘The author knows her country and its inhabitants by -heart. Neither she nor Mr. Hardy need blush because their relationship -in letters cannot be overlooked. Both the people of the valley and the -hill people who live and love and die in the fascination of the -gigantic hill are creatures of reasonable flesh and blood--creatures as -real as any to be found in the shadow-haunted granges of Wessex.’ - -LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, 21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C. - - - - -Transcriber’s Note - -This transcription is based on scans of the Heinemann edition, which -are available through the National Library of Scotland: - - https://digital.nls.uk/128693605 - -The following changes were made to the printed text: - -• The advertisement for _The Sheep-Stealers_ has been moved from the -front of the text to the end. - -• The footnotes have been moved from the bottom of a page to right after -the paragraph to which they refer. - -• Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). - -• p. 26: The expensive taste was hers table--Changed “hers table” to -“her stable”. - -• p. 63: continued Jimmy; ’twas i’ the airm, too.--Inserted an opening -single quotation mark before “’twas”. - -• p. 78: laid it deftly across his cheekbone.--Changed “cheekbone” to -“cheek-bone” for consistency. - -• p. 115: ‘How glad I am that I spoke to you about it--Inserted a period -and a closing single quotation mark after “about it”. - -• p. 133: I am sorry,’ said Lady Eliza, too much cast down--Inserted an -opening single quotation mark at the beginning of the sentence. - -Inconsistencies of spelling and hyphenation were not changed, except -where otherwise noted. - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INTERLOPER *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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- margin-left: 0; - } -a { - text-decoration: none; - } -ul { - margin-top: 0.5em; - margin-bottom: 0 - } -li { - margin-bottom: 0.5em; - } -div.tnote p.link { - padding-left: 0; - text-indent: 0em; - text-align: center; - padding-top: 0.4em; - line-height: 100%; - padding-bottom: 0.4em - } -</style> -</head> -<body> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Interloper, by Violet Jacob</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Interloper</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Violet Jacob</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 8, 2021 [eBook #65800]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Paul Haxo from images graciously made available by the National Library of Scotland.</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INTERLOPER ***</div> -<div class="image"> -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Cover" width="60%" title="" /> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="Half-title"> -<h1> -The Interloper -</h1> -</div> - -<div class="chapter ad1" id="Advertisement1"> -<p class="pad_top"> -<span class="lftspc_ad_hdg"><span class="largeish italics">New 6s. Novels</span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent nobottom"> -THE ISLAND PHARISEES<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad"><span class="smallish">By J<small>OHN</small> G<small>ALSWORTHY</small></span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent nobottom"> -THE MAGNETIC NORTH<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad"><span class="smallish">By E<small>LIZABETH</small> R<small>OBINS</small></span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent nobottom"> -URIAH THE HITTITE<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad"><span class="smallish">By W<small>OLF</small> W<small>YLLARDE</small></span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent nobottom"> -THE MONEY GOD<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad"><span class="smallish">By J. P. B<small>LAKE</small></span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent nobottom"> -LOVE THE FIDDLER<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad"><span class="smallish">By L<small>LOYD</small> O<small>SBOURNE</small></span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent nobottom"> -THE STORY OF SUSAN<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad"><span class="smallish">By M<small>RS</small>. H<small>ENRY</small> D<small>UDENEY</small></span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent nobottom"> -THE RELENTLESS CITY<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad"><span class="smallish">By E. F. B<small>ENSON</small></span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent nobottom"> -THE MASTERFOLK<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad"><span class="smallish">By H<small>ALDANE</small> M<small>AC</small>F<small>ALL</small></span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent nobottom"> -THE JEWEL OF SEVEN STARS<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad"><span class="smallish">By B<small>RAM</small> S<small>TOKER</small></span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent nobottom"> -THE EVIL EYE<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad"><span class="smallish">By D<small>ANIEL</small> W<small>OODROFFE</small></span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent"> -THE WEB<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad"><span class="smallish">By F<small>REDERICK</small> T<small>REVOR</small> H<small>ILL</small></span></span> -</p> -<p class="noindent pad_top nobottom"> -L<small>ONDON</small>: WILLIAM HEINEMANN,<br /> -<span class="lftspc_ad2"><span class="smallish">20 and 21 B<small>EDFORD</small> S<small>TREET</small>, W.C.</span></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="Title_page"> -<p class="tp_title"> -The Interloper -</p> -<p class="by"> -By -</p> -<p class="author"> -Violet Jacob -</p> -<p class="author1"> -(Mrs. Arthur Jacob) -</p> -<p class="author2"> -Author of ‘The Sheep-Stealers’ -</p> -<p class="publisher"> -London<br /> -William Heinemann<br /> -1904 -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter verso" id="Verso"> -<p class="center"> -This Edition enjoys copyright in all<br /> -countries signatory to the Berne<br /> -Treaty, and is not to be imported<br /> -into the United States of America -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter dedication" id="Dedication"> -<p> -<span class="extrasmall">TO</span><br /> -<span class="spaced"><small>AN UNDYING MEMORY</small></span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="Note"> -<h3> -AUTHOR’S NOTE -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -B<small>EFORE</small> proceeding with this story I must apologize for a striking -inaccuracy which it contains. I have represented the educated -characters as speaking, but for certain turns of phrase, the ordinary -English which is now universal. But, in Scotland, in the very early -nineteenth century, gentle and simple alike kept a national distinction -of language, and remnants of it lingered in the conversation, as I -remember it, of the two venerable and unique old ladies from whom the -characters of Miss Hersey Robertson and her sister are taken. They -called it ‘Court Scots.’ -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -For the assistance of that tender person, the General Reader, I have -ignored it. -</p> -<p class="signature"> -V. J. -</p> -<p> -<span class="smallish">1903</span>. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="Contents"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" class="toc" summary="Table of Contents"> -<tbody> -<tr> -<td colspan="3"><h3 class="toc">CONTENTS</h3></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdc_bk" colspan="3">BOOK I</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr_chap nobottom"><span class="reallysmall">CHAPTER</span></td> - -<td class="tdr nobottom"> </td> - -<td class="tdr nobottom"><span class="reallysmall">PAGE</span></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">I. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_01_toc"><a href="#Chapter_01_hdg">THE HEIR</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">1</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">II. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_02_toc"><a href="#Chapter_02_hdg">AT GARVIEKIRK</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">14</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">III. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_03_toc"><a href="#Chapter_03_hdg">FRIENDSHIP</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">24</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">IV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_04_toc"><a href="#Chapter_04_hdg">JIMMY</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">36</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">V. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_05_toc"><a href="#Chapter_05_hdg">THE STRIFE OF TONGUES</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">49</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">VI. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_06_toc"><a href="#Chapter_06_hdg">THE DOVECOTE OF MORPHIE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">59</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">VII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_07_toc"><a href="#Chapter_07_hdg">THE LOOKING-GLASS</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">73</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">VIII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_08_toc"><a href="#Chapter_08_hdg">THE HOUSE IN THE CLOSE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">81</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">IX. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_09_toc"><a href="#Chapter_09_hdg">ON FOOT AND ON WHEELS</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">91</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">X. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_10_toc"><a href="#Chapter_10_hdg">KING COPHETUA’S CORRESPONDENCE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">101</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XI. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_11_toc"><a href="#Chapter_11_hdg">THE MOUSE AND THE LION</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">111</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_12_toc"><a href="#Chapter_12_hdg">GRANNIE TAKES A STRONG ATTITUDE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">117</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XIII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_13_toc"><a href="#Chapter_13_hdg">PLAIN SPEAKING</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">127</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XIV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_14_toc"><a href="#Chapter_14_hdg">STORM AND BROWN SILK</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">140</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_15_toc"><a href="#Chapter_15_hdg">THE THIRD VOICE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">150</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XVI. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_16_toc"><a href="#Chapter_16_hdg">BETWEEN LADY ELIZA AND CECILIA</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">160</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XVII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_17_toc"><a href="#Chapter_17_hdg">CECILIA PAYS HER DEBTS</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">168</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XVIII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_18_toc"><a href="#Chapter_18_hdg">THE BOX WITH THE LAUREL-WREATH</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">177</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdc_bk" colspan="3">BOOK II</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XIX. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_19_toc"><a href="#Chapter_19_hdg">SIX MONTHS</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">186</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XX. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_20_toc"><a href="#Chapter_20_hdg">ROCKET</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">194</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXI. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_21_toc"><a href="#Chapter_21_hdg">THE BROKEN LINK</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">205</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_22_toc"><a href="#Chapter_22_hdg">CECILIA SEES THE WILD GEESE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">215</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXIII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_23_toc"><a href="#Chapter_23_hdg">AN EMPTY HOUSE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">225</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXIV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_24_toc"><a href="#Chapter_24_hdg">A ROYAL VISIT</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">234</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_25_toc"><a href="#Chapter_25_hdg">MRS. SOMERVILLE HAS SCRUPLES</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">241</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXVI. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_26_toc"><a href="#Chapter_26_hdg">ALEXANDER BARCLAY DOES HIS BEST</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">251</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXVII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_27_toc"><a href="#Chapter_27_hdg">THE SKY FALLS ON GILBERT</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">257</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXVIII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_28_toc"><a href="#Chapter_28_hdg">AGNETA ON THE UNEXPECTED</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">269</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXIX. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_29_toc"><a href="#Chapter_29_hdg">THE QUEEN OF THE CADGERS TAKES THE ROAD</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">275</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXX. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_30_toc"><a href="#Chapter_30_hdg">MORPHIE KIRK</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">286</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch"> </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_epi_toc"><a href="#Chapter_epi_hdg">EPILOGUE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">298</td> -</tr> -</tbody> -</table> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_01"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-1">[1]</a></span></p> - -<h3 class="book"> -BOOK I -</h3> -<h4 class="first" id="Chapter_01_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_01_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER I</span><br /> -<br /> -THE HEIR</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -H<small>ALF</small>-<small>WAY</small> up the east coast of Scotland, the estuary of the North Lour -cuts a wide cleft in an edge of the Lowlands, and flows into the North -Sea among the sands and salmon nets. -</p> -<p> -The river winds in large curves through the shingles and green patches -where cattle graze, overhung by woods of beech and birch, and pursuing -its course through a country in full cultivation—a country of large -fields; where rolling woods, purple in the shadow, stretch north -towards the blue Grampians. -</p> -<p> -A bridge of eight arches spans the water before it runs out to sea, the -bank on its further side rising into a line of plough-fields crowning -the cliffs, where flights of gulls follow the ploughman, and hover in -his track over the upturned earth. As the turnpike runs down to the -bridge, it curls round the policies of a harled white house which has -stood for some two hundred years a little way in from the road, a tall -house with dead-looking windows and slates on which the lichen has -fastened. A clump of beech-trees presses round it on two sides, and, in -their bare branches, rooks’ nests make patches against the late autumn -skies. -</p> -<p> -Inside the mansion of Whanland—for such is its name—on a December -afternoon in the first year of the nineteenth century, two men were -talking in the fading light. The room which they occupied was panelled -with wood, polished<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-2">[2]</a></span> and somewhat light-coloured, and had two arched -alcoves, one on either side of the chimney-piece. These were filled -with books whose goodly backs gave a proper solemnity to the place. The -windows were narrow and high, and looked out to the beeches. A faint -sound of the sea came droning in from the sand-hills which flanked the -shore, and were distant but the space of a few fields. -</p> -<p> -The elder of the two men was a person who had reached that convenient -time of life when a gentleman may attend to his creature comforts -without the risk of being blamed for it. He was well-dressed and his -face was free from any obvious fault. He produced, indeed, a worse -effect than his merits warranted, for his hair, which had the -misfortune to look as though it were dyed, was, in reality, of a -natural colour. Nothing in his appearance hinted at the fact that he -was the family lawyer—or ‘man of business,’ as it is called in -Scotland—of the young man who stood on the hearthrug, nor did his -manner suggest that they had met that day for the first time. -</p> -<p> -He sat looking up at Gilbert Speid<a id="ftntanc1-1" href="#ftnttxt1-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> with considerable interest. -Though he was not one to whom the finer details of another’s -personality were apparent, he was yet observant in the commoner way. It -did not escape him that his companion was shy, but he did not suspect -that it was with the shyness of one, who, though well accustomed to the -company of his kind, had no intimacies. A few hours ago, when starting -to meet him at Whanland, he had told himself that his task would be -easy, and he meant to be friendly, both from inclination and policy, -with the strange laird, who was a stranger to his inheritance. But -though he had been received with politeness a little different from the -amenity of anyone he had known before, he felt that he was still far -from the defences of the young man’s mind. As to Gilbert’s outward -appearance, though it could hardly be called handsome, the lawyer was -inclined to admire it. He was rather tall,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-3">[3]</a></span> and had a manner of carrying -himself which was noticeable, not from affectation, but because he was -a very finished swordsman, and had a precision of gesture and movement -not entirely common. He did not speak with the same intonation as the -gentry with whom it was Alexander Barclay’s happiness to be acquainted, -professionally or otherwise, for, though a Scot on both sides of his -family, he had spent most of his youth abroad, and principally in -Spain. His head was extremely well set and his face gave an impression -of bone—well-balanced bone; it was a face, rather heavy, and singularly -impassive, though the eyes looked out with an extraordinary curiosity -on life. It seemed, to judge from them, as though he were always on the -verge of speaking, and Barclay caught himself pausing once or twice for -the expected words. But they seldom came and Gilbert’s mouth remained -closed, less from determination to silence than from settled habit. -</p> -<p> -It was in the forenoon that Gilbert Speid had arrived at Whanland to -find Barclay awaiting him on the doorstep; and the two men had walked -round the house and garden and under the beech-trees, stopping at -points from which there was any view to be had over the surrounding -country. They had strolled up a field parallel with the road which ran -from the nearest town of Kaims to join the highway at the bridge. There -Gilbert had taken in every detail, standing at an angle of a fence and -looking down on the river as it wound from the hazy distance of bare -woods. -</p> -<p> -‘And my property ends here?’ he asked, turning from the fascinating -scene to his companion. -</p> -<p> -‘At the bend of the Lour, Mr. Speid; just where you see the white -cottage.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I am glad that some of that river is mine,’ said Gilbert, after a long -pause. -</p> -<p> -Barclay laughed with great heartiness, and rubbed his hands one over -the other. -</p> -<p> -‘Very satisfactory,’ he said, as they went on—‘an excellent state of -things.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-4">[4]</a></span> -When they returned to the house they found a stack of papers which the -lawyer had brought to be examined, and Speid, though a little oppressed -by the load of dormant responsibility it represented, sat gravely down, -determined to do all that was expected of him. It was past three -o’clock when Barclay pulled out his watch and inquired when he had -breakfasted, for his own sensations were reminding him that he himself -had done so at a very early hour. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert went to the bell, but, as he stood with the rope in his hand, -he remembered that he had no idea of the resources of the house, and -did not even know whether there were any available servant whose duty -it was to answer it. His companion sat looking at him with a -half-smile, and he coloured as he saw it. -</p> -<p> -When the door opened, a person peered in whom he dimly recollected -seeing on his arrival in the group which had gathered to unload his -post-chaise. He was a small, elderly man, whose large head shone with -polished baldness. He was pale, and had the pose and expression we are -accustomed to connect—perhaps unjustly—with field-preachers, and his -rounded brow hung like the eaves of a house over a mild but impudent -eye. His was the type of face to be seen bawling over a psalm-book at -some sensational religious meeting, a face not to be regarded too long -nor too earnestly, lest its owner should be spurred by the look into -some insolent familiarity. He stood on the threshold looking from Speid -to Barclay, as though uncertain which of the two he should address. -</p> -<p> -It took Gilbert a minute to think of what he had wanted; for he was -accustomed to the well-trained service of his father’s house, and the -newcomer matched nothing that had a place in his experience. -</p> -<p> -‘What is it?’ inquired the man at the door. -</p> -<p> -‘Is there any dinner—anything that we can have to eat? You must forgive -me, sir; but you see how it is. I am strange here, and I foolishly sent -no orders.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-5">[5]</a></span> -‘I engaged a cook for you and it is hardly possible that she has made -no preparation. Surely there is something in the kitchen, Macquean?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I’ll away down an’ see,’ said the man, disappearing. -</p> -<p> -‘Who is that?’ asked Gilbert, to whom the loss of a dinner seemed less -extraordinary than the possession of such a servant. -</p> -<p> -‘His name is Mungo Macquean. He has had charge of the house for a great -part of the time that it has stood empty. He is a good creature, Mr. -Speid, though uncouth—very uncouth.’ -</p> -<p> -In a few minutes the door opened again to admit Macquean’s head. -</p> -<p> -‘There’s a chicken she’ll roast to ye, an’ there’s brose. An’ a’m to -tell her, are ye for pancakes?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, certainly,’ said Gilbert. ‘Mr. Barclay, when shall it be?’ -</p> -<p> -‘The sooner the better, I think,’ said the other hopefully. -</p> -<p> -‘Then we will dine at once,’ said Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -Macquean’s mouth widened and he stared at his master. -</p> -<p> -‘You’ll get it at five,’ he said, as he withdrew his head. -</p> -<p> -The lawyer’s face fell. -</p> -<p> -‘I suppose it cannot be ready before then,’ he said, with a sigh. -</p> -<p> -The two drew up rather disconsolately to the fireside. The younger -man’s eyes wandered round the room and lit upon one of those -oil-paintings typical of the time, representing a coach-horse, -dock-tailed, round-barrelled, and with a wonderfully long rein. -</p> -<p> -‘That is the only picture I have noticed in the house,’ he observed. -‘Are there no more—no portraits, I mean?’ -</p> -<p> -‘To be sure there are,’ replied Barclay, ‘but they have been put in the -garret, which we forgot to visit in our walk round. We will go up and -see them if you wish. They are handsomely framed and will make a -suitable show when we get them up on the walls.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-6">[6]</a></span> -The garret was approached by a steep wooden stair, and, as they stood -among the strange collection it contained in the way of furniture and -cobwebs, Speid saw that the one vacant space of wall supported a row of -pictures, which stood on the floor like culprits, their faces to the -wainscot. Barclay began to turn them round. It irked the young man to -see his fat hands twisting the canvases about, and flicking the dust -from the row of faces which he regarded with a curious stirring of -feeling. Nothing passed lightly over Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -He was relieved when his companion, whose heart was in the kitchen, and -who was looking with some petulance at the dust which had fallen on his -coat from the beams above, proposed to go down and push forward the -preparations for dinner. -</p> -<p> -Speid stood absorbed before the line of vanished personalities which -had helped to determine his existence, and they returned his look with -all the intelligent and self-conscious gravity of eighteenth-century -portraiture. Only one in the row differed in character from the others, -and he took up the picture and carried it to the light. It represented -a lady whose figure was cut by the oval frame just below the waist. Her -hands were crossed in front of her, and her elbows brought into line -with her sides, as were those of the other Speid ancestresses; there -was something straight and virginal in her pose. Never had Gilbert seen -such conventionality of attitude joined to so much levity of -expression. She wore a mountain of chestnut hair piled high on her head -and curling down one side of her neck. Her open bodice of warm cream -colour suggested a bust rather fuller than might be expected from the -youthful and upright stiffness of her carriage, and, over her arm, hung -an India muslin spotted scarf, which had apparently slipped down round -her waist. Her eyes were soft in shade and hard in actual glance, bold, -bright, scornful, under strongly marked brows. The mouth was very red, -and the upper lip fine; the lower lip protruded, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-7">[7]</a></span> drooped a little -in the middle. Her head was half turned to meet the spectator. -</p> -<p> -Her appearance interested him, and he searched the canvas for an -inscription. Turning it round, he saw a paper stuck upon the back and -covered with writing: ‘<i>Clementina Speid, daughter of John Lauder, -Esq., of Netherkails, and Marie La Vallance, his wife.</i> 1767.’ -</p> -<p> -The lady was his mother; and the portrait had been painted just after -her marriage, three years before his own birth. -</p> -<p> -Never in his life had he seen any likeness of her. His father had not -once mentioned her name in his hearing, and, as a little boy, he had -been given by his nurses to understand that she existed somewhere in -that mysterious and enormous category of things about which -well-brought-up children were not supposed to inquire. There was a -certain fitness in thus meeting her unknown face as he entered Whanland -for the first time since he left it in the early months of his infancy. -She had been here all the time, waiting for him in the dust and -darkness. As he set the picture against the wall her eyes looked at him -with a secret intelligence. That he had nothing to thank her for was a -fact which he had gathered as soon as he grew old enough to draw -deductions for himself; but, all the same, he now felt an unaccountable -sympathy with her, not as his mother—for such a relationship had never -existed for him—but as a human being. He went to the little window -under the slope of the roof and looked out over the fields. On the -shore the sea lay, far and sad, as if seen through the wrong end of a -telescope. The even, dreary sound came through a crack in the two -little panes of glass. He turned back to the picture, though he could -hardly see it in the strengthening dusk; her personality seemed to -pervade the place with a brave, unavailing brightness. It struck him -that, in that game of life which had ended in her death, there had been -her stake too. But it was a point of view which he<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-8">[8]</a></span> felt sure no other -being he had known had ever considered. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Barclay’s voice calling to him on the staircase brought him back -from the labyrinth of thought. He hurried out of the garret to find him -on the landing, rather short of breath after his ascent. -</p> -<p> -‘The Misses Robertson are below, Mr. Speid; they have driven out from -Kaims to bid you welcome. I have left them in the library.’ -</p> -<p> -‘The Misses Robertson?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Miss Hersey and Miss Caroline Robertson; your cousins. The ladies -will not be long before they find you out, you see. They might have -allowed you a little more law, all the same. But women are made -inquisitive—especially the old ones.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I think it vastly kind,’ said Speid shortly. ‘I remember now that my -father spoke of them.’ -</p> -<p> -As they entered the library, two small figures rose from their chairs -and came forward, one a little in front of the other. -</p> -<p> -The sisters were both much under middle height, and dressed exactly -alike; it was only on their faces that the very great difference in -them was visible. There was an appealing dignity in the full -acknowledgment of her seventy years which Miss Hersey carried in her -person. She had never had the smallest pretension to either intellect -or attraction, but her plain, thin face, with its one beauty of gray -hair rolled high above her forehead, was full of a dignity innocent, -remote, and entirely natural, that has gone out of the modern world. -Miss Caroline, who was slightly her senior, was frankly ugly and -foolish-looking; and something fine, delicate, and persuasive that lay -in her sister’s countenance had, in hers, been omitted. Their only -likeness was in the benignity that pervaded them and in the inevitable -family resemblance that is developed with age. The fashion of their -dresses, though in no way grotesque, had been obsolete for several -years. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-9">[9]</a></span> -‘Welcome, Mr. Speid,’ said Miss Hersey, holding out a gentle, bony -hand. ‘Caroline, here is Mr. Speid.’ -</p> -<p> -It was no slight effort which the two feeble old ladies had made in -coming to do him honour, for they had about them the strangeness which -hangs round very aged people when some unaccustomed act takes them out -of their own surroundings, and he longed to thank them, or to say -something which should express his sense of it. But Barclay’s proximity -held him down. Their greeting made him disagreeably aware of the -lawyer’s presence; and his incongruity as he stood behind him was like -a cold draught blowing on his back. He made a hurried murmur of -civility, then, as he glanced again at Miss Hersey’s face, he suddenly -set his heels together, and, bending over her hand, held it to his -lips. -</p> -<p> -She was old enough to look as if she had never been young, but seventy -years do not rob a woman, who has ever been a woman, of everything; she -felt like a queen as she touched her kinsman’s bent head lightly with -her withered fingers. -</p> -<p> -‘Welcome, Gilbert,’ she said again. ‘God bless you, my dear!’ -</p> -<p> -‘We knew your father,’ said the old lady, when chairs had been brought, -and she and her sister installed, one on either side of the fireplace. -</p> -<p> -‘We knew your father,’ echoed Miss Caroline, smiling vaguely. -</p> -<p> -‘I do not remember that he was like you,’ said Miss Hersey, ‘but he was -a very handsome man. He brought your mother to see us immediately after -he was married.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You’ll have to keep up the custom,’ observed Mr. Barclay jocosely. -‘How soon are we to look for the happy event, Mr. Speid? There will be -no difficulty among the young ladies here, I’m thinking.’ -</p> -<p> -‘My cousin will do any lady honour that he asks, Mr. Barclay, and it is -likely he will be particular,’ said Miss Hersey, drawing herself up. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-10">[10]</a></span> -‘He should be particular,’ said Miss Caroline, catching gently at the -last word. -</p> -<p> -‘Your mother was a sweet creature,’ continued the younger sister. ‘He -brought her to our house. It was on a Sunday after the church was out. -I mind her sitting by me on the sofy at the window. You’ll mind it, -too, Caroline.’ -</p> -<p> -‘A sweet creature indeed; a sweet creature,’ murmured Miss Caroline. -</p> -<p> -‘She was so pleased with the lilies of the valley in the garden, and I -asked Robert Fullarton to go out and pull some for her. Poor thing! it -is a sad-like place she is buried in, Gilbert.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I have never seen it, ma’am,’ said Speid. -</p> -<p> -‘It’s at Garviekirk. The kirkyard is on the shore, away along the sands -from the mouth of the river. Your father wished it that way, but I -could never understand it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I shall be very pleased to show you the road there,’ broke in Barclay. -</p> -<p> -‘It was a bitter day,’ continued Miss Robertson. ‘I wondered your -father did not get his death o’ cold, standing there without his hat. -He spoke to no one, not even to Robert Fullarton who was so well -acquainted with him. And when the gentlemen who had come to the burying -arrived at the gate of Whanland, he just bade them a good-day and went -in. There was not one that was brought in to take a glass of wine. I -never saw him after; he went to England.’ -</p> -<p> -While her sister was speaking, Miss Caroline held her peace. Her chin -shook as she turned her eyes with dim benevolence from one to the -other. At seventy-two, she seemed ten years older than Miss Hersey. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert could not but ask his cousins to stay and dine with him and -they assented very readily. When, at last, dinner was brought, he and -Mr. Barclay handed them to the table. There was enough and to spare -upon it, in spite of Macquean’s doubts; and Miss Hersey, seated beside -him,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-11">[11]</a></span> was gently exultant in the sense of kinship. It was a strange -party. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert, who had never sat at the head of his own table before, looked -round with a feeling of detachment. It seemed to him that he was acting -in a play and that his three guests, whom, a few hours before, he had -never seen, were as unreal as everything else. The environment of this -coming life was closing in on him and he could not meet its forces as -easily as a more elastic nature would have met them. He accepted change -with as little equanimity as a woman, in spite of the many changes of -his past, because he knew that both duty and temperament would compel -him to take up life, and live it with every nerve alongside the lives -running parallel with his own. He could see that he had pleased Miss -Hersey and he was glad, as he had a respect for ties of blood imbibed -from the atmosphere of ceremonious Spain. He was glad to find something -that had definite connection with himself and the silent house he had -entered; with its wind-blown beech-trees and the face upstairs in the -dust of the garret. -</p> -<p> -When dinner was over, the Miss Robertsons sent out for the hired coach -and pair which they had considered indispensable to the occasion. When -they had taken their leave, Gilbert stood and watched the lights of the -vehicle disappearing down the road to Kaims. Their departure relieved -him, for their presence made him dislike Barclay. Their extreme -simplicity might border on the absurd, but it made the lawyer’s -exaggerated politenesses and well-to-do complacency look more offensive -than they actually were. -</p> -<p> -It was quite dark as he turned back, and Barclay, who was a man much in -request in his own circle, was anxious to get home to the town, where -he proposed to enjoy a bottle with some friends. He looked forward -keenly to discussing the new-comer over it. -</p> -<p> -Before he went to bed, Speid strolled out into the damp night. He set -his face towards the sea, and the small stir<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-12">[12]</a></span> of air there was blew -chill upon his cheek. Beyond a couple of fields a great light was -flaring, throwing up the blunt end of some farm buildings through which -he had passed that morning in his walk with Barclay. Figures were -flitting across the shine; and the hum of human voices rose above a -faint roar that was coming in from the waste of sea beyond the -sand-hills. He strode across the paling, and made towards the light. -When he reached the place he found that a bonfire was shooting bravely -upward, and the glow which it threw on the walls of the whitewashed -dwelling-house was turning it into a rosy pink. The black forms of -twenty or thirty persons, men and women—the former much in the -majority—were crowding and gyrating round the blaze. Some were feeding -it with logs and stacks of brushwood; a few of the younger ones were -dancing and posturing solemnly; and one, who had made a discreet -retirement from the burning mass, was sitting in an open doorway with -an empty bottle on the threshold beside him. Some children looked down -on the throng from an upper window of the house. The revel was -apparently in an advanced stage. -</p> -<p> -The noise was tremendous. Under cover of it, and of the deep shadows -thrown by the bonfire, Gilbert slipped into a dark angle and stood to -watch the scene. The men were the principal dancers, and a knot of -heavy carter-lads were shuffling opposite to each other in a kind of -sentimental abandonment. Each had one hand on his hip and one held -conscientiously aloft. Now and then they turned round with the slow -motion of joints on the spit. One was singing gutturally in time to his -feet; but his words were unintelligible to Speid. -</p> -<p> -He soon discovered that the rejoicings were in honour of his own -arrival and the knowledge made him the more inclined to keep his -hiding-place. He could see Macquean raking at the pile, the flame -playing over his round forehead and unrefined face. He looked greatly -unsuited to the occasion, as he did to any outdoor event. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-13">[13]</a></span> -All at once a little wizened woman looked in his own direction. -</p> -<p> -‘Yonder’s him!’ she cried, as she extended a direct forefinger on his -shelter. -</p> -<p> -A shout rose from the revellers. Even the man in the doorway turned his -head, a thing he had not been able to do for some time. -</p> -<p> -‘Heh! the laird! the laird!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Yon’s him. Come awa’, laird, an’ let’s get a sicht o’ ye!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Here’s to ye, laird!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Laird! laird! What’ll I get if I run through the fire?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’ll get a pair o’ burned boots!’ roared the man in the doorway with -sudden warmth. -</p> -<p> -Speid came out from the shadow. He had not bargained for this. Silence -fell at once upon the assembly, and it occurred to him that he would do -well to say a few words to these, his new dependents. He paused, not -knowing how to address them. -</p> -<p> -‘Friends,’ he began at last, ‘I see that you mean this—this display as -a kind welcome to me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Just that,’ observed a voice in the crowd. -</p> -<p> -‘I know very little about Whanland, and I do not even know your names. -But I shall hope to be friendly with you all. I mean to live here and -to try my best to do well by everybody. I hope I have your good -wishes.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’ll hae that!’ cried the voice; and a man, far gone in intoxication, -who had absently filled the tin mug he had drained with small stones, -rattled it in accompaniment to the approving noise which followed these -words. -</p> -<p> -‘I thank you all,’ said the young man, as it subsided. -</p> -<p> -Then he turned and went up the fields to the house. -</p> -<p> -And that was how Gilbert Speid came back to Whanland. -</p> - -<hr class="fnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a id="ftnttxt1-1" href="#ftntanc1-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>Pronounced Speed. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_02"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-14">[14]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_02_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_02_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER II</span><br /> -<br /> -AT GARVIEKIRK</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -T<small>HE</small> woman who lay in her grave by the sands had rested there for nearly -thirty years when her son stood in the grass to read her name and the -date of her death. The place had been disused as a burial-ground; and -it cost Gilbert some trouble to find the corner in which Clementina -Speid’s passionate heart had mixed with the dust from which, we are -told, we emanate. The moss and damp had done their best to help on the -oblivion lying in wait for us all, and it was only after half an hour -of careful scraping that he had spelt out the letters on the stone. -There was little to read: her name, and the day she died—October 5, -1770—and her age. It was twenty-nine; just a year short of his own. -Underneath was cut: ‘Thus have they rewarded me evil for good, and -hatred for my goodwill (Ps. cix. 4).’ -</p> -<p> -He stood at her feet, his chin in his hand, and the salt wind blowing -in his hair. The smell of tar came up from the nets spread on the shore -to windward of him, and a gull flitted shrieking from the line of cliff -above. -</p> -<p> -He looked up. -</p> -<p> -He had not heard the tread of nearing hoofs, for the sea-sound -swallowed everything in its enveloping murmur, and he was surprised to -find that a person, from the outer side of the graveyard wall, was -regarding him earnestly. He could not imagine how she had arrived at -the place; for the strip of flat land which contained this -burying-ground at the foot of the cliffs appeared to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-15">[15]</a></span> him to end in -the promontory standing out into the ocean a half-mile further east. -The many little tracks and ravines which cut downward to the coast, and -by one of which the rider had descended to ride along the bents, were -unknown to him. He had not expected to see anyone, and he was rather -embarrassed at meeting the eyes of the middle-aged gentlewoman who sat -on horseback before him. She was remarkable enough to inspire anyone -with a feeling of interest, though not from beauty, for her round, -plain face was lined and toughened by the weather, and her shrewd and -comprehensive glance seemed more suited to a man’s than to a woman’s -countenance. A short red wig of indifferent fit protruded from under a -low-crowned beaver; and the cord and tassels, with which existing taste -encircled riding-hats, nodded over one side of the brim at each -movement of the head below. A buff waistcoat, short even in those days -of short waists, covered a figure which in youth could never have been -graceful, and the lady’s high-collared coat and riding-skirt of plum -colour were shabby with the varied weather of many years. The only -superfine things about her were her gloves, which were of the most -expensive make, the mare she rode, and an intangible air which pervaded -her, drowning her homeliness in its distinction. -</p> -<p> -Seeing that Gilbert was aware of her proximity, she moved on; not as -though she felt concern for the open manner of her regard, but as if -she had seen all she wished to see. As she went forward he was struck -with admiration of the mare, for she was a picture of breeding, and -whoever groomed her was a man to be respected; her contrast to the -shabbiness of her rider was marked, the faded folds of the -plum-coloured skirt showing against her loins like the garment of a -scarecrow laid over satin. -</p> -<p> -She was a dark bay with black points, short-legged, deep-girthed; her -little ears were cocked as she picked her way through the grass into -the sandy track which led back in the direction of the Lour’s mouth and -the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-16">[16]</a></span> bridge. The lady, despite her dumpish figure, was a horsewoman, a -fact that he noticed with interest as he turned from the mound, and, -stepping through a breach in the wall, took his way homewards in the -wake of the stranger. -</p> -<p> -It was a full fortnight since he had come to Whanland. With the -exception of Barclay and the Miss Robertsons, he had heard little and -seen nothing of his neighbours, for his time had been filled by -business matters. He knew his own servants by sight, and that was all; -but, with regard to their functions, he was completely in the dark, and -glad enough to have Macquean to interpret domestic life to him. He had -made some progress in the understanding of his speech, which he found -an easier matter to be even with than his character; and he was getting -over the inclination either to laugh or to be angry which he had felt -on first seeing him; also, it was dawning on him that, in the -astounding country he was to inhabit, it was possible to combine decent -intentions with a mode of bearing and address bordering on grossness. -</p> -<p> -As he went along and watched the rider in front, he could not guess at -her identity, having nothing to give him the smallest clue to it; he -was a good deal attracted by her original appearance, and was thinking -that he would ask Miss Robertson, when he next waited on her, to -enlighten him, when she put the mare to a trot and soon disappeared -round an angle of the cliff. -</p> -<p> -The clouds were low; and the gleam of sunshine which had enlivened the -day was merging itself into a general expectation of coming wet. -Gilbert buttoned up his coat and put his best foot forward, with the -exhilaration of a man who feels the youth in his veins warring -pleasantly with outward circumstances. He was young and strong; the -fascination of the place he had just left, and the curious readiness of -his rather complicated mind to dwell on it, and on the past of which it -spoke, ran up, so to speak, against the active perfection of his body. -He took off his hat and carried it, swinging along with his small head -bare, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-17">[17]</a></span> taking deep breaths of the healthy salt which blew to him -over miles of open water from Jutland opposite. The horse he had seen -had excited him. So far, he had been kept busy with the things -pertaining to his new position, but, interesting as they were, it -occurred to him that he was tired of them. Now he could give himself -the pleasure of filling his stable. He had never lacked money, for his -father had made him a respectable allowance, but, now that he was his -own master, with complete control of his finance, he would be content -with nothing but the best. -</p> -<p> -He thought of his two parents, one lying behind him in that -God-forgotten spot by the North Sea and the other under the cypresses -in Granada, where he had seen him laid barely three months ago. It -would have seemed less incongruous had the woman been left with the sun -and orange-trees and blue skies, and the man at the foot of the -impenetrable cliffs. But it was the initial trouble: they had been -mismated, misplaced, each with the other, and one with her -surroundings. -</p> -<p> -For two centuries the Speids of Whanland had been settled in this -corner of the Eastern Lowlands, and, though the property had diminished -and was now scarcely more than half its original size, the name carried -to initiated ears a suggestion of sound breeding, good physique, and -unchangeable custom, with a smack of the polite arts brought into the -family by a collateral who had been distinguished as a man of letters -in the reign of George I. The brides of the direct line had generally -possessed high looks, and been selected from those families which once -formed the strength of provincial Scotland, the ancient and untitled -county gentry. From its ranks came the succession of wits, lawyers, -divines, and men of the King’s service, which, though known only in a -limited circle, formed a society in the Scottish capital that for -brilliancy of talent and richness of personality has never been -surpassed. -</p> -<p> -The late laird, James Speid, had run contrary to the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-18">[18]</a></span> family custom of -mating early and was nearing forty when he set out, with no slight -stir, for Netherkails, in the county of Perth, to ask Mr. Lauder, a -gentleman with whom he had an acquaintance, for the hand of his -daughter, Clementina. He had met this lady at the house of a neighbour -and decided to pay his addresses to her; for, besides having a small -fortune, not enough to allure a penniless man, but enough to be useful -to the wife of one of his circumstance, she was so attractive as to -disturb him very seriously. He found only one obstacle to the despatch -of his business, which was that Clementina herself was not inclined -towards him, and told him so with a civility that did not allay his -vexation; and he returned to Whanland more silent than ever—for he was -a stern man—to find the putting of Miss Lauder from his mind a harder -matter than he had supposed. -</p> -<p> -But, in a few weeks, a letter came from Netherkails, not from the lady, -but from her father, assuring him that his daughter had altered her -mind, and that, if he were still constant to the devotion he had -described, there was no impediment in his way. Mr. Speid, whose -inclination pointed like a finger-post to Netherkails, was now -confronted by his pride, which stood, an armed giant, straddling the -road to bar his progress. But, after a stout tussle between man and -monster, the wheels of the family chariot rolled over the enemy’s -fallen body; and the victor, taking with him in a shagreen case a pearl -necklace which had belonged to his mother, brought back Clementina, who -was wearing it upon her lovely neck. -</p> -<p> -Whatever may have been the history of her change of mind, Mrs. Speid -accepted her responsibilities with a suitable face and an apparent -pleasure in the interest she aroused as a bride of more than common -good looks. Her coach was well appointed, her dresses of the best; her -husband, both publicly and in private, was precise in his courtesy and -esteem, and there was nothing left to be desired but some sympathy of -nature. At thirty-eight<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-19">[19]</a></span> he was, at heart, an elderly man, while his -wife, at twenty-seven, was a very young woman. The fact that he never -became aware of the incongruity was the rock on which their ship went -to pieces. -</p> -<p> -After three years of marriage Gilbert was born. Clementina’s health had -been precarious for months, and she all but paid for the child’s life -with her own. On the day that she left her bed, a couch was placed at -the window facing seaward, and she lay looking down the fields to the -shore. No one knew what occurred, but, that evening, there was a great -cry in the house and the servants, rushing up, met Mr. Speid coming -down the stairs and looking as if he did not see them. They found their -mistress in a terrible state of excitement and distress and carried her -back to her bed, where she became so ill that the doctor was fetched. -By the time he arrived she was in a delirium; and, two days after, she -died without having recognised anyone. -</p> -<p> -When the funeral was over James Speid discharged his servants, gave -orders for the sale of his horses, shut up his house, and departed for -England, taking the child with him under the charge of a young -Scotchwoman. In a short time he crossed over to Belgium, dismissed the -nurse, and handed over little Gilbert to be brought up by a peasant -woman near the vigilant eye of a pasteur with whom he had been friendly -in former days. Being an only son, Mr. Speid had none but distant -relations, and, as he was not a man of sociable character, there was no -person who might naturally come forward to take the child. He spent a -year in travel and settled finally in Spain, where the boy, when he had -reached his fifth birthday, joined him. -</p> -<p> -Thus Gilbert was cut off from all intercourse with his native country, -growing up with the sons of a neighbouring Spanish nobleman as his -companions. When, at last, he went to school in England, he met no one -who knew anything about him, and, all mention of his mother’s<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-20">[20]</a></span> name -having been strictly forbidden at his home, he reached manhood in -complete ignorance of everything connected with his father’s married -life. The servants, being foreign, and possessing no channel through -which they could hear anything to explain the prohibition, made many -guesses, and, from scraps of their talk overheard by the boy, he -discovered that there was some mystery connected with him. It was a -great deal in his mind, but, as he grew older, a certain delicacy of -feeling forbade his risking the discovery of anything to the detriment -of the mother whose very likeness he had never seen. His father, though -indifferent to him, endeavoured to be just, and was careful in giving -him the obvious advantages of life. He grew up active and manly, -plunging with zest into the interests and amusements of his boyhood’s -companions. He was a good horseman, a superb swordsman, and, his -natural gravity assimilating with something in the Spanish character, -he was popular. Mr. Speid made no demands upon his affection, the two -men respecting each other without any approach to intimacy, and, when -the day came on which Gilbert stood and looked down at the stern, dead -face, though his grief was almost impersonal, he felt in every fibre -that he owed him a debt he could only repay by the immediate putting -into effect of his wishes. Mr. Speid had, during his illness, informed -him that he was heir to the property of Whanland, and that he desired -him to return to Scotland and devote himself conscientiously to it. -</p> -<p> -And so he had come home, and was now making his way up to the bridge, -wondering why he had not seen the figure of the strange lady crossing -it between him and the sky. She must have turned and gone up the road -leading from it to the cliffs and the little village of Garviekirk, -which sat in the fields above the churchyard. -</p> -<p> -He looked at the shoe-marks in the mud as he went up the hill, -following them mechanically, and, at the top, they diverged, as he had -expected, from his homeward direction.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-21">[21]</a></span> As he stopped half-way and -glanced over the bridge parapet into the swirling water of the Lour -slipping past the masonry, the smart beat of hoofs broke on his ear. -The mare was coming down towards him at a canter, the saddle empty, the -stirrup-leather flying outwards, the water splashing up as she went -through the puddles. Something inconsequent and half-hearted in her -pace showed that whatever fright had started her had given way to a -capricious pleasure in the unusual; and the hollow sound of her own -tread on the bridge made her buck light-heartedly. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert stepped out into the middle of the way and held up his -walking-stick. She swerved, stopped suddenly with her fore-feet well in -front of her, and was going to turn when he sprang at the reins. As he -grasped them she reared up, but only as a protest against interference, -for she came down as quietly as if she had done nothing at which anyone -could take offence. She had evidently fallen, for the bit was bent and -all her side plastered with mud. He plucked a handful of grass and -cleaned down the saddle before starting with her towards Garviekirk. -There was no one to be seen, but there stood, in the distance, a -roadside cottage whose inmates might, he thought, know something of the -accident. He hurried forward. -</p> -<p> -The cottage-door opened on the side-path, and, as he drew near, he saw -the mare’s owner standing on the threshold, watching his approach. She -had been original-looking on horseback and she was now a hundred times -more so; for the traces of her fall were evident, and, on one side, she -was coated with mud from head to heel. Her wig was askew, her arms -akimbo, and her hat, which she held in her hand, was battered out of -shape. She stood framed by the lintel, her feet set wide apart; as she -contemplated Gilbert and the mare, she kept up a loud conversation with -an unseen person inside the cottage. -</p> -<p> -‘Nonsense, woman!’ she was exclaiming as he stopped a few paces from -her. ‘Come out and hold her while<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-22">[22]</a></span> this gentleman helps me to mount. -Sir, I am much obliged to you.’ -</p> -<p> -As she spoke she walked round the animal in a critical search for -damage. -</p> -<p> -‘She is quite sound, madam,’ said Gilbert. ‘I trotted her as I came to -make sure of it. I hope you are not hurt yourself.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Thanky, no,’ she replied, rather absently. -</p> -<p> -He laid the rein on the mare’s neck. The lady threw an impatient look -at the house. -</p> -<p> -‘Am I to be kept waiting all day, Granny Stirk?’ she cried. -</p> -<p> -There was a sound of pushing and scuffling, and an old woman carrying a -clumsy wooden chair filled the doorway. She was short and thin, and had -the remains of the most marked good looks. -</p> -<p> -The lady broke into a torrent of speech. -</p> -<p> -‘What do I want with that? Do you suppose I have come to such a pass -that I cannot mount my horse without four wooden legs to help me up? -Put it down, you old fool, and come here as I bid you—do you hear?’ -</p> -<p> -Granny Stirk advanced steadily with the chair in front of her. She -might have looked as though protecting herself with it had her -expression been less decided. -</p> -<p> -‘Put it down, I tell you. God bless me, am I a cripple? Leave her head, -sir—she will stand—and do me the favour to mount me.’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert complied, and, putting his hand under the stranger’s splashed -boot, tossed her easily into the saddle. She sat a moment gathering up -the reins and settling her skirt; then, with a hurried word of thanks, -she trotted off, standing up in her stirrup as she went to look over at -the mare’s feet. Granny had put down her burden and was staring at -Gilbert with great interest. -</p> -<p> -‘Who is that lady?’ he inquired, when horse and rider had disappeared. -</p> -<p> -‘Yon’s Leddy Eliza Lamont,’ she replied, still examining him. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-23">[23]</a></span> -‘Does she live near here?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Ay; she bides at Morphie, away west by the river.’ -</p> -<p> -‘And how did she meet with her accident?’ -</p> -<p> -‘She was coming in by the field ahint the house, an’ the horse just -coupet itsel’. She came in-by an’ tell’t me. She kens me fine.’ -</p> -<p> -It struck Gilbert as strange that, in spite of Lady Eliza’s interest as -she watched him over the burying-ground wall, she had not had the -curiosity to ask his name, though they had spoken and he had done her a -service. He looked down at the mud which her boot had transferred to -his fingers. -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’ve filed your hands,’ observed Granny. ‘Come ben an’ I’ll gie ye a -drappie water to them.’ -</p> -<p> -He followed her and found himself in a small, dark kitchen. It was -clean, and a great three-legged caldron which hung by a chain over the -fire was making an aggressive bubbling. A white cat, marked with black -and brown, slunk deceitfully out of its place by the hearth as they -entered. The old woman took an earthenware bowl and filled it. When he -had washed his hands, she held out a corner of her apron to him, and he -dried them. -</p> -<p> -‘Sit down a whilie to the fire,’ she said, pushing forward the wooden -chair that Lady Eliza had despised. -</p> -<p> -‘Thank you, I cannot,’ he replied. ‘I must be going, for it will soon -be dark; but I should like to pay you another visit one day.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Haste ye back, then,’ she said, as he went out of the door. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert turned as he stood on the side-path, and looked at the old -woman. A question was in her face. -</p> -<p> -‘You’ll be the laird of Whanland?’ she inquired, rather loudly. -</p> -<p> -He assented. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -‘You’re a fine lad,’ said Granny Stirk, as she went back into the -cottage. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_03"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-24">[24]</a></span></p> -<h4 id="Chapter_03_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_03_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER III</span><br /> -<br /> -FRIENDSHIP</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -L<small>ADY</small> E<small>LIZA</small> L<small>AMONT</small> splashed along the road and over the bridge; her -heart was beating under the outlandish waistcoat, and behind her red -face, so unsuggestive of emotion of any sort, a turmoil was going on in -her brain. She had seen him at last. -</p> -<p> -She breathed hard, and her mouth drew into a thin line as she passed -Whanland, and saw the white walls glimmering through the beech-trees. -There was a light in one of the upper windows, the first she had seen -there for thirty years in the many times she had ridden past. -</p> -<p> -He was so little like the picture her mind had imagined that she would -scarcely have recognised him, she told herself. Yet still there was -that in his look which forbade her to hate him unrestrainedly, though -he represented all that had set her life awry. He was now her neighbour -and it was likely they would often meet; indeed, sooner or later, -civility would compel her to invite him to wait upon her. She gave the -mare a smart blow with her riding-cane as they turned into the approach -to Morphie House. -</p> -<p> -Up to the horse-block in the stable-yard she rode, for her fall had -made her stiff, and, though she usually objected to dismounting upon -it, she was glad of its help this evening. The groom who came out -exclaimed as he saw her plight, but she cut him short, merely sending -him for a lantern, by the light of which they examined the mare<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-25">[25]</a></span> -together in the growing dusk; she then gathered up her skirt and went -into the house by the back entrance. Her gloves were coated with mud, -and she peeled them off and threw them on a table in the hall before -going into the long, low room in which she generally sat. The lights -had not been brought and it was very dark as she opened the door; the -two windows at the end facing her were mere gray patches of twilight -through which the dim white shapes of a few sheep were visible; for, at -Morphie, the grass grew up to the walls at the sides of the house. A -figure was sitting by the hearth between the windows and a very tall -man rose from his chair as she entered. -</p> -<p> -Lady Eliza started. -</p> -<p> -‘Fullarton!’ she exclaimed. -</p> -<p> -‘It is I. I have been waiting here expecting you might return earlier. -You are out late to-night.’ -</p> -<p> -‘The mare put her foot in a hole, stupid brute! A fine roll she gave -me, too.’ -</p> -<p> -He made an exclamation, and, catching sight of some mud on her sleeve, -led her to the light. She went quietly and stood while he looked at -her. -</p> -<p> -‘Gad, my lady! you have been down indeed! You are none the worse, I -trust?’ -</p> -<p> -‘No, no; but I will send for a dish of tea, and drink it by the fire. -It is cold outside.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But you are wet, my dear lady.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What does that matter? I shall take no harm. Ring the bell, -Fullarton—the rope is at your hand.’ -</p> -<p> -Robert Fullarton did as he was desired, and stood looking at the ragged -grass and the boles of the trees. His figure and the rather blunt -outline of his features showed dark against the pane. At sixty he was -as upright as when he and Lady Eliza had been young together, and he -the first of the county gentlemen in polite pursuits. At a time when it -was hardly possible to be anything else, he had never been provincial, -for though he was, before anything, a sportsman, he had been one of the -very few<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-26">[26]</a></span> of his day capable of combining sport with wider interests. -</p> -<p> -The friendship between his own family and that of Morphie House had -gone far back into the preceding century, long before Mr. Lamont, -second son of an impoverished earl, had inherited the property through -his mother, and settled down upon it with Lady Eliza, his unmarried -sister. At his death she had stepped into his place, still unmarried, a -blunt, prejudiced woman, understood by few, and, oddly enough, liked by -many. Morphie was hers for life and was to pass, at her death, to a -distant relation of her mother’s family. She was well off, and, being -the only occupant of a large house, with few personal wants and but one -expensive taste, she had become as autocratic as a full purse and a -life outside the struggles and knocks of the world will make anyone who -is in possession of both. -</p> -<p> -The expensive taste was her stable; for, from the hour that she had -been lifted as a little child upon the back of her father’s horse, she -had wavered only once in her decision that horses and all pertaining to -them presented by far the most attractive possibilities in life. Her -hour of wavering had come later. -</p> -<p> -The fire threw bright flickerings into the darkness of the room as Lady -Eliza sat and drank her tea. The servant who had brought it would have -brought in lights, too, but she refused to have them, saying that she -was tired and that the dusk soothed her head, and she withdrew into the -furthest corner of a high-backed settee, with the little dish beside -her on a spindle-legged table. -</p> -<p> -Fullarton sat at the other end of the hearth, his elbows on his knees -and his hands spread to the blaze. They were large hands, nervous and -well formed. His face, on which the firelight played, had a look of -preoccupation, and the horizontal lines of his forehead seemed deeper -than usual—at least, so his companion thought. It was easily seen that -they were very intimate, from the silence in which they sat. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-27">[27]</a></span> -‘Surely you must be rather wet,’ said he again, after a few minutes. ‘I -think it would be wise if you were to change your habit for dry -clothes.’ -</p> -<p> -‘No; I will sit here.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You have always been a self-willed woman, my lady.’ -</p> -<p> -She made no reply, merely turning her cane round and round in her hand. -A loud crash came from the fire, and a large piece of wood fell into -the fender with a sputter of blue fireworks. He picked it up with the -tongs and set it back in its place. She watched him silently. It was -too dark to read the expression in her eyes. -</p> -<p> -‘I have seen young Whanland,’ she said suddenly. -</p> -<p> -‘Indeed,’ said Fullarton. -</p> -<p> -‘He caught the mare and brought her to me at Granny Stirk’s house.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What is he like?’ he asked, after a pause. -</p> -<p> -‘A proper young fellow. He obliged me very greatly. Have you not met -him? He has been at Whanland this fortnight past, I am told.’ -</p> -<p> -‘No,’ said Fullarton, with his eyes on the flame, ‘never. I have never -seen him.’ -</p> -<p> -‘As I came by just now I saw the lights in Whanland House. It is a long -time that it has been in darkness now. I suppose that sawney-faced -Macquean is still minding it?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I believe so,’ said the man, drawing his chair out of the circle of -the light. -</p> -<p> -‘How long is it now since—since Mrs. Speid’s death? Twenty-eight or -twenty-nine years, I suppose?’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is thirty,’ said Robert. -</p> -<p> -‘It was a little earlier in the year than this,’ continued Lady Eliza. -‘I remember seeing Mr. Speid’s travelling-carriage on the road, with -the nurse and the baby inside it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You build your fires very high,’ said Fullarton. ‘I must move away, or -the cold will be all the worse when I get out of doors. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-28">[28]</a></span> -‘But I hope you will stay and sup, Fullarton. You have not been here -since Cecilia came back.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Not to-night,’ said he, rising; ‘another time. Present my respects to -Cecilia, for I must go.’ -</p> -<p> -Lady Eliza sat still. He stood by the settee holding out his hand. His -lips were shaking, but there was a steadiness in his voice and a -measured tone that told of great control. -</p> -<p> -‘Good-night,’ he said. ‘I left my horse in the stable. I will walk out -myself and fetch him.’ -</p> -<p> -He turned to go to the door. She watched him till he had almost reached -it. -</p> -<p> -‘Fullarton!’ she cried suddenly; ‘come back!’ -</p> -<p> -He looked round, but stood still in his place. -</p> -<p> -‘Come back; I must speak—I must tell you!’ -</p> -<p> -He did not move, so she rose and stood between him and the fire, a -grotesque enough figure in the dancing light. -</p> -<p> -‘I know everything; I have always known it. Do you think I did not -understand what had come to you in those days? Ah! I know now—yes, more -than ever, now I have seen him. He has a look that I would have known -anywhere, Robert.’ -</p> -<p> -He made an inarticulate sound as though he were about to speak. -</p> -<p> -She held up her hand. -</p> -<p> -‘There is no use in denying it—you cannot! How can you, with that man -standing there to give you the lie? But I have understood always—God -knows I have understood!’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is untrue from beginning to end,’ said Fullarton very quietly. -</p> -<p> -‘You are obliged to say that,’ she said through her teeth. ‘It is a -lie!’ -</p> -<p> -But for this one friendship, he had lived half his life solely among -men. He had not fathomed the unsparing brutality of women. His hand was -on the door. She sprang towards him and clasped both hers round his -arm. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-29">[29]</a></span> -‘Robert! Robert!’ she cried. -</p> -<p> -‘Let me go,’ he said, trying to part the hands; ‘I cannot bear this. -Have you <i>no</i> pity, Eliza?’ -</p> -<p> -‘But you will come back? Oh, Robert, listen to me! Listen to me! You -think because I have spoken now that I will speak again. Never! I never -will!’ -</p> -<p> -‘You have broken everything,’ said he. -</p> -<p> -‘What have I done?’ she asked fiercely. ‘Have I once made a sign of -what I knew all those years? Have I, Robert?’ -</p> -<p> -‘No,’ he said thickly; ‘I suppose not. How can I tell?’ -</p> -<p> -The blood flew up into her face, dyeing it crimson. -</p> -<p> -‘What? what? Do you disbelieve me?’ she cried. ‘How dare you, I say?’ -</p> -<p> -She shook his arm. Her voice was so loud that he feared it might be -overheard by some other inmate of the house. He felt almost distracted. -He disengaged himself and turned to the wall, his hand over his face. -The pain of the moment was so intolerable. Lady Eliza’s wrath dropped -suddenly and fell from her, leaving her standing dumb, for there was -something in the look of Fullarton’s bowed shoulders that struck her in -the very centre of her heart. When she should have been silent she had -spoken, and now, when she would have given worlds to speak, she could -not. -</p> -<p> -He turned slowly and they looked at each other. The fire had spurted up -and each could see the other’s face. His expression was one of physical -suffering. He opened the door and went out. -</p> -<p> -He knew his way in every corner of Morphie, and he went, as he had -often done, through the passage by which she had entered and passed by -the servants’ offices into the stable-yard. He was so much preoccupied -that he did not hear her footsteps behind him and he walked out, -unconscious that she followed. In the middle of the yard stood a -weeping-ash on a plot of grass, and she hurried round the tree and into -an outbuilding connected with the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-30">[30]</a></span> stable. She entered and saw his -horse standing on the pillar-rein, the white blaze on his face distinct -in the dark. The stablemen were indoors. She slipped the rings and led -him out of the place on to the cobble-stones. -</p> -<p> -Robert was standing bareheaded in the yard. He took up the rein -mechanically without looking at her, and put his foot in the stirrup -iron. As he was about to turn, she laid hold of the animal’s mane. -</p> -<p> -‘Lady Eliza!’ he exclaimed, staring down through the dusk. -</p> -<p> -‘You have left your hat, Fullarton,’ she said. ‘I will go in and fetch -it.’ -</p> -<p> -Before he could prevent her, she had vanished into the house. He sat -for a moment in his saddle, for there was no one to take the horse; but -he followed her to the door, and dismounted there. In a couple of -minutes she returned with the hat. -</p> -<p> -‘Thank you—thank you,’ he said; ‘you should not have done such a -thing.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What would I not do?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Eliza,’ he said, ‘can I trust you?’ -</p> -<p> -‘You never have,’ she replied bitterly, ‘but you will need to now.’ -</p> -<p> -He rode out of the yard. -</p> -<p> -She reached her room without meeting anyone, and sank down in an -armchair. She longed to weep; but Fate, that had denied her the human -joys which she desired, but for which she had not, apparently, been -created, withheld that natural relief too. The repressed womanhood in -her life seemed to confront her at every step. She lifted her head, and -caught sight of herself in a long cheval glass, her wig, her -weather-beaten face, her clumsy attitude. She had studied her -reflection in the thing many and many a time in the years gone by, and -it had become to her almost as an enemy—a candid enemy. As a girl going -to county balls with her brother, she had stood before it trying to -cheat herself into the belief that she was less plain in her<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-31">[31]</a></span> evening -dress than she had been in her morning one. Now she had lost even the -freshness which had then made her passable. She told herself that, but -for that, youth had given her nothing which age could take away, and -she laughed against her will at the truth. She looked down at the pair -of hands shining white in the mirror. They were her one ornament and -she had taken care of them. How small they were! how the fingers -tapered! how the pink of the filbert-shaped nails showed against the -cream of the skin! They were beautiful. Yet they had never felt the -touch of a man’s lips, never clung round a lover’s neck, never held a -child. Everything that made a woman’s life worth living had passed her -by. The remembrance of a short time when she had thought she held the -Golden Rose for ever made her heart ache. It was Gilbert’s mother who -had snatched it from her. -</p> -<p> -And friendship had been a poor substitute for what she had never -possessed. The touch of love in the friendship of a man and a woman -which makes it so charming, and may make it so dangerous, had been left -out between herself and Robert. She lived before these days of profound -study of sensation, but she knew that by instinct. The passion for -inflicting pain which assails some people when they are unhappy had -carried her tongue out of all bounds, and she realized that she was to -pay for its short indulgence with a lasting regret. She did not suppose -that Fullarton would not return, but she knew he would never forget, -and she feared that she also would not cease to remember. She could not -rid her mind of the image printed on it—his figure, as he stood in the -long-room below with his face turned from her. She had suffered at that -moment as cruelly as himself and she had revelled in her own pain. -</p> -<p> -When she had put off her riding-habit, she threw on a wrapper and lay -down on the bed, for she was wearied, body and soul, and her limbs were -beginning to remind her of her fall. It was chilly and she shivered, -drawing up the quilt over her feet. The voices of two servants, a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-32">[32]</a></span> -groom and a maid, babbled on by the ash-tree in the yard below; she -could not distinguish anything they said, but the man’s tone -predominated. They were making love, no doubt. Lady Eliza pressed her -head into the pillow, and tried to shut out the sound. -</p> -<p> -She was half asleep when someone tapped at the door, and, getting no -answer, opened it softly. -</p> -<p> -‘Is it Cecilia?’ said she, sitting up. -</p> -<p> -‘My dearest aunt, are you asleep? Oh, I fear I have awakened you.’ -</p> -<p> -The girl stood holding back the curtains. As she looked at the bed her -lips trembled a little. -</p> -<p> -‘I have only this moment heard of your accident,’ she said. -</p> -<p> -‘I am not hurt, my dear, so don’t distress yourself.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Thank Heaven!’ exclaimed the other. -</p> -<p> -‘My patience, Cecilia, you are quite upset! What a little blockhead you -are!’ -</p> -<p> -For answer, Cecilia took Lady Eliza’s hand in both her own, and laid -her cheek against it. She said nothing. -</p> -<p> -‘It must be almost supper-time,’ said the elder woman. ‘I will rise, -for you will be waiting.’ -</p> -<p> -‘May I not bring something up to your room, ma’am? I think you should -lie still in bed. I am very well alone.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Nonsense, child! Go downstairs, and let me get up. I suppose you think -I am too old to take care of myself.’ -</p> -<p> -Cecilia went out as she was bid, and took her way to the dining-room. -Her face was a little troubled, for she saw that Lady Eliza was more -shaken than she had been willing to admit, and she suspected the -presence of some influence which she did not understand; for the two -women, so widely removed in character and age, had so strong a bond of -affection, that, while their minds could never meet on common ground, -there was a sympathy between them apart from all individual bias. -</p> -<p> -Cecilia was one of those unusual people whose outward<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-33">[33]</a></span> personalities -never look unsuitable to the life encompassing them, though their -inward beings may be completely aloof from everything surrounding them -physically. She sat down by the table, her gray gown melting into the -background of the walls, and the whiteness of her long neck rising -distinct from it. Her dress was cut open in front and bordered by a -narrow line of brown fur which crossed on her bosom. Though she was so -slim, the little emerald brooch which held the fastening of it together -sank into the hollow made by her figure; her hair was drawn up on the -top of her head, and piled in many rolls round a high, tortoiseshell -comb. Her long eyes, under straight brows, seemed, in expression, to be -holding something hidden behind the eyelashes, something intangible, -elusive. To see her was to be reminded, consciously or unconsciously, -of mists, of shadows, of moonlit things—things half seen, things -remembered. Her lips closed evenly, though in beautiful lines, and the -upper, not short enough for real beauty, had an outward curve, as it -rested on its fellow, which held a curious attraction. She was very -pale with a pallor that did not suggest ill-health. -</p> -<p> -Though she was the only young inhabitant of Morphie, she existed among -the dusty passages—dusty with the powdering of ages—and the sober -unconventionality of the place as naturally as one of those white -plants which haunt remote waterways exists among the hidden hollows and -shadows of pools. She was very distantly related to Lady Eliza Lamont, -but, when the death of both parents had thrown her on the world, a -half-grown, penniless girl, she had come to Morphie for a month to gain -strength after an illness, and remained there twelve years. Lady Eliza, -ostentatiously grumbling at the responsibility she had imposed upon -herself, found, at the end of the time, that she could not face the -notion of parting with Cecilia. It was the anxiety of her life that, -though she had practically adopted the girl, she had nothing<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-34">[34]</a></span> she could -legally leave her at her death but her own personal possessions. -</p> -<p> -A few minutes later she came down in the ancient pelisse which she -found comfortable after the exertions of the day. She had taught -Cecilia something of the activity which, though now a part of most -well-bred women’s lives, was then almost an eccentricity. The female -part of the little society which filled Kaims in the winter months -nodded its ‘dressed’ head over its cards and teacups in polished dismay -at the effect such ways would surely have on the young women; at other -times one might hardly have guessed at the lurking solicitude in so -many womanly bosoms; for, though unwilling, for many reasons, to -disagree with Lady Eliza, their owners were apt, with the curious -reasoning of their sex, to take her adopted daughter as a kind of -insult to themselves. It was their opinion that Miss Cecilia Raeburn, -though a sweet young lady, would, of course, find the world a <i>very</i> -different place when her ladyship’s time should come, and they only -hoped she was sensible of the debt she owed her; these quiet-looking -girls were often very sly. With prudent eyes the matrons congratulated -themselves and each other that their own Carolines and Amelias were -‘less unlike other people,’ and had defined, if modest, prospects; and -such of the Carolines and Amelias who chanced to be privily listening -would smirk in secure and conscious unison. Even Miss Hersey Robertson, -who mixed a little in these circles, was inclined to be critical. -</p> -<p> -The advent of a possible husband, though he would present in himself -the solution of all difficulties, had only vaguely entered Lady Eliza’s -mind. Like many parents, she supposed that the girl would ‘marry some -day,’ and, had anyone questioned the probability in her presence, it is -likely that she would have been very angry. Fullarton, who was -consulted on every subject, had realized that the life at Morphie was -an unnatural one for Cecilia and spoken his mind to some purpose. He -suggested that she should<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-35">[35]</a></span> pass a winter in Edinburgh, and, though Lady -Eliza refused stubbornly to plunge into a society to whose customs she -felt herself unable to conform, it was arranged by him that a favourite -cousin, widow of the late Lord Advocate of Scotland, should receive the -girl. This lady, who was childless, and longed for someone to accompany -her to those routs and parties dear to her soul, found in her kinsman’s -suggestion something wellnigh providential. So kind a welcome did she -extend, that her charge, whose pleasure in the arrangement had been but -a mixed business, set out with an almost cheerful spirit. -</p> -<p> -A nature inclined to study and reflection, and nine years of life with -a person of quick tongue, had bred in Cecilia a different calibre of -mind to that of the provincial young lady of her time; and Lady Eliza -had procured her excellent tuition. The widow had expected to find in -her guest a far less uncommon personality, and it was with real -satisfaction that she proceeded to introduce her to the very critical -and rather literary society which she frequented. There were some -belonging to it who were to see in Miss Raeburn, poor as she was, an -ideal future for themselves. Cecilia, when she returned to Morphie, -left more than one very sore heart behind her. To many it seemed -wonderful that her experiences had not spoiled her, and that she could -take up life again in the draughty, ill-lit house, whose only outward -signs of animation were the sheep grazing under its windows and the -pigeons pluming in rows under the weathercock swinging crazily on the -stable roof. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -What people underrated was her devoted attachment to Lady Eliza, and -what they could not understand was the fact that, while she was -charmed, interested, and apparently engrossed by many things, her inner -life might hold so completely aloof as never to have been within range -of them. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_04"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-36">[36]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_04_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_04_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER IV</span><br /> -<br /> -JIMMY</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -I<small>NLAND</small> from the river’s mouth the dark plough-fields stretched sombre, -restful, wide, uncut by detail. The smaller roads intersecting the -country were treeless in the main, and did not draw the eye from the -majesty of the defined woods. There was everything to suggest breadth -and full air; and the sky, as Gilbert rode up towards a farm cresting -the swell of the high horizon, was as suggestive of it as the earth. -The clear gray meeting the sweep of the world was an immensity on which -cloud-masses, too high for rain, but full of it, looked as though cut -adrift by some Titanic hand and left to sail derelict on the cold -heavens. -</p> -<p> -The road he was travelling was enlivened by a stream of people, all -going in the same direction as himself, and mostly on foot, though a -couple of gigs, whose occupants looked as much too large for them as -the occupants of country gigs generally do, were ascending to the farm -at that jog which none but agriculturally-interested persons can -suffer. -</p> -<p> -A displenishing sale, or ‘roup,’ as it is called, had been advertised -there, which was drawing both thrifty and extravagant to its -neighbourhood. Curiosity was drawing Gilbert. A compact little roan, -bought for hacking about the country, was stepping briskly under him, -showing its own excellent manners and the ease and finish of its -rider’s seat. Beside the farm a small crowd was gathered round<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-37">[37]</a></span> the -pursy figure of a water-butt on high legs, which stood out against the -sky. -</p> -<p> -As he went, he observed, coming down a cart-road, two other mounted -people, a man and a woman. He judged that he and they would meet where -their respective ways converged and he was not wrong, for in another -minute he was face to face with Robert Fullarton and Lady Eliza Lamont. -He drew aside to let them pass on. Lady Eliza bowed and her mare began -to sidle excitedly to the edge of the road, upset by the sudden meeting -with a strange horse. -</p> -<p> -‘Good-day to you, sir,’ she said, as she recognised him. ‘I am -fortunate to have met you. It was most obliging of you to come and -inquire for me as you did.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Indeed, I could do no less,’ replied Gilbert, hat in hand, ‘and I am -very glad to see your ladyship on horseback again.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Lord, sir! I was out the next day. Fullarton, let me make you acquaint -with Mr. Speid of Whanland. Sir, Mr. Robert Fullarton of Fullarton.’ -</p> -<p> -The two gentlemen bowed gravely. -</p> -<p> -Lady Eliza was so anxious to assure the man beside her of her perfect -good faith and good feeling after the painful meeting of a few weeks -ago that she would willingly have gone arm-in-arm to the ‘roup’ with -Gilbert, had circumstances and decorum allowed it. She brought her -animal abreast of the roan and proceeded with the two men, one on -either side of her. Robert, understanding her impulse, would have -fallen in with it had not the sharp twinge of memory which the young -man’s presence evoked almost choked him. It was a minute before he -could speak. -</p> -<p> -‘You are newly come, sir,’ he said at last. ‘I am to blame for not -having presented myself at Whanland before.’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert made a civil reply. -</p> -<p> -‘I hear this is likely to be a large sale,’ observed Fullarton, as they -rode along. ‘There is a great deal of live stock, and some horses. Have -you any interest in it?’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-38">[38]</a></span> -‘The simple wish to see my neighbours has brought me,’ replied Gilbert. -‘I have so much to learn that I lose no chance of adding anything to my -experience.’ -</p> -<p> -While they were yet some way from their destination the crowd parted -for a moment, and Lady Eliza caught sight of the object in its midst. -She pointed towards it. -</p> -<p> -‘Ride, Fullarton! ride, for God’s sake, and bid for the water-butt!’ -she cried. -</p> -<p> -‘Tut, tut, my lady. What use have you for it?’ -</p> -<p> -‘It will come very useful for drowning the stable terrier’s puppies. -She has them continually. Ride, I tell you, man! Am I to be overrun -with whelps because you will not bestir yourself?’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert could scarce conceal his amusement, and was divided between his -desire to laugh aloud and an uneasy feeling that the lady would appeal -to him. -</p> -<p> -The auctioneer was seen at this juncture to leap down from the -wood-pile on which he stood, and a couple of men hurried forward and -began to remove the water-butt. It was being hustled away like some -corpulent drunkard, its legs trailing the ground stiffly and raising a -dust that threatened to choke the bystanders. -</p> -<p> -The yard was full of people, and, as the auctioneer had paused between -two lots, and was being refreshed at the expense of the farm’s owner, -tongues were loose, and the air was filled with discussion, jests, and -the searching smell of tobacco and kicked-up straw. Among the few women -present Gilbert perceived Granny Stirk, seated precariously on the -corner of the wood-pile from which the auctioneer had just descended. -Beside her was a tall, shock-headed lad of nineteen or so, whom only -the most unobservant could suspect of belonging to the same category as -the farm-boys, though his clothes were of the same fashion as their -own, and his face wore the same healthy tanned red. He was spare and -angular, and had that particular focus of eye which one sees in men who -steer boats, drive horses, pay out ropes, and whose hands can act -independently<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-39">[39]</a></span> while they are looking distant possibilities in the -face. A halter dangled from his arm. He was very grave and his thoughts -were evidently fixed on the door of the farm stable. In spite of his -sharp-cut personality, he stood by Granny Stirk in a way that suggested -servitude. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert left his companions and went towards the couple. Granny’s face -was lengthened to suit the demands of a public occasion, and her little -three-cornered woollen shawl was pinned with a pebble brooch. -</p> -<p> -‘What ails ye that ye canna see the laird of Whanland?’ she said, -turning to the boy as Speid stopped beside them. -</p> -<p> -He shuffled awkwardly with his cap. -</p> -<p> -‘He’s ma grandson, an’ it’s a shelt<a id="ftntanc4-1" href="#ftnttxt4-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> he’s after.’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert was getting a little more familiar with local speech. -</p> -<p> -‘Do you intend to buy?’ he said to the lad. -</p> -<p> -Jimmy Stirk brought his eyes back to his immediate surroundings, and -looked at the speaker. They were so much lighter than the brown face in -which they were set, and their gaze was so direct, that Gilbert was -almost startled. It was as though someone had gripped him. -</p> -<p> -‘Ay, that’s it. He’s to buy,’ broke in Granny. ‘He’s aye wanted this, -an’ we’d be the better of twa, for the auld ane’s getting fairly done.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I doubt I’ll no get it yet,’ said the boy. -</p> -<p> -‘He’s sold near a’ the things he’s got,’ continued Granny, looking at -her grandson’s feet, which Gilbert suddenly noticed were bare. ‘A’m -fair ashamed to be seen wi’ him.’ -</p> -<p> -‘How much have you got together?’ inquired the young man. -</p> -<p> -Jimmy opened his hand. There were ten pounds in the palm. -</p> -<p> -‘He got half that, July month last, from a gentleman that was like to -be drowned down by the river’s mouth; he just gaed awa an’ ca’ed him in -by the lugs,’<a id="ftntanc4-2" href="#ftnttxt4-2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> explained his grandmother. -</p> -<p> -‘Did you swim out?’ asked Speid, interested. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-40">[40]</a></span> -‘Ay,’ replied Jimmy, whose eyes had returned to the door. -</p> -<p> -‘That was well done.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I kenned I’d get somethin’,’ observed the boy. -</p> -<p> -The auctioneer now emerged from the farm-house and the crowd began to -draw together like a piece of elastic. He came straight to the -wood-pile. -</p> -<p> -‘Are you needing all that to yoursel’?’ he enquired, looking jocosely -at the bystanders as he paused before Granny Stirk. -</p> -<p> -‘Na, na; up ye go, my lad. The biggest leear in the armchair,’ said the -old woman as she rose. -</p> -<p> -‘It’s ill work meddling wi’ the Queen o’ the Cadgers,’ remarked a man -who stood near. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert determined to stay in his place by the Stirks, for the -commotion and trampling going on proclaimed that the live stock were on -the eve of being brought to the hammer. The cart-horses were the first -to be disposed of, so, having found someone who offered to put the roan -into a spare stall, he abandoned himself to the interest with which the -scene inspired him. -</p> -<p> -Jimmy Stirk’s face, when the last team had been led away, told him the -all-important moment had come. The boy moistened his lips with his -tongue and looked at him. His hand was shut tightly upon the money it -held. -</p> -<p> -It was difficult to imagine what use the owner of the farm might have -found for the animal being walked about before the possible buyers, for -he was just fifteen hands and seemed far too light to carry a heavy -man, or to be put between the shafts of one of those clumsy gigs which -rolled unevenly into Kaims on market-days. In spite of the evident -strain of good blood, he was no beauty, being somewhat ewe-necked and -too long in the back. But his shoulder sloped properly to the withers -and his length of stride behind, as he was walked round, gave promise -of speed; his full eye took a nervous survey of the mass of humanity -surrounding him. The man who led him turned him abruptly round and held -him facing the wood-pile.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-41">[41]</a></span> Gilbert could hear Jimmy Stirk breathing -hard at his shoulder. -</p> -<p> -The auctioneer looked round upon the crowd with the noisome familiarity -of his class, a shepherd’s crook which he held ready to strike on the -planks at his feet substituting the traditional hammer. -</p> -<p> -‘You’ll no’ hae seen the like o’ lot fifty-seven hereabout,’ he began. -‘Yon’s a gentleman’s naig—no ane o’ they coorse deevils that trayvels -the road at the term wi’ an auld wife that’s shifting hoose cocked up -i’ the cart—he wouldna suit you, Granny.’ -</p> -<p> -He looked down at the old woman, the grudge he bore her lurking in his -eye. -</p> -<p> -‘Hoots!’ she exclaimed; ‘tak him yoursel’, gin ye see ony chance o’ -bidin’ on his back!’ -</p> -<p> -The auctioneer was an indifferent horseman. -</p> -<p> -‘A gentleman’s naig, I’m telling ye! Fit for the laird o’ Fullarton, or -maybe her ladyship hersel’,’ he roared, eager to cover his unsuccessful -sally and glancing towards Robert and Lady Eliza, who sat on horseback -watching the proceedings. ‘Aicht pounds! Aicht pounds! Ye’ll na get sic -a chance this side o’ the New Year!’ -</p> -<p> -There was a dead silence, but a man with a bush of black whisker, -unusual to his epoch, cast a furtive glance at the horse. -</p> -<p> -‘Speak up, Davie MacLunder! speak up!’ -</p> -<p> -Another dead silence followed. -</p> -<p> -‘Fiech!’ said David MacLunder suddenly, without moving a muscle of his -face. -</p> -<p> -‘Seven pound! Seven pounds! Will nane o’ you speak? Will I hae to bide -here a’ the day crying on ye? Seven pound, I tell ye! Seven pound!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Seven pound five,’ said a slow voice from behind a haystack. -</p> -<p> -‘I canna see ye, but you’re a grand man for a’ that,’ cried the -auctioneer, ‘an’ I wish there was mair like ye.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Seven ten,’ said Jimmy Stirk. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-42">[42]</a></span> -‘Aicht,’ continued the man behind the haystack. -</p> -<p> -Though Gilbert knew lot fifty-seven to be worth more than all the money -in Jimmy’s palm, he hoped that the beast’s extreme unsuitability to the -requirements of those present might tell in the lad’s favour. The price -rose to eight pound ten. -</p> -<p> -‘Nine,’ said Jimmy. -</p> -<p> -‘And ten to that,’ came from the haystack. -</p> -<p> -‘Ten pound,’ said the boy, taking a step forward. -</p> -<p> -There was a pause, and the auctioneer held up his crook. -</p> -<p> -‘Ten pounds!’ he cried. ‘He’s awa at ten pounds! Ane, twa——’ -</p> -<p> -‘Ten pound ten!’ shouted Davie MacLunder. -</p> -<p> -Jimmy Stirk turned away, bitter disappointment in his face. In spite of -his nineteen years and strong hands, his eyes were filling. No one knew -how earnestly he had longed for the little horse. -</p> -<p> -‘Eleven,’ said Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -‘Eleven ten!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Twelve.’ -</p> -<p> -The auctioneer raised his crook again, and threw a searching glance -round. -</p> -<p> -‘Twelve pound! Twelve pound! Twelve pound for the last time! Ane, twa, -three——’ -</p> -<p> -The crook came down with a bang. -</p> -<p> -‘Twelve pound. The laird of Whanland.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He is yours,’ said Speid, taking the bewildered Jimmy by the elbow. -‘Your grandmother was very civil to me the first time I saw her, and I -am glad to be able to oblige her.’ -</p> -<p> -The boy looked at him in amazement. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert had slipped some money into his pocket before starting for the -sale; he held the two gold pieces out to him. -</p> -<p> -‘You can take him home with you now,’ he said, smiling. -</p> -<p> -Jimmy Stirk left the ‘roup’ in an internal exultation which had no -outward nor visible sign but an additional intensity of aspect, the -halter which had hung over his arm<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-43">[43]</a></span> adorning the head of the little -brown horse, on whose back he jogged recklessly through the returning -crowd. His interest in the sale had waned the moment he had become -owner of his prize; but his grandmother, who had set out to enjoy -herself and meant to do so thoroughly, had insisted on his staying to -the end. She kept her seat at the foot of the wood-pile till the last -lot had changed hands, using her tongue effectively on all who -interfered with her, and treating her grandson with a severity which -was her way of marking her sense of his good fortune. -</p> -<p> -Granny Stirk, or ‘the Queen of the Cadgers,’ as local familiarity had -christened her, was one of those vigorous old people, who, having lived -every hour of their own lives, are always attracted by the -possibilities of youth, and whose sympathy goes with the swashbuckling -half of the world. For the tamer portion of it, however respectable, -they have little feeling, and are often rewarded by being looked upon -askance during life and very much missed after death. They exist, for -the most part, either in primitive communities or in very old-fashioned -ones, and rarely in that portion of society which lies between the two. -Gilbert, with his appearance of a man to whom anything in the way of -adventure might happen, had roused her interest the moment she saw him -holding Lady Eliza’s mare outside her own cottage door. His expression, -his figure, his walk, the masculine impression his every movement -conveyed, had evoked her keenest sympathy, and, besides being grateful -for his kindness to Jimmy, she was pleased to the core of her heart by -the high-handed liberality he had shown. It was profitable to herself -and it had become him well, she considered. -</p> -<p> -The cadgers, or itinerant fish-sellers, who formed a distinct element -in the population of that part of the coast, were a race not always -leniently looked upon by quiet folk, though there was, in reality, -little evil that could be laid to their charge but the noise they made. -While they had a bad name, they were neither more nor less dishonest -and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-44">[44]</a></span> drunken than other people, and had, at least, the merit of doing -their business efficiently. It was they who carried the fish inland -after the boats came in, and those who stood on their own feet and were -not in the pay of the Kaims fishmongers, kept, like the Stirks, their -own carts and horses. When the haul came to be spread and the nets -emptied, the crowding cadgers would buy up their loads, either for -themselves or for their employers, and start inland, keeping a smart -but decent pace till they were clear of the town, and, once on the -road, putting the light-heeled screws they affected to their utmost -speed. Those whose goal was the town of Blackport, seven or eight miles -from the coast, knowing that the freshest fish commanded the highest -price, used the highroad as a racecourse, on which they might be met -either singly or in a string of some half-dozen carts, pursuing their -tempestuous course. -</p> -<p> -The light carts which they drove were, in construction, practically -flat boxes upon two wheels, on the front of which sat the driver, his -legs dangling between the shafts. As they had no springs and ran behind -horses to which ten miles an hour was the business of life, the rattle -they made, as they came bowling along, left no one an excuse for being -driven over who had not been born deaf. Those in the employ of the -Kaims fishmongers would generally run in company, contending each mile -hotly with men, who, like Jimmy Stirk, traded for themselves, and took -the road in their own interests. -</p> -<p> -More than forty years before the time of which I speak, Granny Stirk, -then a strikingly handsome young woman, lived with her husband in the -cottage which was still her home. Stirk, a cadger well known on the -road for his blasphemous tongue and the joyfulness of his Saturday -nights, was reported to be afraid of his wife, and it is certain that, -but for her strong hand and good sense, he would have been a much less -successful member of society. As it was, he managed to lead an almost -decent life, and was killed, while still a young man, in an accident. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-45">[45]</a></span> -Mrs. Stirk thus found herself a widow, with two little boys under ten, -a cart, a couple of angular horses, and no male relations; in spite of -the trouble she had had with him, she missed her man, and, after his -funeral, prepared herself to contend with two things—poverty and the -dulness of life. She cared little for the company of her own sex, and -the way in which her widowhood cut her off from the world of men and -movement galled and wearied her. So it was from inclination as well as -necessity that she one day mounted the cart in her husband’s vacant -place, and appeared at Kaims after the boats came in, to be greeted -with the inevitable jeers. But the jeers could not stop her shrewd -purchasing, nor alter the fact that she had iron nerves and a natural -judgment of pace, and in the market she was soon let alone as one with -whom it was unprofitable to bandy words. For curses she cared little, -having heard too many; to her they were light things to encounter in -the fight for her bread, her children, and the joy of life. -</p> -<p> -Her position became assured one day, when, after a time of scarcity in -the fish-market, a good haul held out the prospect of an unusual sale -inland. A string of cadgers who had started before Mrs. Stirk were well -out on the road when she appeared from a short-cut considered unfit for -wheels, and, having hung shrewdly to their skirts, passed them just -outside Blackport, her heels on the shaft, her whip ostentatiously -idle, and her gold earrings swinging in her ears. -</p> -<p> -When her eldest son was of an age to help her, he ran away to sea; and -when she gave up the reins to the second, she retired to the ordinary -feminine life of her class with the nickname of the ‘Queen of the -Cadgers’ and a heavier purse. Behind her were a dozen years of hard -work. When her successor died, as his father had done, in the prime of -life, the sailor son, as a sort of rough payment for his own desertion, -sent his boy Jimmy to take his place; the arrangement suited Mrs. -Stirk, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-46">[46]</a></span> her grandson took kindly to his trade. They had spent a -couple of years together when Gilbert Speid came into their lives as -owner of the land on which their cottage stood. -</p> -<p> -Lady Eliza remained in her saddle for the whole of the sale, though -Fullarton put his horse in the stable. She beckoned to Gilbert to join -them, and the two men stood by her until the business was over and the -crowd began to disperse. They rode homewards together, their roads -being identical for a few miles, threading their way through the led -horses, driven cattle, and humanity which the end of the ‘roup’ had let -loose. Jimmy Stirk passed them on his new acquisition, for he had flung -himself on its back to try its paces, leaving his grandmother to follow -at her leisure. -</p> -<p> -‘Did you buy that horse for the saddle or for harness?’ inquired -Fullarton, as the boy passed them. -</p> -<p> -‘He is not mine,’ replied Gilbert. ‘It was young Stirk who bought him.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But surely I heard the auctioneer knock him down to you?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I outbid him by two pounds. He had not enough, so I added that on for -him. I never saw anyone so much in earnest as he was,’ explained -Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -Fullarton was silent, and Lady Eliza looked curiously at the young man. -</p> -<p> -‘I don’t know anything about the boy,’ he added, feeling rather foolish -under her scrutiny. ‘I fear you think me very soft-hearted.’ -</p> -<p> -‘That is to your credit,’ said Fullarton, with the least touch of -artificiality. -</p> -<p> -‘Perhaps you have the quality yourself, sir, and are the more leniently -inclined towards me in consequence,’ replied Gilbert, a little chafed -by the other’s tone. -</p> -<p> -‘We shall have all our people leaving us and taking service at -Whanland,’ said Lady Eliza. ‘You have obliged me also, for my fish will -arrive the fresher.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-47">[47]</a></span> -‘Do you deal with the Stirks?’ inquired Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -‘I have done so ever since I came to this part of the country, out of -respect for that old besom, Granny. I like the boy too; there is stout -stuff in that family.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Then I have committed no folly in helping him?’ said Speid. -</p> -<p> -‘Lord, no, sir! Fullarton, this is surely not your turning home?’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is,’ said he, ‘and I will bid you good-evening, for Mr. Speid will -escort you. Sir, I shall wait upon you shortly, and hope to see you -later at my house.’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert and Lady Eliza rode on together, and parted at the principal -gate of Morphie; for, as he declined her invitation to enter on the -plea of the lateness of the hour, she would not suffer him to take her -to the door. -</p> -<p> -From over the wall he got a good view of the house as he jogged down -the road, holding back the little roan, who, robbed of company, was -eager for his stable. With its steep roofs and square turrets at either -end of the façade, it stood in weather-beaten dignity among the elms -and ashes, guiltless of ornament or of that outburst of shrubs and -gravel which cuts most houses from their surroundings, and is designed -to prepare the eye for the transition from nature to art. But Morphie -seemed an accident, not a design; an adjunct, in spite of its -considerable size, to the pasture and the trees. The road lay near -enough to it for Speid to see the carved coat-of-arms over the lintel, -and the flagged space before the door stretching between turret and -turret. He hurried on when he had passed it, for splashes of rain were -beginning to blow in his face, and the wind was stirring in the -tree-tops. -</p> -<p> -Where a field sloped away from the fringe of wood, he paused a moment -to look at one of those solid stone dovecots which are found in the -neighbourhood of so many gentlemen’s houses in the northern lowlands of -Scotland. Its discoloured whitewash had taken all the mellow tones that -exposure and damp can give, and it stood, looking<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-48">[48]</a></span> like a small but -ancient fort, in a hollow among the ragged thorn-trees. At either end -of its sloping roof a flight of crowsteps terminated in a stone ball -cutting the sky. Just above the string-course which ran round the -masonry a few feet below the eaves was a row of pigeon-holes; some -birds circling above made black spots against the gray cloud. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert buttoned up his coat, and let the roan have his way. -</p> - -<hr class="fnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a id="ftnttxt4-1" href="#ftntanc4-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>Pony. -</p> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a id="ftnttxt4-2" href="#ftntanc4-2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>Ears. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_05"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-49">[49]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_05_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_05_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER V</span><br /> -<br /> -THE STRIFE OF TONGUES</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -M<small>R</small>. B<small>ARCLAY</small> held the happy position of chief bachelor in the polite -circles of Kaims. Although he had viewed with displeasure the advent of -a young and sporting banker and the pretensions of the doctor’s eldest -son, who had an agreeable tenor voice, his position remained unshaken. -Very young ladies might transfer their interest to these upstarts and -their like, but, with the matrons who ruled society, he was still the -backbone of every assembly, and its first male ornament. He was an -authority on all local questions, and there clung about him that -subdued but conscious gallantry acceptable to certain female minds. -</p> -<p> -It was a cold night when he gave his overcoat and muffler to the maid -in the hall of a house which stood a little back from the High Street. -A buzz of talk came to him through an open door, and, as he ascended -the stairs, the last notes of a flute had just died away. The wife of -the coastguard inspector was giving a party, at which tea, -conversation, and music were the attractions. The expression which had -been arranging itself on his face culminated as he entered the -drawing-room. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Somerville, the inspector’s wife, formed the link in the chain -between town and county, and numbered both elements in her -acquaintance; her husband, who, disabled by a wound, had retired from -the active branch of his profession, being the only representative of -His Majesty’s service in the neighbourhood. Her parties, therefore, -were<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-50">[50]</a></span> seen by Kaims through a certain halo caused by the presence, -outside the house, of a string of family chariots, and the absence, -inside it, of one of Captain Somerville’s legs. -</p> -<p> -The room was half full. A group of young ladies and two or three young -men were at the piano, and, near the drawn curtains of the window a -whist-table was set, at which four elderly people were seated in the -throes of their game. -</p> -<p> -The two Miss Robertsons occupied a sofa a little apart from the rest of -the company and Miss Hersey was talking to Captain Somerville, whose -infirmity forbade him to rise and welcome individual guests, while it -enabled him to consistently entertain the principal ones. -</p> -<p> -‘You are late, Mr. Barclay,’ said the hostess, as she held out her -hand. ‘We had been hoping for you to join the rubber which is going on, -but some of our friends were impatient, and so they have settled down -to it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I was detained, ma’am,’ said the lawyer. ‘I have been out to Whanland, -and nothing would content Speid but that I should stay and dine with -him.’ -</p> -<p> -‘See what it is to be such a popular man!’ exclaimed the coastguard’s -lady, looking archly over her fan. -</p> -<p> -She was not above the acceptance of the little compliments with which -Barclay, who was socially ambitious, plied her. -</p> -<p> -‘You flatter me sadly, I fear, Mrs. Somerville; but that is your -kindness and not my merit.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I have not yet seen Mr. Speid,’ said Mrs. Somerville, ‘but I hear he -is a very well-looking young man. Quite the dandy, with his foreign -bringing up.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Yes, that is exactly what I tell him,’ replied Barclay. ‘A very -affable fellow, too. He and I are great friends. Indeed, he is always -plaguing me to go out to Whanland.’ -</p> -<p> -That he had never gone there on any errand but business was a fact -which he did not reveal to his hostess. -</p> -<p> -‘So many stories are afloat respecting his—his antecedents,’ said the -lady, dropping her eyes, ‘one hardly<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-51">[51]</a></span> knows what to believe. However, -there he is, master of his—of the Speid property. I think bygones -should be bygones, don’t you, Mr. Barclay?’ -</p> -<p> -As she said this, she glanced towards a corner of the room in which -Lucilla Somerville, a homely virgin in white muslin and red arms, was -whispering with a girl friend. -</p> -<p> -Barclay knew as much as his hostess of Gilbert’s history, and very -little more, whatever his conjectures might be, but he relapsed -instantly from the man of the world into the omniscient family lawyer. -</p> -<p> -‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, raising two fingers; ‘forbidden ground with me, -madam—forbidden ground, I fear!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Well, I will not be naughty, and want to know what I should not hear,’ -said the lady. ‘I fear it is a sad world we live in, Mr. Barclay.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It would be a much sadder one if there were no fair members of your -sex ready to make it pleasant for us,’ he replied, with a bow. -</p> -<p> -‘You are incorrigible!’ she exclaimed, as she turned away. -</p> -<p> -At this moment a voice rose from the neighbourhood of the piano, whence -the doctor’s son, who had discovered an accompanist among the young -ladies, sent forth the first note of one of a new selection of songs. -It was known to be a new one, and the company was silent. -</p> - -<div class="verse_container"> -<div class="verse"> -<p class="i0">‘Give me a glance, a witching glance,</p> - -<p class="i2">This poor heart to illume,</p> - -<p class="i0a">Or else the rose that through the dance</p> - -<p class="i2">Thy tresses did perfume.</p> - -<p class="i0a">Keep, cruel one, the ribbon blue</p> - -<p class="i2">From thy light hand that flows;</p> - -<p class="i0a">Keep it—it binds my fond heart true;</p> - -<p class="i2">But oh, give me the rose!’</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p> -‘How well it suits Mr. Turner’s voice,’ said Lucilla, as the singer -paused in the interval between the verses. -</p> -<p> -‘The words are lovely,’ said her friend—‘so full of feeling!’<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-52">[52]</a></span> -</p> - -<div class="verse_container"> -<div class="verse"> -<p class="i0">‘The sighs that, drawn from mem’ry’s fount,</p> - -<p class="i2">My aching bosom tear—</p> - -<p class="i0a">O bid them cease! nor, heartless, count</p> - -<p class="i2">My gestures of despair.</p> - -<p class="i0a">Take all I have—the plaints, the tears</p> - -<p class="i2">That hinder my repose,</p> - -<p class="i0a">The heart that’s faithful through the years;</p> - -<p class="i2">But oh, give me the rose!’</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p> -A polite murmur ran through the room as Mr. Turner laid down his music. -</p> -<p> -‘I notice that our musical genius keeps his eyes fixed on one -particular spot as he sings,’ observed an old gentleman at the -whist-table, as he dealt the cards. ‘I wonder who the young puppy is -staring at.’ -</p> -<p> -‘If you had noticed that I threw away my seven of clubs, it would have -been more to the purpose, and we might not have lost the trick,’ -remarked the spinster who was his partner, acidly. -</p> -<p> -‘People have no right to ask one to play whist in a room where there is -such a noise going on,’ said the first speaker. -</p> -<p> -‘Did I hear you say <i>whist?</i>’ inquired the lady sarcastically. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Barclay passed on to the little group formed by his host and the -Misses Robertson. -</p> -<p> -‘How are you, Barclay?’ said the sailor, looking up from his chair, and -reflecting that, though the lawyer was more than a dozen years his -junior, and had double as many legs as himself, he would not care to -change places with him. He was a man of strong prejudices. -</p> -<p> -‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting you since our afternoon -together at Whanland,’ said Barclay, pausing before the sofa with a bow -which was as like Gilbert’s as he could make it. -</p> -<p> -‘We go out very little, sir,’ said Miss Hersey. -</p> -<p> -‘Speid will be a great acquisition,’ continued Barclay; ‘we all feel -the want of a few smart young fellows to wake us up, don’t we, Miss -Robertson?’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-53">[53]</a></span> -‘We like our cousin particularly,’ said Miss Hersey; ‘it has been a -great pleasure to welcome him back.’ -</p> -<p> -Miss Caroline’s lips moved almost in unison with her sister’s, but she -said nothing and sat still, radiating an indiscriminate pleasure in her -surroundings. She enjoyed a party. -</p> -<p> -‘That must be another arrival even later than myself,’ remarked the -lawyer, as a vehicle was heard to draw up in the street outside. ‘I -understand that you expect Lady Eliza Lamont; if so, that is likely to -be her carriage.’ -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Somerville began to grow visibly agitated as the front-door shut -and voices were audible on the staircase. In a few moments Lady Eliza -Lamont and Miss Raeburn were announced. -</p> -<p> -It was only a sense of duty which had brought Lady Eliza to Mrs. -Somerville’s party, and it would hardly have done so had not Robert -Fullarton represented to her that having three times refused an -invitation might lay her open to the charge of incivility. As she -entered, all eyes were turned in her direction; she was dressed in the -uncompromising purple gown which had served her faithfully on each -occasion during the last ten years that she had been obliged, with -ill-concealed impatience, to struggle into it. She held her fan as -though it had been a weapon of offence; on her neck was a beautifully -wrought amethyst necklace. Behind her came Cecilia in green and white, -with a bunch of snowdrops on her breast and her tortoiseshell comb in -her hair. -</p> -<p> -‘We had almost despaired of seeing your ladyship,’ said Mrs. -Somerville; ‘and you, too, dear Miss Raeburn. Pray come this way, Lady -Eliza. Where will you like to sit?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I will take that seat by Captain Somerville,’ said the newcomer, -eyeing a small cane-bottomed chair which stood near the sofa, and -longing to be rid of her hostess. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, not there!’ cried the lady. ‘Lucilla, my dear, roll up the velvet -armchair. Pray, pray allow me, Lady Eliza!<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-54">[54]</a></span> I cannot let you sit in -that uncomfortable seat—indeed I cannot!’ -</p> -<p> -But her victim had installed herself. -</p> -<p> -‘I am not able to offer you this one,’ said Captain Somerville; ‘for I -am a fixture, unfortunately.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Lady Eliza, let me beg you——’ -</p> -<p> -‘Much obliged, ma’am; I am very comfortable here. Captain Somerville, I -am glad to find you, for I feared you were away,’ said Lady Eliza. She -had a liking for the sailor which had not extended itself to his wife. -</p> -<p> -‘I have been up the coast these last three weeks inspecting; my wife -insisted upon my getting home in time for to-night. I had not intended -to, but I obeyed her, you see.’ -</p> -<p> -‘And why did you do that?’ -</p> -<p> -‘God knows,’ said the sailor. -</p> -<p> -The sound of the piano checked their conversation, as a young lady with -a roving eye was, after much persuasion, beginning to play a selection -of operatic airs. To talk during music was not a habit of Lady Eliza’s, -so the two sat silent until the fantasia had ended in an explosion of -trills and a chorus of praise from the listeners. -</p> -<p> -‘Is that your daughter?’ she inquired; ‘I move so seldom from my place -that I know very few people here.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Heaven forbid, ma’am! That’s my Lucy standing by the tea-table.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You don’t admire that kind of music?’ -</p> -<p> -‘If anyone had presumed to make such a noise on any ship of mine, I’d -have put ’em in irons,’ said Captain Somerville. -</p> -<p> -They both laughed, and Lady Eliza’s look rested on Cecilia, who had -been forced into the velvet chair, and sat listening to Barclay as he -stood before her making conversation. Her eyes softened. -</p> -<p> -‘What do you think of my girl?’ she said. -</p> -<p> -‘I have only seen one to match her,’ replied the old man, ‘and that was -when I was a midshipman on board the flagship nearly half a century -ago. It was at a banquet in a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-55">[55]</a></span> foreign port where the fleet was being -entertained. She was the wife of some French grandee. Her handkerchief -dropped on the floor, and when I picked it up she gave me a curtsey she -might have given the King, though I was a boy more fit to be birched at -school than to go to banquets. Another young devil, a year or two my -senior, said she had done it on purpose for the flag-lieutenant to pick -up instead of me; he valued himself on knowing the world.’ -</p> -<p> -Lady Eliza’s eyes were bright with interest. -</p> -<p> -‘I taught him a little more of it behind the flag-lieutenant’s cabin -next morning, and got my leave ashore stopped for it; but it was a rare -good trouncing,’ added Captain Somerville, licking his lips. -</p> -<p> -‘I am sorry your leave was stopped,’ said his companion; ‘I would have -given you more if I had been in command.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You can’t eat your cake and have it, ma’am—and I enjoyed my cake.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I suppose you never saw her again,’ said she. -</p> -<p> -‘Never; but I heard of her—she was guillotined in the Revolution a -dozen years later. I shall never forget my feelings when I read it. She -made a brave business of it, I was told; but no one could look at her -and mistake about that.’ -</p> -<p> -They sat silent for some time, and, Mrs. Somerville appropriating -Barclay, Cecilia had leisure to turn to Miss Hersey; both she and Lady -Eliza had a regard for the old ladies, though between them there was -little in common save good breeding. But that can be a strong bond. -</p> -<p> -‘Come, come; we cannot allow you to monopolize Miss Raeburn any more!’ -exclaimed Mrs. Somerville, tapping the lawyer playfully on the arm. ‘We -need you at the tea-table; duty first and pleasure after, you know.’ -</p> -<p> -‘If you will watch my destination, Mrs. Somerville, you will see that -it is purely duty which animates me,’ said Barclay, starting off with a -cup of tea in one hand and a plate of sweet biscuits in the other. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-56">[56]</a></span> -His hostess watched him as he offered the tea with much action to Miss -Caroline Robertson. -</p> -<p> -‘Fie, sir! fie!’ she exclaimed, as he returned; ‘that is too bad!’ -</p> -<p> -‘For my part, I would shut up all members of your sex after forty,’ -said he, rather recklessly. -</p> -<p> -‘Indeed?’ said Mrs. Somerville, struggling with her smile. She was -forty-seven. -</p> -<p> -‘I meant sixty, ma’am—sixty, of course,’ gasped Barclay, with -incredible maladroitness. -</p> -<p> -‘That would be very sad for some of our friends,’ she observed, -recovering stoutly from the double blow and looking with great presence -of mind at Lady Eliza. ‘How old would you take her ladyship to be, for -instance?’ -</p> -<p> -Barclay happened to know that Lady Eliza would, if she lived, keep her -fifty-third birthday in a few months; it was a fact of which some -previous legal business had made him aware. -</p> -<p> -‘I should place her at forty-eight,’ he replied, ‘though, of course, if -she understood the art of dress as you do, she might look nearly as -young as yourself.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Go away; you are too foolish, Barclay! Mr. Turner, we are talking of -age: at what age do gentlemen learn wisdom?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Never, very often,’ replied Turner, who, in spite of his tenor voice, -had a sour nature. -</p> -<p> -Barclay gave him a vicious glance; he did not admire him at the best of -times, and the interruption annoyed him. He turned away. -</p> -<p> -‘I trust you have been attended to, Miss Robertson,’ said the hostess. -</p> -<p> -She despaired of separating her husband and Lady Eliza, and approached -Miss Hersey, whose intimate connection with the county made her -presence and that of her sister desirable adjuncts to a party. The old -lady made room for her on the sofa. -</p> -<p> -‘Yes, many, many thanks to you; we have enjoyed our<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-57">[57]</a></span> evening. Caroline, -Mrs. Somerville is asking if we have all we need. We have been very -much diverted.’ -</p> -<p> -Miss Caroline smiled; she had not quite caught the drift of her -sister’s words, but she felt sure that everything was very pleasant. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Somerville did not know whether the vague rumours about Gilbert’s -parentage which had been always prevalent, and which had sprung up -afresh with his return, had ever reached the old ladies’ ears. Their -age and the retirement in which they lived had isolated them for a long -time, but she reflected that they had once taken part in the life -surrounding them and could hardly have remained in complete ignorance. -She longed to ask questions. -</p> -<p> -‘Mr. Barclay seems a great favourite at Whanland,’ she began. -</p> -<p> -‘He was there when we went to welcome my cousin,’ replied Miss Hersey; -‘he is his man of business.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He is most agreeable—quite the society man too. I do not wonder that -Mr. Speid likes to see him; it is a dull life for a young gentleman to -lead alone in the house—such a sad house, too, what with his poor -mother’s death there and all the unfortunate talk there was. But I have -never given any credit to it, Miss Robertson, and I am sure you will -say I was right. I am not one of those who believe everything they -hear.’ -</p> -<p> -The old lady made no reply, staring at the speaker; then her face began -to assume an expression which Mrs. Somerville, who did not know her -very well, had never seen on it, and the surprise which this caused her -had the effect of scattering her wits. -</p> -<p> -‘I despise gossip, as you know,’ she stammered; ‘indeed, I always -said—I always say—if there’s anything unkind, do not bring it to <i>me;</i> -and I said—what does it matter to <i>me?</i> I said—his poor mother is dead -and buried, and if there <i>is</i> anything discreditable——’ -</p> -<p> -Miss Hersey rose from the sofa, and turned to her sister. -</p> -<p> -‘Come, Caroline, it is time we went home. Ma’am,’ she<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-58">[58]</a></span> said, curtseying -as deeply as her age would permit to the astonished Mrs. Somerville, -‘we have outstayed your good manners. I have the honour to wish you a -good-evening.’ -</p> -<p> -The Misses Robertson’s house stood barely a hundred yards from that of -Captain Somerville, so Miss Hersey had decided that the coach which was -usually hired when they went abroad was unnecessary; the maidservant -who was to have presented herself to escort them home had not arrived -when they put on their cloaks, so they went out alone into the moonlit -street. -</p> -<p> -‘What was that she was saying, Hersey?’ inquired Miss Caroline, as she -clung to her sister’s arm, rather bewildered by her situation, but -accepting it simply. -</p> -<p> -‘Mrs. Somerville is no gentlewoman, sister. She was bold enough to -bring up some ill talk to which I have never been willing to listen.’ -</p> -<p> -‘That was very wrong—very wrong,’ said Miss Caroline. -</p> -<p> -Miss Hersey was murmuring to herself. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -‘Discreditable?’ she was saying—‘discreditable? The impertinence!’ -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_06"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-59">[59]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_06_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_06_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER VI</span><br /> -<br /> -THE DOVECOT OF MORPHIE</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -T<small>HE</small> vehicle used by Captain Somerville on his tours of inspection was -standing in the Whanland coach-house; it was an uncommon-looking -concern, evolved from his own brain and built by local talent. The body -was hung low, with due regard to the wooden leg of its owner, and the -large permanent hood which covered it faced backwards instead of -forwards, so that, when driving in the teeth of bad weather, the -Captain might retire to its shelter, with a stout plaid to cover his -person and his snuffbox to solace it. -</p> -<p> -This carriage was made to convey four people—two underneath the hood -and one in front on a seat beside the coachman. On fine days the sailor -would drive himself, defended by the Providence that watches over his -profession; for he was a poor whip. -</p> -<p> -It was a soft night, fresh and moist; the moon, almost at the full, was -invisible, and only the dull light which pervaded everything suggested -her presence behind the clouds. Captain Somerville, sitting with -Gilbert over his wine at the dining-room table, was enjoying a pleasant -end to his day; for Speid, knowing that his inspection work would bring -him to the neighbourhood of Whanland, had delayed his own dinner till a -comparatively late hour, and invited the old gentleman to step aside -and share it before returning to Kaims. -</p> -<p> -A sound behind him made the younger man turn in his chair and meet the -eyes of Macquean, who had entered. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-60">[60]</a></span> -‘Stirk’s wantin’ you,’ he announced, speaking to his master, but -looking sideways at Captain Somerville. -</p> -<p> -‘Tell him to wait,’ said Gilbert; ‘I will see him afterwards.’ -</p> -<p> -Macquean slid from the room. -</p> -<p> -The two men talked on until they were again aware of his presence. He -stood midway between Speid and the door, rubbing one foot against the -other. -</p> -<p> -‘It’s Stirk,’ he said. -</p> -<p> -‘I am not ready to see him,’ replied Gilbert with some impatience; ‘I -will ring when I am.’ -</p> -<p> -When they had risen from the table and the sailor had settled himself -in an armchair, Gilbert summoned Macquean. -</p> -<p> -‘What does young Stirk want with me?’ he inquired. -</p> -<p> -Macquean cast a circular look into space, as though his master’s voice -had come from some unexpected quarter. -</p> -<p> -‘It’s poachers,’ he said apologetically. -</p> -<p> -‘<i>What?</i>’ shouted Somerville. -</p> -<p> -‘Just poachers.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But where? What do you mean?’ cried Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -‘It’s poachers,’ said Macquean again. ‘Stirk’s come for you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Where are they?’ -</p> -<p> -‘They’re awa west to net the doo’cot o’ Morphie; but they’ll likely be -done by now,’ added Macquean. -</p> -<p> -‘Is that what he wanted me for?’ cried Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -‘Ay.’ -</p> -<p> -Captain Somerville had dragged himself up from his chair. -</p> -<p> -‘But, God bless my sinful soul!’ he exclaimed, ‘why did you not tell -us?’ -</p> -<p> -Macquean grinned spasmodically. -</p> -<p> -‘I’m sure I couldna say,’ he replied. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert took him by the shoulders and pushed him out of his way, as he -ran into the hall shouting for Jimmy; the boy was waiting outside for -admittance, and he almost knocked him down. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-61">[61]</a></span> -‘It’s they deevils frae Blackport that’s to net the doo’cot o’ -Morphie!’ began Jimmy breathlessly. -</p> -<p> -‘How do you know?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I’m newly come from Blackport mysel’, an’ I heard it i’ the town.’ -</p> -<p> -Speid’s eyes glittered. -</p> -<p> -‘Where is your cart? We will go, Jimmy.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It’s no here, sir; I ran.’ -</p> -<p> -The sailor had come to the door, and was standing behind his friend. -</p> -<p> -‘My carriage is in the yard,’ he said. ‘Take it, Speid; it holds four. -Are you going, boy?’ -</p> -<p> -Jimmy did not think reply necessary. -</p> -<p> -‘Macquean, run to the farm, and get any men you can find. I will go to -the stable, Captain Somerville, and order your phaeton; my own gig only -holds two. Oh, if I had but known of this earlier! What it is to have a -fool for a servant!’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is worse to have a stick for a leg,’ said Somerville; ‘but I am -coming, for all that, Speid. Someone must drive, and someone must hold -the horse.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Do, sir, do!’ cried Gilbert, as he disappeared into the darkness. -</p> -<p> -With Jimmy’s help, he hurried one of his own horses into the shafts of -the Captain’s carriage and led it to the doorstep. As the sailor -gathered up the reins, Macquean returned breathless. -</p> -<p> -‘I didna see onybody,’ he explained; ‘they’re a’ bedded at the farm.’ -</p> -<p> -An exclamation broke from Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -‘But you should have knocked them up, you numskull! What do you suppose -I sent you for?’ -</p> -<p> -Macquean shook his head with a pale smile of superiority. -</p> -<p> -‘They wadna rise for me,’ he said; ‘I kenned that when I went.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Then you shall come yourself!’ cried Speid. ‘Get in, I tell you! get -in behind with Jimmy!’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-62">[62]</a></span> -Macquean shot a look of dismay at his master, and his mouth opened. -</p> -<p> -‘Maybe I could try them again,’ he began; ‘I’ll awa and see.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Get in!’ thundered Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -At this moment Jimmy Stirk’s arm came out from under the hood, and -Macquean was hauled into the seat beside him; Captain Somerville took a -rein in each hand, and they whirled down the short drive, and swung out -into the road with a couple of inches to spare between the gatepost and -the box of the wheel. -</p> -<p> -‘You will hardly find that man of yours very useful,’ observed the -sailor, as they were galloping down the Morphie road; ‘I cannot think -why you brought him.’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert sat fuming; exasperation had impelled him to terrify Macquean, -and, as soon as they had started, he realized the futility of his act. -</p> -<p> -‘The boy behind is worth two,’ he said. -</p> -<p> -‘There may be four or five of these rascals at the dovecot.’ -</p> -<p> -‘We must just do our best,’ said Gilbert, rather curtly. -</p> -<p> -Somerville thought of his leg and sighed; how dearly he loved a fray no -one knew but himself. -</p> -<p> -As they approached Morphie, they stopped to extinguish their lights, -and he began, in consequence, to drive with what he considered great -caution, though Gilbert was still forced to cling to the rail beside -him; Macquean, under the hood, was rolled and jolted from side to side -in a manner that tended to make him no happier. His companion, seldom a -waster of words, gave him little comfort when he spoke. -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’ve no gotten a stick wi’ ye,’ he observed, as they bowled through -the flying mud. -</p> -<p> -‘Na,’ said Macquean faintly. -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’ll need it.’ -</p> -<p> -There was a pause. -</p> -<p> -‘I kent a man that got a richt skelp from ane o’ they<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-63">[63]</a></span> Blackport -laddies,’ continued Jimmy; ‘<span class="lftspc">’</span>twas i’ the airm, too. It swelled, an’ the -doctor just wheepit it off. I mind it well, for I was passin’ by the -house at the time, an’ I heard him skirl.’ -</p> -<p> -There was no reply from the corner of the hood and they pressed on; -only Somerville, who had a habit of chirruping which attacked him the -moment he took up the reins and only left him when he laid them down, -relieved the silence. Thanks to the invisible moon, the uniform -grayness which, though not light, was yet luminous, made the way plain, -and the dark trees of Morphie could be seen massed in the distance. -</p> -<p> -‘I wonder they wad choose sic a night as this,’ remarked Jimmy; ‘it’s a -peety, too, for they’ll likely see us if we dinna gang cannylike under -the trees. Can ye run, Mr. Macquean?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Ay, can I,’ replied the other, grinning from under the safe cover of -the darkness. A project was beginning to form itself in his mind. -</p> -<p> -‘There’ll be mair nor three or four. I’d like fine if we’d gotten -another man wi’ us; we could hae ta’en them a’ then. They’re ill -deevils to ficht wi’.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I could believe that,’ said Macquean. -</p> -<p> -His expression was happily invisible to Stirk. -</p> -<p> -‘If I’d time, I could cut ye a bit stick frae the hedge,’ said Jimmy. -</p> -<p> -‘Heuch! dinna mind,’ replied Macquean soothingly. -</p> -<p> -They were nearing the place where the dovecot could be seen from the -road and Captain Somerville pulled up. Gilbert and Jimmy got out -quietly and looked over a gate into the strip of damp pasture in which -the building stood. There was enough light to see its shape distinctly, -standing as it did in the very centre of the clearing among the -thorn-bushes. It was not likely that the thieves would use a lantern on -such a night, and the two strained their eyes for the least sign of any -moving thing that might pass by the foot of the bare walls. Macquean’s -head came stealthily<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-64">[64]</a></span> out from under the hood, as the head of a -tortoise peers from beneath its shell. No sound came from the dovecot -and Gilbert and Jimmy stood like images, their bodies pressed against -the gateposts. Somerville, on the driving-seat, stared into the gray -expanse, his attention fixed. They had drawn up under a roadside tree, -for better concealment of the carriage. Macquean slipped out into the -road, and, with a comprehensive glance at the three heads all turned in -one direction, disappeared like a wraith into the night. -</p> -<p> -Presently, to the straining ears of the watchers came the sound of a -low whistle. -</p> -<p> -‘There,’ said Speid under his breath, ‘did you hear that, Jimmy?’ -</p> -<p> -The boy nodded. -</p> -<p> -‘Let Macquean hold the horse,’ burst out Somerville, who was rolling -restlessly about on the box. ‘I might be of use even should I arrive -rather late. At least, I can sit on a man’s chest.’ -</p> -<p> -At this moment Jimmy looked into the back of the carriage.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Mr. Macquean’s awa!’ he exclaimed as loudly as he dared. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert ground his teeth; only the necessity for silence stopped the -torrent which rose to the sailor’s lips. -</p> -<p> -Speid and Jimmy slid through the bars of the gate; they dared not open -it nor get over it for fear it should rattle on its hinges. They kept a -little way apart until they had reached the belt of thorn-trees, and, -under cover of these, they drew together again and listened. Once they -heard a boot knock against a stone; they crept on to the very edge of -their shelter, until they were not thirty yards from the dovecot. The -door by which it was entered was on the farther side from the road, and -the pigeon-holes ran along the opposite wall a few feet below the roof. -Three men were standing by the door, their outlines just -distinguishable. Jimmy went down on his hands and knees, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-65">[65]</a></span> began to -crawl, with that motion to which the serpent was condemned in Eden, -towards a patch of broom that made a spot like an island in the short -stretch of open ground between the thorns and the building, Gilbert -following. -</p> -<p> -Now and then they paused to listen, but the voices which they could now -hear ran on undisturbed, and, when they had reached their goal, they -were close enough to the dovecot to see a heap lying at its foot which -they took to be a pile of netting. Evidently the thieves had not begun -their night’s work. -</p> -<p> -The nearest man approached the heap and began to shake it out. -</p> -<p> -‘I’ll gi’e ye a lift up, Robbie,’ said one of the voices; ‘there’s -stanes stickin’ out o’ the wa’ at the west side. I had a richt look at -it Sabbath last when the kirk was in.’ -</p> -<p> -‘My! but you’re a sinfu’ man!’ exclaimed Robbie. -</p> -<p> -‘We’re a’ that,’ observed a third speaker piously. -</p> -<p> -Two of the men took the net, and went round the dovecot wall till they -found the stones of which their companion had spoken; these rough steps -had been placed there for the convenience of anyone who might go up to -mend the tiling. -</p> -<p> -‘Lie still till they are both up,’ whispered Gilbert. ‘There are two to -hold the net, and one to go in and beat out the birds.’ -</p> -<p> -They crouched breathless in the broom till they saw two figures rise -above the slanting roof between them and the sky. Each had a length of -rope which he secured round one of the stone balls standing at either -end above the crowsteps; it was easy to see that the business had been -carefully planned. Inside the dovecot, a cooing and gurgling showed -that the birds were awakened. -</p> -<p> -The two men clambered down by the crowsteps, each with his rope wound -round his arm and supporting him as he leaned over to draw the net over -the pigeon-holes. -</p> -<p> -‘Now then, in ye go,’ said Robbie’s voice. -</p> -<p> -The key was in the door, for the third man unlocked it and entered. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-66">[66]</a></span> -Speid and Jimmy Stirk rose from the broom; they could hear the birds -flapping among the rafters as the intruder entered, and the blows of -his stick on the inner sides of the walls. They ran up, and Gilbert -went straight to the open doorway and looked in. His nostrils were -quivering; the excitement which, with him, lay strong and dormant -behind his impassive face, was boiling up. It would have been simple -enough to turn the key of the dovecot on its unlawful inmate, but he -did not think of that. -</p> -<p> -‘You scoundrel!’ he exclaimed—‘you damned scoundrel!’ -</p> -<p> -The man turned round like an animal trapped, and saw his figure -standing against the faint square of light formed by the open door; he -had a stone in his hand which he was just about to throw up into the -fluttering, half-awakened mass above his head. He flung it with all his -might at Speid, and, recognising his only chance of escape, made a dash -at the doorway. It struck Gilbert upon the cheek-bone, and its sharp -edge laid a slanting gash across his face. He could not see in the -blackness of the dovecot, so he leaped back, and the thief, meeting -with no resistance, was carried stumbling by his own rush a few feet -into the field, dropping his stick as he went. As he recovered himself, -he turned upon his enemy; he was a big man, bony and heavy, and, had he -known it, the want of light was all in his favour against a foe like -Gilbert Speid, to whom self-defence, with foil or fist, was the most -fascinating of sciences. Flight did not occur to him, for he was -heavy-footed, and he saw that his antagonist was smaller than himself. -</p> -<p> -Speid cursed the darkness; he liked doing things neatly, and the -situation was sweet to him; it was some time since he had stood up to -any man, either in play or in earnest. He determined to dodge his -opponent until he had reversed their positions and brought him round -with his back to the whitewash of the dovecot; at the present moment he -stood against the dark background of the trees. The two closed -together, and, for some minutes, the sound of blows and heavy breathing -mingled with the quiet of the night. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-67">[67]</a></span> -The blood was dripping down Gilbert’s face, for the stone had cut deep; -he was glad the wound was below his eye, where the falling drops could -not hamper his sight. He guarded himself very carefully, drawing his -enemy slowly after him, until he stood silhouetted sharply against the -whitewash. He looked very large and heavy, but the sight pleased Speid; -he felt as the bull feels when he shakes his head before charging; his -heart sang aloud and wantonly in his breast. Now that he had got the -position he desired, he turned from defence to attack, and with the -greater interest as his antagonist was no mean fighter. He had received -a blow just below the elbow, and one on the other side of his face, and -his jaw was stiff. He grew cooler and more steady as the moments went -by. He began to place his blows carefully, and his experience told him -that they were taking effect. Breath and temper were failing his enemy; -seeing this, he took the defensive again, letting him realize the -futility of his strength against the skill he met. Suddenly the man -rushed in, hitting wildly at him. He was struck under the jaw by a blow -that had the whole weight of Gilbert’s body behind it, and he went over -backwards, and lay with his face to the sky. He had had enough. -</p> -<p> -Meanwhile, the two men on the dovecot had been a good deal startled by -hearing Gilbert’s exclamation and the noise of the rush through the -door. One, who had fastened the net on the eaves, clambered up the -crowsteps, and, holding fast to the stone ball, looked over to see that -his friend’s design had been frustrated by someone who was doing his -utmost to destroy his chances of escape. He came down quickly to the -lower end of the roof, meaning to drop to the ground and go to his -assistance; but he found himself confronted by Jimmy Stirk, who had -sidled round the walls, and stood below, looking from himself to his -partner with the air of a terrier who tries to watch two rat-holes at -once. A few birds had come out of the pigeon-holes, and were -struggling, terrified, in the meshes. The two men did the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-68">[68]</a></span> most -sensible thing possible: they dropped, one from either end of the -tiling, and ran off in opposite directions. -</p> -<p> -Unable to pursue both, the boy pounced upon the man on his left, and -would have laid hands on him as he landed, had he not slipped upon a -piece of wet mud and stumbled forward against the wall. When he -recovered himself, his prey had put twenty yards between them, and was -running hard towards the thorn-trees. The net had fallen to the ground, -and the pigeons were escaping from it, flying in agitated spirals above -the dovecot; their companions were emerging from the holes, dismayed -with the outraged dismay felt by the feathered world when its habits -are disturbed. The air was a whirl of birds. Jimmy gathered himself -together and gave chase with all his might. -</p> -<p> -Captain Somerville’s state of mind as he watched Gilbert and Jimmy -Stirk disappear was indescribable; as he sat on the box and the minutes -went by, his feelings grew more poignant, for impotent wrath is a -dreadful thing. Had he happened upon Macquean, he would have been -congenially occupied for some time, but the darkness had swallowed -Macquean, and there was nothing for him to do but sit and gaze into the -grayness of the field. -</p> -<p> -At last he heard what he fancied was Speid’s voice and the clattering -of feet upon the dovecot roof. The night was still, and, though -middle-age was some way behind him, his hearing was acute. He found his -position beyond his endurance. -</p> -<p> -The horse was old, too, and stood quiet while he descended painfully to -the ground. He led him to the gatepost and tied him to it securely; to -squeeze between the bars as Jimmy and Gilbert had done was impossible -for him, so he opened it with infinite caution, and closed it behind -him. Then he set out as best he could for the thorn-trees. -</p> -<p> -His wooden leg was a great hindrance in the moist pasture, for the -point sunk into the earth as he walked, and added to his exertions. He -paused in the shadow of the branches, as his friends had done, and -halted by a gnarled<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-69">[69]</a></span> bush with an excrescence of tangled arms. While -he stood, he heard steps running in his direction from the dovecot. He -held his breath. -</p> -<p> -A figure was coming towards him, making for the trees. As it passed, -the sailor took firm hold of a stem to steady himself, and stuck out -his wooden leg. The man went forward with a crash, his heels in the -air, his head in the wet moss, and before he knew what had happened, a -substantial weight had subsided upon his back. -</p> -<p> -‘My knife is in my hand,’ observed Captain Somerville, laying the thin -edge of his metal snuff-box against the back of the thief’s neck, ‘but, -if you move, it will be in your gizzard.’ -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p> -By the time his absence was discovered, Macquean had put some little -distance between himself and the carriage. For the first few minutes of -his flight he crept like a shadow, crouching against the stone wall -which flanked one side of the road, and terrified lest his steps should -be heard. He paused now and then and stood still to listen for the -sound of pursuit, taking courage as each time the silence remained -unbroken. The white face of a bullock standing by a gate made his heart -jump as it loomed suddenly upon him. When he felt safe, he took his way -with a bolder aspect—not back towards Whanland, but forward towards -Morphie House. He burned with desire to announce to someone the -sensational events that were happening, and he realized very strongly -that it would be well to create an excuse for his own defection. -</p> -<p> -He was panting when he pealed the bell and knocked at the front-door, -feeling that the magnitude of his errand demanded an audience of Lady -Eliza herself. It was opened by a maidservant with an astonished -expression. -</p> -<p> -‘Whaur’s her ladyship?’ said Macquean. ‘A’m to see her.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What is’t?’ inquired the girl, closing the door until it stood barely -a foot open. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-70">[70]</a></span> -‘A’m seeking her leddyship, a’ tell ye.’ -</p> -<p> -She looked at him critically. -</p> -<p> -‘Who is there?’ said a cool voice from the staircase. -</p> -<p> -The maid stood back, and Cecilia came across the hall. -</p> -<p> -‘Where do you come from?’ she asked, as the lamplight struck Macquean’s -bald head, making it shine in the darkness. -</p> -<p> -‘From Whanland,’ replied he. ‘You’ll be Miss Raeburn? Eh! There’s awfu’ -work down i’ the field by the doo’cot! The laird’s awa’ there, an’ -Jimmy Stirk an’ the ane-leggit Captain-body frae Kaims. They’re to net -it an’ tak’ the birds.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What?’ exclaimed Cecilia, puzzled, and seeing visions of the inspector -engaged in a robbery. ‘Do you mean Captain Somerville?’ -</p> -<p> -‘A’ do, indeed,’ said Macquean, wagging his head, ‘an’ a’m sure a’ hope -he may be spared. He’s an auld man to be fechtin’ wi’ poachers, but -we’re a’ in the hands o’ Providence.’ -</p> -<p> -A light began to break on Cecilia. -</p> -<p> -‘Then, are the poachers at the dovecot? Is that what you have come to -say?’ -</p> -<p> -Macquean assented. -</p> -<p> -The maidservant, who had been listening open-mouthed, now flew up to -Lady Eliza’s bedroom, and found her mistress beginning to prepare -herself for the night. She had not put off her dress, but her wig stood -on a little wooden stand on the toilet-table. She made a snatch at it -as the girl burst in with her story. -</p> -<p> -‘Cecilia, what is all this nonsense?’ exclaimed Lady Eliza, seeing her -adopted niece’s figure appear on the threshold. ‘(Stop your havering, -girl, till I speak to Miss Raeburn.) Come here, Cecilia. I can’t hear -my own voice for this screeching limmer. (Be quiet, girl!) What is it, -Cecilia? Can’t you answer, child?’ -</p> -<p> -The maid had all the temperament of the female domestic servant, and -was becoming hysterical. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-71">[71]</a></span> -‘Put her out!’ cried Lady Eliza. ‘Cecilia! put her into the passage.’ -</p> -<p> -‘There’s a man downstairs,’ sobbed the maid, who had talked herself -into a notion that Macquean was a poacher trying to effect an entrance -into the house. -</p> -<p> -‘A man, is there? I wish there were more, and then we should not have a -parcel of whingeing<a id="ftntanc6-1" href="#ftnttxt6-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> women to serve us! I wish I could put you all -away, and get a few decent lads in instead. Take her away, Cecilia, I -tell you!’ -</p> -<p> -When the door was shut behind the servant, and Lady Eliza had directed -her niece to have the stablemen sent with all despatch to the dovecot, -she drew a heavy plaid shawl from the cupboard and went downstairs to -sift the matter. Her wig was replaced and she had turned her skirt up -under the plaid. -</p> -<p> -Macquean was still below. Having delivered himself of his news, he had -no wish to be sent out again. He did not know where the servants’ hall -might be, or he would have betaken himself there, and the maid had fled -to her own attic and locked herself in securely. -</p> -<p> -‘Have you got a lantern?’ said Lady Eliza over the banisters. ‘I am -going out, and you can light me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Na,’ said Macquean, staring. -</p> -<p> -Without further comment she went out of the house, beckoning him to -follow. She crossed the yard and opened the stable-door, to find -Cecilia, a cloak over her shoulders, caressing the nose of the bay -mare. Seeing the maid’s distracted state of mind, she had roused the -men herself. A small lantern stood on the corn-bin. The mare whinnied -softly, but Lady Eliza took no notice of her. -</p> -<p> -‘Here, my dear; give the lantern to Macquean,’ she exclaimed. ‘I am -going to see what is ado in the field.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It gives little light,’ said Cecilia. ‘The men have taken the others -with them.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’d best bide whaur ye are,’ said Macquean suddenly. ‘It’s terrible -dark.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-72">[72]</a></span> -Lady Eliza did not hear him. She had gone into the harness-room, and -the two women were searching every corner for another lantern. Finding -the search fruitless, they went into the coach-house. There was no -vestige of such a thing, but, in a corner, stood a couple of rough -torches which had been used by the guizards<a id="ftntanc6-2" href="#ftnttxt6-2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> at Hogmanay. -</p> -<p> -When Macquean, compelled by Lady Eliza, had lit one, she ordered him to -precede her, and they left the stable, Cecilia following. The arms of -the trees stood out like black rafters as they went under them, the -torchlight throwing them out theatrically, as though they made a -background to some weird stage scene. Occasionally, when Macquean -lowered the light, their figures went by in a fantastic procession on -the trunks of the limes and ashes. The darkness overhead seemed -measureless. The fallen twigs cracked at their tread, and beech-nuts -underfoot made dry patches on the damp moss among the roots. As they -emerged from the trees and looked down the slope, they saw the -stablemen’s lanterns and heard the voices of men. -</p> -<p> -Lady Eliza redoubled her pace. When they had almost come to the -dovecot, she told Macquean to hold up his torch. Cecilia, whose gown -had caught on a briar, and who had paused to disentangle herself, -hurried after her companions, and rejoined them just as he raised the -light. -</p> -<p> -As she looked, the glare fell full upon the walls, and on the figure of -Gilbert Speid standing with the blood running down his face. -</p> - -<hr class="fnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a id="ftnttxt6-1" href="#ftntanc6-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>Whining. -</p> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a id="ftnttxt6-2" href="#ftntanc6-2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>Masqueraders who, in -Scotland, go from house to house at Hogmanay, or the last day of the year. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_07"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-73">[73]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_07_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_07_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER VII</span><br /> -<br /> -THE LOOKING-GLASS</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -G<small>ILBERT</small> hurried forward as he saw Lady Eliza. -</p> -<p> -‘The pigeons are safe,’ he said. ‘I have locked up two of these rascals -in the dovecot. The third, I fear, has got away.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Indeed, sir, I am vastly obliged to you,’ exclaimed she. ‘You seem -considerably hurt.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He has had a stiff fight, ma’am,’ said Captain Somerville. -</p> -<p> -‘You are very good to have protected my property,’ she continued, -looking at the two gentlemen. ‘All I can do now is to send for the -police from Kaims, unless the dovecot is a safe place for them until -morning.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Young Stirk has gone to Kaims with my carriage,’ said Somerville, ‘for -the door is not very strong, and I fancy your men have no wish to watch -it all night.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It seems,’ said Lady Eliza, turning to Speid, ‘that I have only to be -in a difficulty for you to appear.’ -</p> -<p> -Her voice was civil, and even pleasant, but something in it rang false. -Gilbert felt the undercurrent instinctively, for, though he had no idea -of her real sentiments towards himself, he recognised her as a person -in whose doings the unexpected was the natural. -</p> -<p> -‘I think I can do nothing more,’ he said, with a formality which came -to him at times, ‘so I will wish your ladyship a good-night.’ -</p> -<p> -‘May I ask where you are going, sir, and how you propose to get there -in that condition?’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is nothing,’ replied Gilbert, ‘and Whanland is a bare<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-74">[74]</a></span> four miles -from here. With your permission I will start at once.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Nonsense, Mr. Speid! You will do nothing of the sort. Do you suppose I -shall allow you to walk all that way, or to leave Morphie till your -face has been attended to? Come, Captain Somerville, let us go to the -house. Sir, I insist upon your coming with us.’ -</p> -<p> -The men from the stable were instructed to remain at the dovecot door -until Jimmy should return with the police, and Gilbert recognised -Macquean as Lady Eliza again drove him forward to light the party back -under the trees. He made no comment, feeling that the moment was -unsuitable, and being somewhat interested in the fact that a young -woman, of whose features he could only occasionally catch a glimpse, -was walking beside him; as the torchlight threw fitful splashes across -her he could see the outline of a pale face below a crown of rather -elaborately dressed dark hair. Lady Eliza had directed him to follow -his servant, and was herself delayed by the sailor’s slow progress. -Though he had never seen his companion before, she was known to him by -hearsay. Her silent step, and the whiteness of her figure and drapery -against the deep shadows between the trees, gave him a vague feeling -that he was walking with Diana. He grew aware of his bloody face, and -immediately became self-conscious. -</p> -<p> -‘I fear I am a most disagreeable object, Miss Raeburn,’ he said. -</p> -<p> -‘I had not observed it, sir,’ she replied. -</p> -<p> -‘You are very kind, but you must think me unpleasant company in this -condition, all the same.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I can think of nothing but that you have saved my aunt’s pigeons. She -says little, but I knows he is grateful. There has always been a large -flock at Morphie, and their loss would have vexed her very much.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I owe Stirk—Stirk, the young cadger—a debt for bringing me word of -what was going to happen. He heard of it in Blackport, and came -straight to tell me.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-75">[75]</a></span> -‘I wonder why he went to you instead of warning us,’ said she. -</p> -<p> -‘We are rather friendly, he and I. I suppose he thought he would like -the excitement, and that I should like it, too. He was not wrong, for I -do,’ replied Gilbert, unconsciously using the present tense. -</p> -<p> -‘Then what has brought Captain Somerville? It all happened so suddenly -that there has been no time for surprise. But it is strange to find him -here.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He was dining with me when the news was brought, and he insisted on -coming. He managed to trip a man up, and sit on him till Stirk and I -came to his help. He did it with his wooden leg, I believe,’ said -Gilbert, smiling in spite of his injured face. -</p> -<p> -Cecilia laughed out. -</p> -<p> -‘I think that is charming,’ she said. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert had known many women more or less intimately, but never one of -his own countrywomen. He had heard much of the refinement and delicacy -of the British young lady. This one, who seemed, from the occasional -view he could obtain of her, and from the sound of her voice, to -possess both these qualities in the highest degree, struck him as -having a different attitude towards things in general to the one he had -been led to expect in the class of femininity she represented. As she -had herself said, there had been no time for surprise, and he now -suddenly found that he was surprised—surprised by her presence, -surprised to find that she seemed to feel neither agitation nor any -particular horror at what had happened. He had known women in Spain who -found their most cherished entertainment in the bull-ring, but he had -never met one who would have taken the scene she had broken in upon so -calmly. -</p> -<p> -The changed customs of our modern life have made it hard to realize -that, in the days when Gilbert and Cecilia met by torchlight, it was -still a proof of true sensibility to swoon when confronted by anything -unusual, and that ladies met cows in the road with the same feelings -with<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-76">[76]</a></span> which they would now meet man-eating tigers. Indeed, the woman of -the present moment, in the face of such an encounter, would probably -make some more or less sensible effort towards her own safety, but, at -the time of which I speak, there was nothing for a lady to do at the -approach of physical difficulties but subside as rapidly as possible on -to the cleanest part of the path. But Cecilia had been brought up -differently. Lady Eliza led so active a life, and was apt to require -her to do such unusual things, that she had seen too many emergencies -to be much affected by them. There was a deal of the elemental woman in -Cecilia, and she had just come too late to see the elemental man in -Speid brush away the layer of civilization, and return to his natural -element of fight. She was almost sorry she had been too late. -</p> -<p> -She walked on beside him, cool, gracious, the folds of her skirt -gathered up into her hand, and he longed for the lamp-lit house, that -he might see her clearly. -</p> -<p> -‘The man with the torch is your servant, is he not?’ said she. ‘He told -me he had come from Whanland.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He is,’ replied Speid; ‘but how long he will remain so is another -matter. I am very angry with him—disgusted, in fact.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What has he done, sir, if I may ask?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Everything that is most intolerable. He drove me to the very end of my -patience, in the first instance.’ -</p> -<p> -‘How long is your patience, Mr. Speid?’ -</p> -<p> -‘It was short to-night,’ replied Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -‘And then?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Then I brought him here to be of some use, and while I was looking -over the wall for these thieving ruffians, he ran away.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He does not look very brave,’ observed Cecilia, a smile flickering -round her lips. ‘He arrived at the door, and rang up the house, and I -could see that he was far from comfortable.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He will be more uncomfortable to-morrow,’ said Gilbert grimly. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-77">[77]</a></span> -‘Poor fellow,’ said Cecilia softly. ‘It must be a terrible thing to be -really afraid.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is inexcusable in a man.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I suppose it is,’ replied she slowly, ‘and yet——’ -</p> -<p> -‘And yet—you think I should put up with him? He has enraged me often -enough, but he has been past all bearing to-night.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Do you really mean to send him away? He has been years at Whanland, -has he not?’ -</p> -<p> -‘He has,’ said Gilbert; ‘but let us forget him, Miss Raeburn, he makes -me furious.’ -</p> -<p> -When they reached the house, Lady Eliza led the way to the dining-room, -and despatched such servants as were to be found for wine. Her -hospitable zeal might even have caused a fresh dinner to be cooked, had -not the two men assured her that they had only left the table at -Whanland to come to Morphie. -</p> -<p> -‘If I may have some water to wash the cut on my face, I will make it a -little more comfortable,’ said Speid. -</p> -<p> -He was accordingly shown into a gloomy bedroom on the upper floor, and -the maid who had opened the door to Macquean, having recovered from her -hysterics, was assiduous in bringing him hot water and a sponge. As the -room was unused, it had all the deadness of a place unfrequented by -humanity, and the heavy curtains of the bed and immense pattern of -birds and branches which adorned the wall-paper gave everything a -lugubrious look. He examined his cut at the looking-glass over the -mantelshelf, an oblong mirror with a tarnished gilt frame. -</p> -<p> -The stone which had struck him was muddy, and he found, when he had -washed the wound, that it was deeper than he supposed. It ached and -smarted as he applied the sponge, for the flint had severed the flesh -sharply. As he dried his wet cheek in front of the glass, he saw a -figure which was entering the room reflected in it. -</p> -<p> -‘Lady Eliza has sent me with this. Can I help you,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-78">[78]</a></span> sir?’ said Cecilia -rather stiffly, showing him a little case containing plaster. -</p> -<p> -She held a pair of scissors in her hand. He turned. -</p> -<p> -‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, as she saw the long, red scar; ‘that is really -bad! Do, pray, use this plaster. Look, I will cut it for you.’ -</p> -<p> -And she opened the case, and began to divide its contents into strips. -</p> -<p> -‘You are very good,’ he said awkwardly, as he watched the scissors -moving. -</p> -<p> -She did not reply. -</p> -<p> -‘I had no intention of disturbing the house in this way,’ he continued; -‘it is allowing to Macquean’s imbecility. You need never have known -anything till to-morrow morning.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You are very angry with Macquean,’ said Cecilia. ‘I cannot bear to -think of his leaving a place where he has lived so long. But you will -be cooler to-morrow, I am sure. Now, Mr. Speid, I have made this ready. -Will you dip it in the water and put this strip across the cut?’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert did as he was bid, and, pressing the edges of the wound -together, began to lay the plaster across his cheek. -</p> -<p> -‘You can hardly see,’ said she. ‘Let me hold the light.’ -</p> -<p> -She raised the candle, and the two looked intently into the glass at -his fingers, as he applied the strip. He met with scant success, for it -stuck to his thumb and curled backwards like a shaving. He made another -and more careful attempt to place it, but, with the callous obstinacy -often displayed by inanimate things, it refused to lie flat. -</p> -<p> -The two pairs of eyes met in the looking-glass. -</p> -<p> -‘I cannot make it hold,’ said he. ‘It is not wet enough, and I am too -clumsy.’ -</p> -<p> -His arm ached where it had been hit below the elbow; it was difficult -to keep it steady. -</p> -<p> -‘I can do it,’ said Cecilia, a certain resolute neutrality in her -voice. ‘Hold the candle, sir.’ -</p> -<p> -She took the strip from him, and, dipping it afresh in the water, laid -it deftly across his cheek-bone. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-79">[79]</a></span> -As her cool fingers touched his hot cheek he dropped his eyes from her -face to the fine handkerchief which she had tucked into her bosom, and -which rose and fell with her breathing. She took it out, and held it -pressed against the plaster. -</p> -<p> -‘You will need two pieces,’ she said. ‘Keep this upon the place while I -cut another strip.’ -</p> -<p> -He had never been ordered in this way by a girl before. Caprice he had -experience of, and he had known the exactingness of spoilt women, but -Cecilia’s impersonal commanding of him was new, and it did not -displease him. He told himself, as he stood in front of her, that, were -he to describe her, he would never call her a girl. She was essentially -a woman. -</p> -<p> -‘That is a much better arrangement,’ observed Captain Somerville, as -Gilbert entered the dining-room alone. ‘I did not know you were such a -good surgeon, Speid.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Don’t praise me. I was making such a clumsy job of it that Miss -Raeburn came to my help; she has mended it so well that a few days will -heal it, I expect.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You will have a fine scar, my lad,’ said the sailor. -</p> -<p> -‘That doesn’t matter. I assure you, the thing is of no consequence. It -is not really bad.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is quite bad enough,’ said Lady Eliza. -</p> -<p> -‘You think far too much of it, ma’am.’ -</p> -<p> -‘At any rate, sit down and help yourself to some wine. I have not half -thanked you for your good offices.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I fancy he is repaid,’ said Somerville dryly, glancing at the strips -of plaster. -</p> -<p> -Lady Eliza had ordered a carriage to be got ready to take Speid and the -sailor home, and Captain Somerville had sent a message to Kaims by -Jimmy Stirk, telling his family to expect his return in the morning, as -he had accepted Gilbert’s suggestion that he should remain at Whanland -for the night. He looked kindly on this arrangement, for he was over -sixty, and it was a long time since he had exerted himself so much. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-80">[80]</a></span> -While they stood in the hall bidding Lady Eliza good-night, Cecilia -came downstairs. She had not followed Gilbert to the dining-room. She -held out her hand to him as he went away. -</p> -<p> -‘Thank you,’ said he, looking at her and keeping it for a moment. -</p> -<p class="break2"> -He leaned back in the carriage beside Somerville, very silent, and, -when they reached Whanland and he had seen his friend installed for the -night, he went to his own room. What had become of Macquean he did not -know and did not care. He sat late by the fire, listening to the -snoring of the sailor, which reached him through the wall. -</p> -<p> -A violent headache woke him in the morning and he lay thinking of the -events of the preceding night. He put his hand up to his cheek to feel -if the plaster was in its place. Macquean came in, according to custom, -with his shaving-water, looking neither more nor less uncouth and -awkward than usual. Though he shifted from foot to foot, the man had a -complacency on his face that exasperated his master. -</p> -<p> -‘What did you mean by leaving the carriage last night?’ said Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -‘A’ went awa’ to Morphie,’ said Macquean. -</p> -<p> -‘And who told you to do that?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Aw! a’ didna’ speir<a id="ftntanc7-1" href="#ftnttxt7-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> about that. A’ just tell’t them to gang awa’ -down to the doo’cot. Her ladyship was vera well pleased,’ continued -Macquean, drawing his lips back from his teeth in a chastened smile. -</p> -<p> -‘Get out of the room, you damned fellow! You should get out of the -house, too, if it weren’t for—for—get out, I say!’ cried Gilbert, -sitting up suddenly. -</p> -<p> -Macquean put down the shaving-water and went swiftly to the door. When -he had shut it behind him he stood a moment to compose himself on the -door-mat. -</p> -<p> -‘He shouldna speak that way,’ he said very solemnly, wagging his head. -</p> - -<hr class="fnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a id="ftnttxt7-1" href="#ftntanc7-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>Ask. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_08"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-81">[81]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_08_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_08_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER VIII</span><br /> -<br /> -THE HOUSE IN THE CLOSE</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -T<small>O</small> say that the Miss Robertsons were much respected in Kaims was to -give a poor notion of the truth. The last survivors of a family which -had lived—and, for the most part, died—in the house they still -occupied, they had spent the whole of their existence in the town. -</p> -<p> -It was nearly a hundred years since a cousin of the Speid family, -eldest and plainest of half a dozen sisters, had, on finding herself -the sole unmarried member of the band, accepted the addresses and -fortune of a wealthy East India merchant whose aspiring eye was turned -in her direction. -</p> -<p> -The family outcry was loud at his presumption, for his birth was as -undistinguished as his person, and the married sisters raised a chorus -of derision from the calm heights of their own superiority. Mr. -Robertson’s figure, which was homely; his character, which was -ineffective; his manners, which were rather absurd, all came in for -their share of ridicule. The only thing at which they did not make a -mock was his money. -</p> -<p> -But Isabella was a woman of resolute nature, and, having once put her -hand to the plough, she would not look back. She not only married Mr. -Robertson in the face of her family, but had the good sense to demean -herself as though she were conquering the earth; then she settled down -into a sober but high-handed matrimony, and proceeded to rule the -merchant and all belonging to him with a rod of<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-82">[82]</a></span> iron. The only mistake -she made was that of having thirteen children. -</p> -<p> -And now the tall tombstone, which rose, with its draped urn, from a -forest of memorials in the churchyard of Kaims, held records of the -eleven who lay under it beside their parents. The women had never left -their own place; two or three of the men had gone far afield, but each -one of the number had died unmarried, and each had been buried at home. -The two living would look in at it, on the rare occasions on which they -passed, with a certain sense of repose. -</p> -<p> -After his marriage, Mr. Robertson had met with reverses, and the -increase of his family did not mend his purse. At his death, which took -place before that of his wife, he was no more than comfortably off; and -the ample means possessed by Miss Hersey and Miss Caroline were mainly -due to their own economical habits, and the accumulated legacies of -their brothers and sisters. -</p> -<p> -In the town of Kaims the houses of the bettermost classes were -completely hidden from the eye, for they stood behind those fronting on -the street, and were approached by ‘closes,’ or narrow covered ways, -running back between the buildings. The dark doorways opening upon the -pavement gave no suggestion of the respectable haunts to which they -led. The Robertson house stood at the end of one of these. Having dived -into the passage, one emerged again on a paved path, flanked by deep -borders of sooty turf, under the windows of the tall, dead-looking -tenements frowning squalidly down on either side, and giving a strange -feeling of the presence of unseen eyes, though no sign of humanity was -visible behind the panes. From the upper stories the drying underwear -of the poorer inhabitants waved, particoloured, from long poles. The -house was detached. It was comfortable and spacious, with a wide -staircase painted in imitation of marble, and red baize inner doors; -very silent, very light, looking on its further side into a garden. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-83">[83]</a></span> -It was Sunday; the two old ladies, who were strict Episcopalians, had -returned from church, and were sitting dressed in the clothes held -sacred to the day, in their drawing-room. June was well forward and the -window was open beside Miss Hersey, as she sat, handkerchief in hand, -on the red chintz sofa. The strong scent of lilies of the valley came -up from outside, and pervaded that part of the room. At her elbow stood -a little round table of black lacquer inlaid with mother-of-pearl -pagodas. Miss Caroline moved about rather aimlessly among the -furniture, patting a table-cover here and shifting a chair there, but -making no appreciable difference in anything she touched. Near the -other window was set out a tray covered with a napkin, holding some -wineglasses, a decanter, and two plates of sponge-cakes. -</p> -<p> -The Miss Robertsons’ garden formed a kind of oasis in the mass of mean -and crowded houses which lay between the High Street and the docks; for -the populous part of Kaims, where the sailors, dockmen, and -fishing-people lived, stretched on every side. A wide grass-plot, which -centred in a wooden seat, crept close under the drawing-room windows, -and from this a few steps ran down to the walled enclosure in which -flower and kitchen garden were combined. The gate at their foot was -overhung by an old jessamine plant which hid the stone lintel in a -shower of white stars. Round the walls were beds of simple flowering -plants, made with no pretence of art or arrangement, and dug by some -long-forgotten gardener who had died unsuspicious of the oppressive -niceties which would, in later times, be brought into his trade. -Mignonette loaded the air with its keen sweetness, pansies lifted their -falsely-innocent faces, sweet-williams were as thick as a velvet-pile -carpet in shades of red and white, the phlox swayed stiffly to the -breeze, and convolvulus minor, most old-fashioned of flowers, seemed to -have sprung off all the Dresden bowls and plates on which it had ever -been painted, and assembled itself in a corner alongside the lilies of -the valley. The<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-84">[84]</a></span> whole of the middle part of the place was filled with -apple-trees, and the earth at their feet was planted with polyanthus -and hen-and-chicken daisies. At the foot of the garden a fringe of -white and purple lilacs stood by the gravel path, and beyond these, -outside the walls, a timber-merchant’s yard made the air noisy with the -whirring of saws working ceaselessly all the week. -</p> -<p> -But to-day everything was quiet, and the Miss Robertsons sat in their -drawing-room expecting their company. -</p> -<p> -The Edinburgh coach reached Kaims late on Saturday nights, and those -who expected mails or parcels were obliged to wait for them until -Sunday morning, when, from half-past one to two o’clock, the -mail-office was opened, and its contents handed out to the owners. -Church and kirk were alike over at the time of distribution, and the -only inconvenience to people who had come in from the country was the -long wait they had to endure after their respective services had ended, -till the moment at which the office doors were unlocked. From time -immemorial the Miss Robertsons had opened their house to their friends -between church hour and mail hour, and this weekly reception was -attended by such county neighbours as lived within reasonable distance -of the town, and did not attend the country kirks. Their carriages and -servants would be sent to wait until the office should open, while they -themselves would go to spend the interval with the old ladies. -</p> -<p> -Like moss on an ancient wall, a certain etiquette had grown over these -occasions, from which no one who visited at the house in the close -would have had the courage or the ill-manners to depart. Miss Hersey, -who had virtually assumed the position of elder sister, would sit -directly in the centre of the sofa, and, to the vacant places on either -side of her, the two ladies whose rank or whose intimacy with herself -entitled them to the privilege, would be conducted. She was thinking -to-day of the time when Clementina Speid had sat for the first time at -her right hand and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-85">[85]</a></span> looked down upon the lilies of the valley. Their -scent was coming up now. -</p> -<p> -The drawing-room was full on a fine Sunday, and Miss Caroline, who -generally retired to a little chair at the wall, would smile -contentedly on her guests, throwing, from time to time, some mild echo -of her sister’s words into the talk around her. When all who could -reasonably be expected had arrived, Miss Hersey would turn to the -husband of the lady occupying the place of honour, and, in the silence -which the well-known action invariably created, would desire him to -play the host. -</p> -<p> -‘Mr. Speid, will you pour out the wine?’ -</p> -<p> -Sunday upon Sunday the words had been unaltered; then, for thirty -years, a different name. But now it was the same again, and Gilbert, -like his predecessor, would, having performed his office, place Miss -Hersey’s wineglass on the table with the mother-of-pearl pagodas. -</p> -<p> -It was nearing one o’clock before the marble-painted entrance-hall -echoed to the knocker, but, as one raindrop brings many, its first -summons was the beginning of a succession of others, and the -drawing-room held a good many people when Gilbert arrived. Two somewhat -aggressive-looking matrons were enthroned upon the sofa, a group of men -had collected in the middle of the room, and a couple or so of young -people were chattering by themselves. Miss Caroline on her chair -listened to the halting remarks of a boy just verging on manhood, who -seemed much embarrassed by his position, and who cast covert and -hopeless glances towards his own kind near the window. -</p> -<p> -Robert Fullarton was standing silent by the mantelpiece looking out -over the garden as Miss Hersey had done, and thinking of the same -things; but whereas, with her, the remembrance was occasional, with him -it was constant. He had hardly missed his Sunday visit once since the -Sunday of which he thought, except when he was absent from home. It was -a kind of painful comfort to him to see the objects which had -surrounded her and which had never<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-86">[86]</a></span> changed since that day. He came -back into the present at the sound of Miss Hersey’s voice. -</p> -<p> -‘You have not brought your nephew with you,’ she said, motioning him to -a chair near her. -</p> -<p> -‘Ah, he is well occupied, ma’am,’ replied Robert, sitting down, ‘or, at -least, he thinks he is. He has gone to Morphie kirk.’ -</p> -<p> -‘One may be well occupied there also,’ said Miss Hersey, from the -liberality of her Episcopalian point of view. ‘I did not know that he -was a Presbyterian.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Neither is he,’ said Fullarton, raising his eyebrows oddly, ‘but he -has lately professed to admire that form of worship.’ -</p> -<p> -Miss Robertson felt that there was the suspicion of something hidden in -his words, and was a little uncomfortable. She did not like the idea of -anything below the surface. The two women beside her, who were more -accustomed to such allusions, smiled. -</p> -<p> -‘I do not understand, sir,’ said the old lady. ‘You seem to have some -other meaning.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I fancy there is another meaning to his zeal, and that it is called -Cecilia Raeburn,’ said Fullarton. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, indeed!’ exclaimed one of the ladies, putting on an arch face, -‘that is an excellent reason for going to church.’ -</p> -<p> -Robert saw that Miss Hersey was annoyed by her tone. -</p> -<p> -‘I dare say he profits by what he hears as much as another,’ he said. -‘One can hardly be surprised that a young fellow should like to walk -some of the way home in such attractive company. There is no harm in -that, is there, Miss Robertson?’ -</p> -<p> -‘No, no,’ said Miss Hersey, reassured. -</p> -<p> -‘Mr. Crauford Fordyce has a fine property in Lanarkshire, I am told,’ -said one of the ladies, who seldom took the trouble to conceal her -train of thought. -</p> -<p> -‘His father has,’ replied Fullarton. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert had entered quietly, and, in the babble of voices,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-87">[87]</a></span> Miss Hersey -had not heard him announced. Having paid his respects to her sister, he -did not disturb her, seeing she was occupied; but, for the last few -minutes, he had been standing behind Fullarton in the angle of a tall -screen. His face was dark. -</p> -<p> -‘Ah, Gilbert,’ exclaimed the old lady; ‘I was wondering where you could -be.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Take my chair, Speid,’ said Fullarton. ‘I am sure Miss Robertson is -longing to talk to you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You are like a breath of youth,’ said Miss Hersey, as he sat down. -‘Tell me, what have you been doing since I saw you?’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert made a great effort to collect himself. The lady who had been -speaking possessed an insatiable curiosity, and was bombarding -Fullarton with a volley of questions about his nephew and the extent of -his nephew’s intimacy at Morphie, for she was a person who considered -herself privileged. -</p> -<p> -‘For one thing, I have bought a new cabriolet,’ said the young man. -</p> -<p> -‘And what is it like?’ asked Miss Hersey. -</p> -<p> -Carriages and horses were things that had never entered the range of -her interest, but, to her, any belonging of Gilbert’s was important. -</p> -<p> -‘It is a high one, very well hung, and painted yellow. I drive my -iron-gray mare in it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘That will have a fine appearance, Gilbert.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It would please me very much to take you out, ma’am,’ said he, ‘but -the step is so high that I am afraid you would find it inconvenient.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I am too old, my dear,’ said Miss Hersey, looking delighted; ‘but some -day I will come to the head of the close and see you drive away.’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert’s ears were straining towards Fullarton and his companion, who, -regardless of the reticence of his answers, was cross-examining him -minutely. -</p> -<p> -‘I suppose that Lady Eliza would be well satisfied,’ she<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-88">[88]</a></span> was saying, -‘and I am sure she should, too. <i>Of course</i>, it would be a grand -chance for Miss Raeburn if Mr. Fordyce were to think seriously of her; -she has no fortune. I happen to know that. For my part, I never can -admire those pale girls.’ -</p> -<p> -The speaker, who had the kind of face that makes one think of domestic -economy, looked haughtily from under her plumed Leghorn bonnet. -</p> -<p> -Fullarton grew rather uncomfortable, for he suspected the state of -Gilbert’s mind, and the lady, whom social importance rather than -friendship with Miss Robertson had placed on the red chintz sofa, was a -person whose tongue knew no bridle. He rose to escape. Gilbert rose -also, in response to a nameless impulse, and a newcomer appropriating -his chair, he went and stood at the window. -</p> -<p> -Though close to the lady who had spoken, he turned from her, unable to -look in her direction, and feeling out of joint with the world. His -brows were drawn together and the scar on his cheek, now a white seam, -showed strong as he faced the light. It was more than three months’ -since Cecilia had doctored it, and he had watched her fingers in the -looking-glass. He had met her many times after that night, for Lady -Eliza had felt it behoved her to show him some attention, and had, at -last, almost begun to like him. Had her feelings been unbiassed by the -past, there is little doubt that she would have become heartily fond of -him, for, like Granny Stirk, she loved youth; and her stormy -explanation with Fullarton constantly in the back of her mind, she -strove with herself to accept the young man’s presence naturally. -</p> -<p> -To Fullarton, Gilbert was scarcely sympathetic, even laying aside the -initial fact that he was the living cause of the loss whose bitterness -he would carry to the grave. A cynicism which had grown with the years -was almost as high as his heart, like the rising shroud supposed to -have been seen by witches round the bodies of doomed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-89">[89]</a></span> persons. In spite -of his wideness of outlook in most matters, there was a certain -insularity in him, which made him resent, as a consequence of foreign -up-bringing, the very sensitive poise of Gilbert’s temperament. And, in -the young man’s face, there was little likeness to his mother to rouse -any feeling in Robert’s breast. -</p> -<p> -Speid’s thoughts were full of Cecilia and Crauford Fordyce. He had seen -the latter a couple of times—for it was some weeks since he had arrived -to visit his uncle—and he had not cared for him. Once he had overtaken -him on the road, and they had walked a few miles together. He had -struck him as stupid, and possibly, coarse-fibred. He only realized, as -he stood twirling the tassel of the blind, how important his occasional -meetings with Cecilia had become to him, how much she was in his -thoughts, how her words, her ways, her movements, her voice, were -interwoven with every fancy he had. He had been a dullard, he told -himself, stupid and coarse-fibred as Fordyce. He had been obliged to -wait until jealousy, like a flash of lightning, should show him that -which lay round his feet. Fool, idiot, and thrice idiot that he was to -have been near to such a transcendent creature, and yet ignorant of the -truth! Though her charm had thrilled him through and through, it was -only here and now that the chance words of a vulgar woman had revealed -that she was indispensable to him. -</p> -<p> -Though self-conscious, he was not conceited, and he sighed as he -reflected that he could give her nothing which Fordyce could not also -offer. From the little he had heard, he fancied him to be a richer man -than himself. Cecilia did not strike him as a person who, if her heart -were engaged, would take count of the difference. But what chance had -he more than another of engaging her heart? Fordyce was not handsome, -certainly, but then, neither was he ill-looking. Gilbert glanced across -at a mirror which hung in the alcove of the window, and saw in it a -rather sinister young man with a scarred face. He was<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-90">[90]</a></span> not attractive, -either, he thought. Well, he had learned something. -</p> -<p> -‘Mr. Speid, will you pour out the wine?’ -</p> -<p> -Miss Hersey’s voice was all ceremony. Not for the world would she have -called him Gilbert at such a moment. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -He went forward to the little tray and did as she bid him. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_09"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-91">[91]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_09_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_09_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER IX</span><br /> -<br /> -ON FOOT AND ON WHEELS</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -T<small>HE</small> yellow cabriolet stood at the entrance to the close. The iron-gray -mare, though no longer in her first youth, abhorred delay, and was -tossing her head and moving restlessly, to the great annoyance of the -very small English groom who stood a yard in front of her nose, and -whose remonstrances were completely lost on her. Now and then she would -fidget with her forefeet, spoiling the ‘Assyrian stride’ which had -added pounds to her price and made her an object of open-mouthed -amazement to the youth of the Kaims gutter. -</p> -<p> -A crowd of little boys were collected on the pavement; for the company -which emerged from the Miss Robertsons’ house on Sundays was as good as -a peep-show to them, and the laird of Whanland was, to their minds, the -most choice flower of fashion and chivalry which this weekly -entertainment could offer. Not that that fact exempted him from their -criticism—no fact yet in existence could protect any person from the -tongue of the Scotch street-boy—and the groom, who had been exposed to -their comment for nearly twenty minutes, was beginning, between the -mare and the audience, to come to the end of his temper. -</p> -<p> -‘Did ever ye see sic a wee, wee mannie?’ exclaimed one of the older -boys, pointing at him. -</p> -<p> -‘He’s terrible like a monkey.’ -</p> -<p> -‘An’ a’m fell feared he’ll no grow. What auld are ye, mun?’ continued -the other, raising his voice to a shout. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-92">[92]</a></span> -There was no reply. -</p> -<p> -‘Hech! he winna speak!’ -</p> -<p> -‘He’ll no be bigger nor Jockie Thompson. Come awa here, Jockie, an’ -let’s see!’ -</p> -<p> -A small boy was hauled out from the crowd and pushed forward. -</p> -<p> -‘Just stand you aside him an’ put your heedie up the same prood way he -does.’ -</p> -<p> -The urchin stepped down off the pavement, and standing as near the -victim as he dared, began to inflate himself and to pull such faces as -he conceived suitable. As mimicry they had no merit, but as insult they -were simply beyond belief. -</p> -<p> -A yell of approval arose. -</p> -<p> -The groom was beginning to meditate a dive at the whip-socket when the -solid shape of Jockie Thompson’s father appeared in the distance. His -son, who had eluded him before kirk and who still wore his Sunday -clothes, sprang back to the pavement, and was instantly swallowed up by -the group. -</p> -<p> -By the time that the groom had recovered his equanimity the mare began -to paw the stones, for she also had had enough of her present position. -</p> -<p> -‘Whoa, then!’ cried he sharply, raising his hand. -</p> -<p> -‘Gie her the wheep,’ suggested one of the boys. -</p> -<p> -Though there was an interested pause, the advice had no effect. -</p> -<p> -‘He’s feared,’ said a boy with an unnaturally deep voice. ‘He’s no -muckle use. The laird doesna let him drive; ye’ll see when he comes oot -o’ the close an’ wins into the machine, he’ll put the mannie up ahint -him an’ just drive himsel’.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Ay, will he.’ -</p> -<p> -The man threw a vindictive glance into the group, and the mare, having -resumed her stride, tossed her head up and down, sending a snow-shower -of foam into the air. A spot lit upon his smart livery coat, and he -pulled out his handkerchief to flick it off. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-93">[93]</a></span> -A baleful idea suggested itself to the crowd. -</p> -<p> -‘Eh, look—see!’ cried a tow-headed boy, ‘gie’s a handfu’ o’ yon black -durt an’ we’ll put a piece on his breeks that’ll match the t’other -ane!’ -</p> -<p> -Two or three precipitated themselves upon the mud, and it is impossible -to say what might have happened had not Gilbert, at this moment, come -up the close. -</p> -<p> -‘Whisht! whisht! here’s Whanland! Michty, but he’s fine! See, now, -he’ll no let the mannie drive.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Gosh! but he’s a braw-lookin’ deevil!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Haud yer tongue. He doesna look vera canny the day. I’d be sweer<a id="ftntanc9-1" href="#ftnttxt9-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> to -fash him.’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert got into the cabriolet gathering up the reins, his thoughts -intent upon what he had heard in the house. The mare, rejoiced to be -moving, took the first few steps forward in a fashion of her own, -making, as he turned the carriage, as though she would back on to the -kerbstone. He gave her her head, and drew the whip like a caress softly -across her back. She plunged forward, taking hold of the bit, and -trotted down the High Street, stepping up like the great lady she was, -and despising the ground underneath her. -</p> -<p> -However preoccupied, Speid was not the man to be indifferent to his -circumstances when he sat behind such an animal. As they left the town -and came out upon the flat stretch of road leading towards Whanland, he -let her go to the top of her pace, humouring her mouth till she had -ceased to pull, and was carrying her head so that the bit was in line -with the point of the shaft. A lark was singing high above the field at -one side of him, and, at the other, the scent of gorse came in puffs on -the wind from the border of the sandhills. Beyond was the sea, with the -line of cliff above Garviekirk graveyard cutting out into the -immeasurable water. The sky lay pale above the sea-line. They turned -into the road by the Lour bridge from where the river could be seen -losing itself in an eternity of distance.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-94">[94]</a></span> In the extraordinary Sunday -stillness, the humming of insects was audible as it only is on the -first day of the week, when nature itself seems to suggest a suspension -of all but holiday energy. The natural world, which recognises no -cessation of work, presents almost the appearance of doing so at such -times, so great is the effect of the settled habit of thousands of -people upon its aspect. -</p> -<p> -The monotony of the motion and the balm of the day began to intoxicate -Gilbert. It is not easy to feel that fate is against one when the sun -shines, the sky smiles, and the air is quivering with light and dancing -shadow; harder still in the face of the blue, endless sea-spaces of the -horizon; hard indeed when the horse before you conveys subtly to your -hand that he is prepared to transport you, behind the beating pulse of -his trot, to Eldorado—to the Isles of the Blessed—anywhere. -</p> -<p> -His heart rose in spite of himself as he got out of the cabriolet at -the door of Whanland, and ran his hand down the mare’s shoulder and -forelegs. He had brought her in hotter than he liked, and he felt that -he should go and see her groomed, for he was a careful horse-master. -But somehow he could not. He dismissed her with a couple of approving -slaps, and watched her as she was led away. Then, tossing his hat and -gloves to Macquean, who had come out at the sound of wheels, he -strolled up to the place at which he had once paused with Barclay, and -stood looking up the river to the heavy woods of Morphie. -</p> -<p> -‘If she were here!’ he said to himself, ‘if she were here!’ -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p> -As Speid’s eyes rested upon the dark woods, the little kirk which stood -at their outskirts was on the point of emptying, for public worship -began in it later than in the kirks and churches of Kaims. -</p> -<p> -The final blessing had been pronounced, the last paraphrase sung, and -Lady Eliza, with Cecilia, sat in the Morphie pew in the first row of -the gallery. Beside them was Fullarton’s nephew, Crauford Fordyce, -busily engaged in<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-95">[95]</a></span> locking the bibles and psalm-books into their box -under the seat with a key which Lady Eliza had passed to him for the -purpose. His manipulation of the peculiarly-constructed thing showed -that this was by no means the first time he had handled it. -</p> -<p> -The beadle and an elder were going their rounds with the long-handled -wooden collecting-shovels, which they thrust into the pews as they -passed; the sound of dropping pennies pervaded the place, and the party -in the Morphie seat having made their contributions, that hush set in -which reigned in the kirk before the shovel was handed into the pulpit, -and the ring of the minister’s money gave the signal for a general -departure not unlike a stampede. Lady Eliza leaned, unabashed, over the -gallery to see who was present. -</p> -<p> -When the expected sound had sent the male half of the congregation like -a loosed torrent to the door, and the female remainder had departed -more peacefully, the two women went out followed by Fordyce. -</p> -<p> -Lady Eliza was in high good temper. Though content to let all -theological questions rest fundamentally, she had scented controversy -in some detail of the sermon, and was minded to attack the minister -upon them when next he came in her way. Fordyce, who was apt to take -things literally, was rash enough to be decoyed into argument on the -way home, and not adroit enough to come out of it successfully. -</p> -<p> -Robert Fullarton’s nephew—to give him the character in which he seemed -most important to Lady Eliza—belonged to the fresh-faced, thickset type -of which a loss of figure in later life may be predicted. Heavily -built, mentally and physically, he had been too well brought up to -possess anything of the bumpkin, or, rather, he had been too much -brought up in complicated surroundings to indulge in low tastes, even -if he had them. He took considerable interest in his own appearance, -though he was not, perhaps, invariably right in his estimate of it, and -his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-96">[96]</a></span> clothes were always good and frequently unsuitable. He was the -eldest son of an indulgent father, who had so multiplied his -possessions as to become their adjunct more than their owner; to his -mother and his two thick-ankled, elementary sisters he suggested -Adonis; and he looked to politics as a future career. Owing to some -slight natural defect, he was inclined to hang his under-lip and -breathe heavily through his nose. Though he was of middle height, his -width made him look short of it, and the impression he produced on a -stranger was one of phenomenal cleanliness and immobility. -</p> -<p> -The way from the kirk to Morphie house lay through the fields, past the -home farm, and Lady Eliza stopped as she went by to inquire for the -health of a young cart-horse which had lamed itself. Cecilia and -Crauford waited for her at the gate of the farmyard. A string of ducks -was waddling towards a ditch with that mixture of caution and -buffoonery in their appearance which makes them irresistible to look -at, and a hen’s discordant Magnificat informed the surrounding world -that she had done her best for it; otherwise everything was still. -</p> -<p> -‘We shall have to wait some time, I expect, if it is question of a -horse,’ observed Cecilia, sitting down upon a log just outside the -gate. -</p> -<p> -‘<i>I</i> shall not be impatient,’ responded Fordyce, showing two very -large, very white front teeth as he smiled. -</p> -<p> -‘I was thinking that Mr. Fullarton might get tired of waiting for you -and drive home. The mails will have been given out long ago, and he is -probably at Morphie by this time.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Come now, Miss Raeburn; I am afraid you think me incapable of walking -to Fullarton, when, in reality, I should find it a small thing to do -for the pleasure of sitting here with you. Confess it: you imagine me a -poor sort of fellow—one who, through the custom of being well served, -can do little for himself. I have seen it in your expression.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-97">[97]</a></span> -Cecilia laughed a little. ‘Why should you fear that?’ she asked. -</p> -<p> -‘Because I am extremely anxious for your good opinion,’ he -replied,—‘and, of course, for Lady Eliza’s also.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I have no doubt you have got it,’ she said lightly. -</p> -<p> -‘You are not speaking for yourself, Miss Raeburn. I hope that you think -well of me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Your humility does you credit.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I wish you would be serious. It is hard to be set aside by those whom -one wishes to please.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But I do not set you aside. You are speaking most absurdly, Mr. -Fordyce,’ said Cecilia, who was growing impatient. -</p> -<p> -‘But you seem to find everyone else preferable to me—Speid, for -instance.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It has never occurred to me to compare you, sir.’ -</p> -<p> -Her voice was freezing. -</p> -<p> -‘I hope I have not annoyed you by mentioning his name,’ said he -clumsily. -</p> -<p> -‘You will annoy me if you go on with this conversation,’ she replied. -‘I am not fond of expressing my opinion about anyone.’ -</p> -<p> -Fordyce looked crestfallen, and Cecilia, who was not inclined to be -harsh to anybody, was rather sorry; she felt as remorseful as though -she had offended a child; he was so solid, so humourless, so -vulnerable. She wondered what his uncle thought of him; she had -wondered often enough what Fullarton thought about most things, and, -like many others, she had never found out. It often struck her that he -was a slight peg for such friendship as Lady Eliza’s to hang on. ‘Il -y’a un qui baise et un qui tend la joue.’ She knew that very well, and -she had sometimes resented the fact for her adopted aunt, being a -person who understood resentment mainly by proxy. -</p> -<p> -As she glanced at the man beside her she thought of the strange -difference in people’s estimates of the same thing; no doubt he -represented everything to someone, but she<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-98">[98]</a></span> had spoken with absolute -truth when she said that it had not occurred to her to compare him to -Speid. She saw the same difference between the two men that she saw -between fire and clay, between the husk and the grain, between the seen -and the unseen. In her twenty-four years she had contrived to pierce -the veils and shadows that hide the eyes of life, and, having looked -upon them, to care for no light but theirs. The impression produced on -her when she first saw Gilbert Speid by the dovecot was very vivid, and -it was wonderful how little it had been obliterated or altered in their -subsequent acquaintance. His quietness and the forces below it had more -meaning for her than the obvious speeches and actions of other people. -She had seen him in a flash, understood him in a flash, and, in a -flash, her nature had risen up and paused, quivering and waiting, -unconscious of its own attitude. Simple-minded people were inclined to -call Cecilia cold. -</p> -<p> -‘I am expecting letters from home to-day,’ said Fordyce at last. ‘I -have written very fully to my father on a particular subject, and I am -hoping for an answer.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Indeed?’ said she, assuming a look of interest; she felt none, but she -was anxious to be pleasant. -</p> -<p> -‘I should like you to see Fordyce Castle,’ said he. ‘I must try to -persuade Lady Eliza to pay us a visit with you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I am afraid you will hardly be able to do that,’ she answered, -smiling. ‘I have lived with her for nearly twelve years, and I have -never once known her to leave Morphie.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But I feel sure she would enjoy seeing Fordyce,’ he continued; ‘it is -considered one of the finest places in Lanarkshire, and my mother would -make her very welcome; my sisters, too, they will be delighted to make -your acquaintance. You would suit each other perfectly; I have often -thought that.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You are very good,’ she said, ‘and the visit would be interesting, I -am sure. The invitation would please her, even if she did not accept -it. You can but ask her.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-99">[99]</a></span> -‘Then I have your permission to write to my mother?’ said Crauford -earnestly. -</p> -<p> -It struck Cecilia all at once that she was standing on the brink of a -chasm. Her colour changed a little. -</p> -<p> -‘It is for my aunt to give that,’ she said. ‘I am always ready to go -anywhere with her that she pleases.’ -</p> -<p> -The more Fordyce saw of his companion the more convinced was he, that, -apart from any inclination of his own, he had found the woman most -fitted to take the place he had made up his mind to offer her. The -occasional repulses which he suffered only suggested to him such -maidenly reserve as should develop, with marriage, into a dignity quite -admirable at every point. Her actual fascination was less plain to him -than to many others, and, though he came of good stock, his admiration -for the look of breeding strong in her was not so much grounded in his -own enjoyment of it as in the effect he foresaw it producing on the -rest of the world, in connection with himself. Her want of fortune -seemed to him almost an advantage. Was he not one of the favoured few -to whom it was unnecessary? And where would the resounding fame of King -Cophetua be without his beggar-maid? -</p> -<p> -The letter he had written to his father contained an epitome of his -feelings—at least, so far as he was acquainted with them; and, when he -saw Lady Eliza emerge from a stable-door into the yard, and knew that -there was no more chance of being alone with Cecilia, he was all -eagerness to step out for Morphie, where his uncle had promised to call -for him on his way home from Kaims. Fullarton might even now be -carrying the all-important reply in his pocket. -</p> -<p> -He wondered, as they took their way through the fragrant grass, how he -should act when he had received it, for he had hardly settled whether -to address Miss Raeburn in person or to lay his hopes before Lady -Eliza, with a due statement of the prospects he represented. He leaned -towards the latter course, feeling certain that the elder<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-100">[100]</a></span> woman must -welcome so excellent a fate for her charge, and would surely influence -her were she blind enough to her own happiness to refuse him. But she -would never refuse him. Why should she? He could name twenty or thirty -who would be glad to be in her place. He had accused her of preferring -Speid’s company to his own, but he had only half believed the words he -spoke. For what was Whanland? and what were the couple of thousand a -year Speid possessed? -</p> -<p> -Yet poor Crauford knew, though he would scarce admit the knowledge to -himself, that the only situation in which he felt at a disadvantage was -in Speid’s society. -</p> - -<hr class="fnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a id="ftnttxt9-1" href="#ftntanc9-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>Loth. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_10"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-101">[101]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_10_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_10_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER X</span><br /> -<br /> -KING COPHETUA’S CORRESPONDENCE</a> -</h4> -<p class="address"> -‘F<small>ORDYCE</small> C<small>ASTLE</small>, -</p> -<p class="address2"> -‘L<small>ANARK</small>. -</p> -<p class="date"> -‘<i>June</i> 26, 1801. -</p> -<p class="salutation"> -‘M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAR</small> S<small>ON</small>, -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -‘Your letter, with the very important matter it contains, took me -somewhat by surprise, for although you had mentioned the name of the -young lady and that of Lady Eliza Lamont, I was hardly prepared to hear -that you intended to do her the honour you contemplate. A father’s -approval is not to be lightly asked or rashly bestowed, and I have -taken time to consider my reply. You tell me that Miss Raeburn is -peculiarly fitted, both in mind and person, to fill the position she -will, as your wife, be called upon to occupy. With regard to her birth -I am satisfied. She is, we know, connected with families whose names -are familiar to all whose approval is of any value. I may say, without -undue pride, that my son’s exceptional prospects might have led him to -form a more brilliant alliance, and I have no doubt that Miss Cecilia -Raeburn, possessing such qualities of mind as you describe, will -understand how high a compliment you pay to her charms in overlooking -the fact. Your statement that she is dowerless is one upon which we -need not dwell; it would be hard indeed were the family you represent -dependent upon the purses of those who have the distinction of entering -it. I am happy to say that my eldest son need be hampered by no such -considerations, and that Mrs. Crauford<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-102"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[102]</span></a></span> Fordyce will lack nothing -suitable to her station, and to the interest that she must inevitably -create in the society of this county. It now only remains for me to add -that, having expressed my feelings upon your choice, I am prepared to -consent. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -‘Your mother is, I understand, writing to you, though I have only your -sister’s authority for saying so, for I have been so much occupied -during the last day or two as to be obliged to lock the door of my -study. I am afraid, my dear Crauford (between ourselves), that, though -she knows my decision, your mother is a little disappointed—upset, I -should say. I think that she had allowed herself to believe, from the -pleasure you one day expressed in the society of Lady Maria Milwright -when she was with us, that you were interested in that direction. -Personally, though Lord Milborough is an old friend of the family, and -his daughter’s connection with it would have been eminently suitable, -her appearance would lead me to hesitate, were I in your place and -contemplating marriage. But that is an objection, perhaps, that your -mother hardly understands. -</p> -<p class="closing3"> -‘I am, my dear Crauford, -</p> -<p class="closing1"> -‘Your affectionate father, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -‘T<small>HOMAS</small> F<small>ORDYCE</small>.’ -</p> -<p> -‘P.S.—Agneta and Mary desire their fond love to their brother.’ -</p> - -<p class="break2"> -Fordyce was sitting in his room at Fullarton with his correspondence in -front of him; he had received two letters and undergone a purgatory of -suspense, for, by the time he reached Morphie, his uncle had been kept -waiting for him some time. Finding nothing for himself in his private -mail-bag, Fullarton had it put under the driving-seat, and the -suggestion hazarded by his nephew that it should be brought out only -resulted in a curt refusal. The elder man hated to be kept waiting, and -the culprit had been forced to get through the homeward drive with what -patience he might summon. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-103">[103]</a></span> -Lady Fordyce’s letter lay unopened by that of Sir Thomas, and Crauford, -in spite of his satisfaction with the one he had just read, eyed it -rather apprehensively. But, after all, the main point was gained, or -what he looked upon as the main point, for to the rest of the affair -there could be but one issue. He broke the seal of his mother’s -envelope, and found a second communication inside it from one of his -sisters. -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -‘M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAR</small> C<small>RAUFORD</small> (began Lady Fordyce), -</p> -<p class="first_para nobottom"> -‘As your father is writing to you I will add a few words to convey my -good wishes to my son upon the <i>decided step</i> he is about to take. Had -I been consulted I should have advised a little more reflection, but as -you are <i>bent on pleasing yourself</i>, and your father (<i>whether rightly -or wrongly</i> I cannot pretend to say) is upholding you, I have no choice -left but to express my <i>cordial good wishes</i>, and to hope that you <i>may -never live to regret it</i>. Miss Cecilia Raeburn may be all you say, <i>or -she may not</i>, and I should fail in my duty if I did not remind you that -a young lady brought up in a provincial neighbourhood is not likely to -step into <i>such a position as that of the wife of Sir Thomas Fordyce’s -eldest son</i> without the risk of having her head turned, or, <i>worse -still</i>, of being incapable of maintaining her dignity. As I have not -had the privilege of speaking to your father alone for two days, and as -he has <i>found it convenient</i> to sit up till all hours, I do not know -whether the consent he has (apparently) given is an unwilling one, but -I should be acting <i>against my conscience</i> were I to hide from you that -I suspect it most strongly. With <i>heartfelt wishes</i> for your truest -welfare, -</p> -<p class="closing5"> -‘I remain, my dear Crauford, -</p> -<p class="closing4"> -‘Your affectionate mother, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -‘L<small>OUISA</small> C<small>HARLOTTE</small> F<small>ORDYCE</small>.’ -</p> -<p> -‘P.S.—Would it not be <i>wise</i> to delay your plans until you have been -once more at home, and had every opportunity<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-104">[104]</a></span> of thinking it over? You -might return here in a few days, and conclude your visit to your uncle -<i>later on</i>—say, at the end of September.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p class="pad_top"> -Crauford laid down the sheet of paper; he was not apt to seize on -hidden things, but the little touch of nature which cropped up, like a -daisy from a rubbish-heap, in the end of his father’s letter gave him -sympathy to imagine what the atmosphere of Fordyce Castle must have -been when it was written. He respected his mother, not by nature, but -from habit, and the experiences he had sometimes undergone had never -shaken his feelings, but only produced a sort of distressed -bewilderment. He was almost bewildered now. He turned again to Sir -Thomas’s letter, and re-read it for comfort. -</p> -<p> -The enclosure he had found from his sister was much shorter. -</p> -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -‘M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAR</small> B<small>ROTHER</small>, -</p> -<p class="first_para nobottom"> -‘Mary and I wish to send you our very kind love, and we hope that you -will be happy. Is Miss Raeburn dark or fair? We hope she is fond of -tambour-work. We have some new patterns from Edinburgh which are very -pretty. We shall be very glad when you return. Our mother is not very -well. There is no interesting news. Mrs. Fitz-Allen is to give a -fête-champêtre with illuminations next week, but we do not know whether -we shall be allowed to go as she behaved <i>most unbecomingly</i> to our -mother, trying to take precedence of her at the prize-giving in the -Lanark flower show. Lady Maria Milwright is coming to visit us in -September. We shall be very pleased. -</p> -<p class="closing4"> -‘Your affectionate sister, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -‘A<small>GNETA</small> F<small>ORDYCE</small>.’ -</p> -</div> -<p class="pad_top"> -Fullarton’s good-humour was quite restored as uncle and nephew paced up -and down the twilit avenue that evening.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-105">[105]</a></span> A long silence followed the -announcement which the young man had just made. -</p> -<p> -‘Do you think I am doing wisely, sir?’ he said at last. -</p> -<p> -Fullarton smiled faintly before he replied; Crauford sometimes amused -him. -</p> -<p> -‘In proposing to Cecilia? One can hardly tell,’ he replied; ‘that is a -thing that remains to be seen.’ -</p> -<p> -Perplexity was written in Crauford’s face. -</p> -<p> -‘But surely—surely—’ he began, ‘have you not a very high opinion of -Miss Raeburn?’ -</p> -<p> -‘The highest,’ said the other dryly. -</p> -<p> -‘But then——’ -</p> -<p> -‘What I mean is, do you care enough to court a possible rebuff? You are -not doing wisely if you don’t consider that. I say, a <i>possible</i> -rebuff,’ continued his uncle. -</p> -<p> -‘Then you think she will refuse me?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Heaven knows,’ responded Robert. ‘I can only tell you that to-day, -when Miss Robertson inquired where you were, and I said that you were -walking home from Morphie kirk with Cecilia, Speid was standing by -looking as black as thunder.’ -</p> -<p> -To those whose ill-fortune it is never to have been crossed in -anything, a rival is another name for a rogue. Fordyce felt vindictive; -he breathed heavily. -</p> -<p> -‘Do you think that Miss Raeburn is likely to—notice Speid?’ -</p> -<p> -Robert’s mouth twitched. ‘It is difficult not to notice Gilbert Speid,’ -he replied. -</p> -<p> -‘I really fail to see why everyone seems so much attracted by him.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I am not sure that he attracts me,’ said the elder man. -</p> -<p> -‘He looks extremely ill-tempered—most unlikely to please a young lady.’ -</p> -<p> -‘There I do not altogether agree with you. We are always being told -that women are strange things,’ said Fullarton. -</p> -<p> -‘I am astonished at the view you take, uncle. After<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-106">[106]</a></span> all, I am unable -to see why my proposal should be less welcome than his—that is, if he -intends to make one.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You certainly have solid advantages. After all, that is the main point -with women,’ said the man for whose sake one woman, at least, had lost -all. The habit of bitterness had grown strong. -</p> -<p> -‘I shall go to Morphie to-morrow, and ride one of your horses, sir, if -you have no objection.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Take one, by all means; you will make all the more favourable -impression. It is a very wise way of approaching your goddess—if you -have a good seat, of course. Speid looks mighty well in the saddle.’ -</p> -<p> -He could not resist tormenting his nephew. -</p> -<p> -The very sound of Gilbert’s name was beginning to annoy Fordyce, and he -changed the subject. It was not until the two men parted for the night -that it was mentioned again. -</p> -<p> -‘I am going out early to-morrow,’ said Robert, ‘so I may not see you -before you start. Good luck, Crauford.’ -</p> -<p class="break2"> -Fordyce rode well, and looked his best on horseback, but Cecilia having -gone into the garden, the only eye which witnessed his approach to -Morphie next day was that of a housemaid, for Lady Eliza sat writing in -the long room. -</p> -<p> -She received him immediately. -</p> -<p> -‘I am interrupting your ladyship,’ he remarked apologetically. -</p> -<p> -‘Not at all, sir, not at all,’ said she, pushing her chair back from -the table with a gesture which had in it something masculine; ‘you are -always welcome, as you know very well.’ -</p> -<p> -‘That is a pleasant hearing,’ replied he, ‘but to-day it is doubly so. -I have come on business of a—I may say—peculiar nature. Lady Eliza, I -trust you are my friend?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I shall be happy to serve you in any way I can, Mr. Fordyce.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Then I may count on your good offices? My uncle is<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-107">[107]</a></span> so old a friend -of your ladyship’s that I am encouraged to——’ -</p> -<p> -‘You are not in any difficulty with him, I hope,’ said Lady Eliza, -interrupting him rather shortly. -</p> -<p> -‘Far from it; indeed, I have his expressed good wishes for the success -of my errand.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Well, sir?’ she said, setting her face and folding her beautiful hands -together. She was beginning to see light. -</p> -<p> -‘You may have rightly interpreted the frequency of my visits here. In -fact, I feel sure that you have attributed them—and truly—to my -admiration for Miss Raeburn.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I have hardly attributed them to admiration for myself,’ she remarked, -with a certain grim humour. -</p> -<p> -Crauford looked rather shocked. -</p> -<p> -‘Have you said anything to my niece?’ she inquired, after a moment. -</p> -<p> -‘I have waited for your approval.’ -</p> -<p> -‘That is proper enough.’ -</p> -<p> -Her eyes fixed themselves, seeing beyond Crauford’s clean, solemn face, -beyond the panelled walls, into the dull future when Cecilia should -have gone out from her daily life. How often her spirits had flagged -during the months she had been absent in Edinburgh! -</p> -<p> -‘Cecilia shall do as she likes. I will not influence her in any way,’ -she said at last. -</p> -<p> -‘But you are willing, Lady Eliza?’ -</p> -<p> -‘——Yes.’ -</p> -<p> -There was not the enthusiasm he expected in her voice, and this ruffled -him; a certain amount was due to him, he felt. -</p> -<p> -‘You are aware that I can offer Miss Raeburn a very suitable -establishment,’ he said. ‘I should not have taken this step otherwise.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Have you private means, sir?’ asked Lady Eliza, drumming her fingers -upon the table, and looking over his head. -</p> -<p> -‘No; but that is of little importance, for I wrote to my<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-108">[108]</a></span> father a -short time ago, and yesterday, after leaving you, I received his reply. -He has consented, and he assures me of his intention to be -liberal—especially liberal, I may say.’ -</p> -<p> -She was growing a little weary of his long words and his unvaried air -of being official. She was disposed to like him personally, mainly from -the fact that he was the nephew of his uncle, but the prospect of -losing Cecilia hung heavily over any satisfaction she felt at seeing -her settled. Many and many a time had she lain awake, distressed and -wondering, how to solve the problem of the girl’s future, were she -herself to die leaving her unmarried; it had been her waking nightmare. -Now there might be an end to all that. She knew that she ought to be -glad and grateful to fate—perhaps even grateful to Crauford Fordyce. -Tears were near her eyes, and her hot heart ached in advance to think -of the days to come. The little share of companionship and affection, -the wreckage she had gathered laboriously on the sands of life, would -soon slip from her. Her companion could not understand the pain in her -look; he was smoothing out a letter on the table before her. -</p> -<p> -She gathered herself together, sharp words coming to her tongue, as -they generally did when she was moved. -</p> -<p> -‘I suppose my niece and I ought to be greatly flattered,’ she said; ‘I -had forgotten that part of it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Pray do not imagine such a thing. If you will read this letter you -will understand the view my father takes. The second sheet contains -private matters; this is the first one.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Sit down, Mr. Fordyce; the writing is so close that I must carry it to -the light.’ -</p> -<p> -She took the letter to one of the windows at the end of the room, and -stood by the curtain, her back turned. -</p> -<p> -A smothered exclamation came to him from the embrasure, and he was -wondering what part of the epistle could have caused it when she faced -him suddenly, looking at him with shining eyes, and with a flush of red -blood mounting to her forehead. -</p> -<p> -‘In all my life I have never met with such an outrageous<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-109">[109]</a></span> piece of -impertinence!’ she exclaimed, tossing the paper to him. ‘How you have -had the effrontery to show me such a thing passes my understanding! -Take it, sir! Take it, and be obliging enough to leave me. You are -never likely to “live to regret” your marriage with Miss Raeburn, for, -while I have any influence with her, you will never have the chance of -making it. You may tell Lady Fordyce, from me, that the fact that she -is a member of your family is sufficient reason for my forbidding my -niece to enter it!’ -</p> -<p> -Crauford stood aghast, almost ready to clutch at his coat like a man in -a gale of wind, and with scarcely wits left to tell him that he had -given Lady Eliza the wrong letter. The oblique attacks he had -occasionally suffered from his mother when vexed were quite unlike this -direct onslaught. He went towards her, opening his mouth to speak. She -waved him back. -</p> -<p> -‘Not a word, sir! not a word! I will ring the bell and order your horse -to be brought.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Lady Eliza, I beg of you, I implore you, to hear what I have got to -say!’ -</p> -<p> -He was almost breathless. -</p> -<p> -‘I have heard enough. Do me the favour to go, Mr. Fordyce.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is not my fault! I do assure you it is not my fault! I gave you the -wrong letter, ma’am. I had never dreamed of your seeing that.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What do I care which letter it is? That such impertinence should have -been written is enough for me. Cecilia “unable to support the dignity -of being your wife”! Faugh!’ -</p> -<p> -‘If you would only read my father’s letter,’ exclaimed Crauford, -drawing it out of his pocket, ‘you would see how very different it is. -He is prepared to do everything—anything.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Then he may be prepared to find you a wife elsewhere,’ said Lady -Eliza. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-110">[110]</a></span> -At this moment Cecilia’s voice was heard in the passage. He took up his -hat. -</p> -<p> -‘I will go,’ he said, foreseeing further disaster. ‘I entreat you, Lady -Eliza, do not say anything to Miss Raeburn. I really do not know what I -should do if she were to hear of this horrible mistake!’ -</p> -<p> -He looked such a picture of dismay that, for a moment, she pitied him. -</p> -<p> -‘I should scarcely do such a thing,’ she replied. -</p> -<p> -‘You have not allowed me to express my deep regret—Lady Eliza, I hardly -know what to say.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Say nothing, Mr. Fordyce. That, at least, is a safe course.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But what can I do? How can I induce you or Miss Raeburn to receive me? -If she were to know of what has happened, I should have no hope of her -ever listening to me! Oh, Lady Eliza—pray, pray tell me that this need -not destroy everything!’ -</p> -<p> -The storm of her anger was abating a little, and she began to realize -that the unfortunate Crauford was deserving of some pity. And he was -Robert’s nephew. -</p> -<p> -‘I know nothing of my niece’s feelings,’ she said, ‘but you may be -assured that I shall not mention your name to her. And you may be -assured of this also: until Lady Fordyce writes such a letter as I -shall approve when you show it to me, you will never approach her with -my consent.’ -</p> -<p> -‘She will! she shall!’ cried Crauford, in the heat of his thankfulness. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -But it was a promise which, when he thought of it in cold blood as he -trotted back to Fullarton, made his heart sink. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_11"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-111">[111]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_11_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_11_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XI</span><br /> -<br /> -THE MOUSE AND THE LION</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -H<small>E</small> who is restrained by a paternal law from attacking the person of his -enemy need not chafe under this restriction; for he has only to attack -him in the vanity, and the result, though far less entertaining, will -be twice as effective. Gilbert Speid, in spite of his dislike to Mr. -Barclay, did not bear him the slightest ill-will; nevertheless, he had -dealt his ‘man of business’ as shrewd a blow as one foe may deal -another. Quite unwittingly, he had exposed him to some ridicule. -</p> -<p> -The lawyer had ‘hallooed before he was out of the wood,’ with the usual -consequences. -</p> -<p> -Kaims had grown a little weary of the way in which he thrust his -alleged intimacy at Whanland in its face, and when Speid, having come -to an end of his business interviews, had given him no encouragement to -present himself on a social footing, it did not conceal its amusement. -</p> -<p> -As Fordyce dismounted, on his return from Morphie, Barclay was on his -way to Fullarton, for he was a busy man, and had the law business of -most of the adjoining estates on his hands. Robert, who had arranged to -meet him in the early afternoon, had been away all day, and he was told -by the servant who admitted him that Mr. Fullarton was still out, but -that Mr. Fordyce was on the lawn. The lawyer was well pleased, for he -had met Crauford on a previous visit, and had not forgotten that he was -an heir-apparent of some importance. He smoothed his hair, where<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-112">[112]</a></span> the -hat had disarranged it, with a fleshy white hand, and, telling the -servant that he would find his own way, went through the house and -stepped out of a French window on to the grass. -</p> -<p> -Fordyce was sitting on a stone seat partly concealed by a yew hedge, -and did not see Barclay nor hear his approaching footfall on the soft -turf. He had come out and sat down, feeling unable to occupy himself or -to get rid of his mortification. He had been too much horrified and -surprised at the time to resent anything Lady Eliza had said, but, on -thinking over her words again, he felt that he had been hardly treated. -He could only hope she would keep her word and say nothing to Cecilia, -and that the letter he had undertaken to produce from Lady Fordyce -would make matters straight. A ghastly fear entered his mind as he sat. -What if Lady Eliza in her rage should write to his mother? The thought -was so dreadful that his brow grew damp. He had no reason for supposing -that she would do such a thing, except that, when he left her, she had -looked capable of anything. -</p> -<p> -‘Good heavens! good heavens!’ he ejaculated. -</p> -<p> -He sprang up, unable to sit quiet, and found himself face to face with -Barclay. -</p> -<p> -‘My dear sir,’ exclaimed the lawyer, ‘what is the matter?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, nothing—nothing,’ said Crauford, rather startled by the sudden -apparition. ‘Good-morning, Mr. Barclay; pray sit down.’ -</p> -<p> -The lawyer was as inquisitive as a woman, and he complied immediately. -</p> -<p> -‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘but I can hardly believe that. I sincerely hope -it is nothing very serious.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is nothing that can be helped,’ said Fordyce hurriedly; ‘only a -difficulty that I am in.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Then I may have arrived in the nick of time,’ said Barclay. ‘Please -remember it is my function to help people out of difficulties. Come, -come—courage.’ -</p> -<p> -He spoke with a familiarity of manner which Crauford<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-113">[113]</a></span> might have -resented had he been less absorbed in his misfortunes. He had an -overwhelming longing to confide in someone. -</p> -<p> -‘What does the proverb say? “Two heads are better than one,” eh, Mr. -Fordyce?’ -</p> -<p> -Crauford looked at him irresolutely. -</p> -<p> -‘I need hardly tell you that I shall be silent,’ said the lawyer in his -most professional voice. -</p> -<p> -Fordyce had some of the instincts of a gentleman, and he hesitated a -little before he could make up his mind to mention Cecilia’s name to a -stranger like Barclay, but he was in such dire straits that a -sympathizer was everything to him, and the fact that his companion knew -so much of his uncle’s affairs made confidence seem safe. Besides -which, he was not a quick reader of character. -</p> -<p> -‘You need not look upon me as a stranger,’ said the lawyer; ‘there is -nothing that your uncle does not tell me.’ -</p> -<p> -This half-truth seemed so plausible to Crauford that it opened the -floodgates of his heart. -</p> -<p> -‘You know Miss Raeburn, of course,’ he began. -</p> -<p> -Barclay bowed and dropped his eyes ostentatiously. The action seemed to -imply that he knew her more intimately than anyone might suppose. -</p> -<p> -‘She is a very exceptional young lady. I had made up my mind to propose -to her.’ -</p> -<p> -‘She has not a penny,’ broke in Barclay. -</p> -<p> -‘That is outside the subject,’ replied Fordyce, with something very -much like dignity. ‘I wrote to my father, telling him of my intention, -and yesterday I got his consent. He told me to expect a most liberal -allowance, Mr. Barclay.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Naturally, naturally; in your circumstances that would be a matter of -course.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I thought it best to have Lady Eliza’s permission before doing -anything further. I was right, was I not, sir?’ -</p> -<p> -‘You acted in a most gentlemanly manner.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I went to Morphie. Lady Eliza was cool with me, I<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-114">[114]</a></span> thought. I confess -I expected she would have shown some—some——’ -</p> -<p> -‘Some gratification—surely,’ finished Barclay. -</p> -<p> -‘I took my father’s letter with me, and unfortunately, I had also one -in my pocket from my mother. It was not quite like my father’s in tone; -in fact, I am afraid it was written under considerable—excitement. I -think she had some other plan in her mind for me. At any rate I took it -out, mistaking it for the other, and gave it to her ladyship to read. -Mr. Barclay, it was terrible.’ -</p> -<p> -The lawyer was too anxious to stand well with his companion to venture -a smile. -</p> -<p> -‘Tut, tut, tut, tut!’ he said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. -</p> -<p> -‘My only comfort is that she promised to say nothing to Miss Raeburn; I -sincerely trust she may keep her word. I am almost afraid she may write -to my mother, and I really do not know what might happen if she did. -That is what I dread, and she is capable of it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘She is an old termagant,’ said the other. -</p> -<p> -‘But what am I to do? What can I do?’ -</p> -<p> -There was a silence in which the two men sat without speaking a word. -Barclay crossed his knees, and clasped his hands round them; Fordyce’s -eyes rested earnestly upon his complacent face. -</p> -<p> -‘I suppose you know that she used to set her cap at your uncle years -ago?’ said the lawyer at last. -</p> -<p> -‘I knew they were old friends.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You must persuade him to go and put everything straight. He can if he -likes; she will keep quiet if he tells her to do so, trust her for -that. That’s my advice, and you will never get better.’ -</p> -<p> -Fordyce’s face lightened; he had so lost his sense of the proportion of -things that this most obvious solution had not occurred to him. -</p> -<p> -‘It seems so simple now that you have suggested it,’ he said. ‘I might -have thought of that for myself.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-115">[115]</a></span> -‘What did I tell you about the two heads, eh?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Then you really think that my uncle can make it smooth?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I am perfectly sure of it. Will you take another hint from a -well-wisher, Mr. Fordyce?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Of course, I shall be grateful!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Well, do not let the grass grow under your feet, for Speid is looking -that way too, if I am not mistaken.’ -</p> -<p> -Crauford made a sound of impatience. -</p> -<p> -Barclay leaned forward, his eyes keen with interest. -</p> -<p> -‘Then you don’t like him?’ he said. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, I scarcely know him,’ replied Fordyce, a look that delighted the -lawyer coming into his face. -</p> -<p> -‘He is one of those who will know you one day and look over your head -the next. It would be a shame if you were set aside for a conceited -coxcomb of a fellow like that—a sulky brute too, I believe. I hate -him.’ -</p> -<p> -‘So do I,’ exclaimed Crauford, suddenly and vehemently. -</p> -<p> -Barclay wondered whether his companion had any idea of the tissue of -rumours hanging round Gilbert, but he did not, just then, give voice to -the question. It was a subject which he thought it best to keep until -another time. Fullarton might return at any minute and he would be -interrupted. The friendly relations which he determined to establish -between himself and Fordyce would afford plenty of opportunity. If he -failed to establish them, it would be a piece of folly so great as to -merit reward from a just Providence. All he could do was to blow on -Crauford’s jealousy—an inflammable thing, he suspected—with any -bellows that came to his hand. Speid should not have Cecilia while he -was there to cheer him on. -</p> -<p> -‘You should get Mr. Fullarton to go to Morphie to-morrow, or even this -afternoon; my business with him will not take long, and I shall make a -point of going home early and leaving you free.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You are really most kind to take so much interest,’ said Crauford. -‘How glad I am that I spoke to you about it.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-116">[116]</a></span> -‘The mouse helped the king of beasts in the fable, you see,’ said the -lawyer. -</p> -<p> -The simile struck Crauford as a happy one. He began to regain his -spirits. His personality had been almost unhinged by his recent -experience, and it was a relief to feel it coming straight again, none -the worse, apparently, for its shock. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -Barclay noted this change with satisfaction, knowing that to reunite a -man with his pride is to draw heavily on his gratitude, and, as -Fordyce’s confidence grew, he spoke unreservedly; his companion made -him feel more in his right attitude towards the world than anyone he -had met for some time. Their common dislike of one man was exhilarating -to both, and when, on seeing Fullarton emerge from the French window -some time later, they rose and strolled towards the house, they felt -that there was a bond between them almost amounting to friendship. At -least that was Crauford’s feeling; Barclay might have omitted the -qualifying word. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_12"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-117">[117]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_12_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_12_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XII</span><br /> -<br /> -GRANNY TAKES A STRONG ATTITUDE</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -I<small>F</small> an Englishman’s house is his castle, a Scotchman’s cottage is his -fortress. The custom prevailing in England by which the upper and -middle classes will walk, uninvited and unabashed, into a poor man’s -abode has never been tolerated by the prouder dwellers north of the -Tweed. Here, proximity does not imply familiarity. It is true that the -Englishman, or more probably the Englishwoman, who thus invades the -labouring man’s family will often do so on a charitable errand; but, -unless the Scot is already on friendly terms with his superior -neighbour, he neither desires his charity nor his company. Once invited -into the house, his visit will at all times be welcomed; but the -visitor will do well to remember, as he sits in the best chair at the -hearth, that he does so by privilege alone. The ethics of this -difference in custom are not understood by parochial England, though -its results, one would think, are plain enough. Among the working -classes of European nations the Scot is the man who stands most -pre-eminently upon his own feet, and it is likely that the Millennium, -when it dawns, will find him still doing the same thing. -</p> -<p> -When Granny Stirk, months before, had stood at her door, and cried, -‘Haste ye back, then,’ to Gilbert Speid, she meant what she said, and -was taken at her word, for he returned some days after the roup, and -his visit was the first of many. Her racy talk, her shrewd sense, and -the masterly way in which she dominated her small world<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-118">[118]</a></span> pleased him, -and he guessed that her friendship, once given, would be a solid thing. -He had accepted it, and he returned it. She made surprising confidences -and asked very direct questions, in the spring evenings when the light -was growing daily, and he would stroll out to her cottage for half an -hour’s talk. She advised him lavishly on every subject, from -underclothing to the choice of a wife and her subsequent treatment, and -from these conversations he learned much of the temper and customs of -those surrounding him. -</p> -<p> -In the seven months which had elapsed since his arrival he had learned -to understand his poorer neighbours better than his richer ones. The -atmosphere of the place was beginning to sink into him, and his tenants -and labourers had decided that they liked him very well; for, though -there were many things in him completely foreign to their ideas, they -had taken these on trust in consideration of other merits which they -recognised. But, with his equals, he still felt himself a stranger; -there were few men of his own age among the neighbouring lairds, and -those he had met were as local in character as the landscape. Not one -had ever left his native country, or possessed much notion of anything -outside its limits. He would have been glad to see more of Fullarton, -but the elder man had an unaccountable reserve in his manner towards -him which did not encourage any advance. Crauford Fordyce he found both -ridiculous and irritating. The women to whom he had been introduced did -not impress him in any way, and four only had entered his life—the Miss -Robertsons, who were his relations; Lady Eliza, who by turns amused, -interested, and repelled him; and Cecilia Raeburn, with whom he was in -love. The two people most congenial to him were Granny Stirk and -Captain Somerville. -</p> -<p> -Between himself and the sailor a cordial feeling had grown, as it will -often grow between men whose horizon is wider than that of the society -in which they live, and, though Somerville was almost old enough to be -Speid’s grandfather,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-119">[119]</a></span> the imperishable youth that bubbled up in his -heart kept it in touch with that wide world in which he had worked and -fought, and which he still loved like a boy. The episode at the dovecot -of Morphie had served to cement the friendship. -</p> -<p> -Jimmy Stirk also reckoned himself among Gilbert’s allies. Silent, -sullen, fervid, his mind and energies concentrated upon the business of -his day, he mentally contrasted every gentleman he met with the laird -of Whanland, weighed him, and found him wanting. The brown horse, whose -purchase had been such an event in his life, did his work well, and the -boy expended a good deal more time upon his grooming than upon that of -the mealy chestnut which shared the shed behind the cottage with the -newcomer, and had once been its sole occupant. On finding himself owner -of a more respectable-looking piece of horseflesh than he had ever -thought to possess, he searched his mind for a name with which to -ornament his property; it took him several days to decide that Rob Roy -being, to his imagination, the most glorious hero ever created, he -would christen the horse in his honour. His grandmother, systematically -averse to new notions, cast scorn on what she called his ‘havers’; but -as time went by, and she saw that no impression was made upon Jimmy, -she ended in using the name as freely as if she had bestowed it -herself. -</p> -<p> -It occurred to Mr. Barclay, after leaving Fullarton, that, as Granny -Stirk knew more about other people’s business than anyone he could -think of, he would do sensibly in paying her a visit. That Gilbert -often sat talking with her was perfectly well known to him, and if she -had any ideas about the state of his affections and intentions, and -could be induced to reveal her knowledge, it would be valuable matter -to retail to Fordyce. Her roof had been mended a couple of months -since, and he had made the arrangements for it, so he was no stranger -to the old woman. It behoved him in his character of ‘man of business’ -to examine the work that had been done, for he had not seen it since -its<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-120">[120]</a></span> completion. He directed his man to drive to the cottage, and sat -smiling, as he rolled along, at the remembrance of Fordyce’s dilemma -and his own simple solution of it. -</p> -<p> -Jimmy’s cart, with Rob Roy in the shafts, was standing at the door, and -had to be moved away to enable him to draw up; it had been freshly -painted, and the three divisions of the tailboard contained each a -coloured device. In the centre panel was the figure of a fish; those at -the sides bore each a mermaid holding a looking-glass; the latter were -the arms of the town of Kaims. Barclay alighted, heavily and leisurely, -from his phaeton. -</p> -<p> -‘How is the business, my laddie?’ he inquired affably, and in a voice -which he thought suitable to the hearty habits of the lower orders. -</p> -<p> -‘It’s fine,’ said Jimmy. -</p> -<p> -‘The horse is doing well——eh?’ -</p> -<p> -‘He’s fine,’ said Jimmy again. -</p> -<p> -‘And your grandmother? I hope she is keeping well this good weather.’ -</p> -<p> -‘She’s fine.’ -</p> -<p> -True to his friendly pose, the lawyer walked round the cart, running -his eye over it and the animal in its shafts with as knowing an -expression as he could assume. As he paused beside Rob Roy he laid his -hand suddenly on his quarter, after the manner of people unaccustomed -to horses; the nervous little beast made a plunge forward which nearly -knocked Jimmy down, and sent Barclay flying to the sanctuary of the -doorstep. His good-humour took flight also. -</p> -<p> -‘Nasty, restive brute!’ he exclaimed. -</p> -<p> -The boy gave him an expressive look; he was not apt to pay much -attention to anyone, whether gentle or simple, beyond the pale of his -own affairs, and Barclay had hitherto been outside his world. He now -entered it as an object of contempt. -</p> -<p> -The sudden rattle of the cart brought Granny to the door. -</p> -<p> -‘That is a very dangerous horse of yours,’ said the lawyer, turning -round. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-121">[121]</a></span> -‘Whisht! whisht!’ exclaimed she, ‘it was the laird got yon shelt to -him; he’ll na thole<a id="ftntanc12-1" href="#ftnttxt12-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> to hear ye speak that way.’ -</p> -<p> -‘May I come in?’ asked Barclay, recalled to his object. -</p> -<p> -She ushered him into the cottage. -</p> -<p> -‘Yes, yes, I have heard about that,’ he remarked, as he sat down. ‘No -doubt Jimmy is proud of the episode; it is not often a gentleman -concerns himself so much about his tenant’s interests. I dare say, Mrs. -Stirk, that you have no wish to change your landlord, eh?’ -</p> -<p> -‘No for onybody hereabout,’ said the old woman. -</p> -<p> -‘Then I gather that you are no admirer of our gentry?’ -</p> -<p> -‘A’ wasna saying that.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But perhaps you meant it. We do not always say what we mean, do we?’ -said Barclay, raising his eyebrows facetiously. -</p> -<p> -‘Whiles a’ do,’ replied the Queen of the Cadgers, with some truth. -</p> -<p> -‘You speak your mind plainly enough to Mr. Speid, I believe,’ said -Barclay. -</p> -<p> -‘Wha tell’t ye that?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Aha! everything comes round to me in time, I assure you, my good soul; -my business is confidential—very confidential. You see, as a lawyer, I -am concerned with all the estates in this part of the country.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Where the money is, there will the blayguards be gathered together,’ -said Granny, resenting the patronage in his tone. -</p> -<p> -‘Come, come! that is surely rather severe,’ said Barclay, forcing a -smile. ‘You don’t treat the laird in that way when he comes to see you, -I am sure; he would not come so often if you did.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He canna come ower muckle for me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What will you do when he gets a wife? He will not have so much idle -time then.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Maybe she’ll come wi’ him.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-122">[122]</a></span> -‘That’ll depend on what kind of lady she is,’ observed Barclay; ‘she -may be too proud.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Then Whanland ’ll no tak’ her,’ replied Granny decisively. -</p> -<p> -It did not escape Mrs. Stirk that Barclay, who had never before paid -her a visit unconnected with business, had now some special motive for -doing so. It was in her mind to state the fact baldly and gratify -herself with the sight of the result, but she decided to keep this -pleasure until she had discovered something more of his object. She sat -silent, waiting for his next observation. She had known human nature -intimately all her life, and much of it had been spent in driving -bargains. She was not going to speak first. -</p> -<p> -‘Well, every man ought to marry,’ said Barclay at last; ‘don’t you -think so, Mrs. Stirk?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Whiles it’s so easy done,’ said she; ‘ye havna managed it yersel’, Mr. -Barclay.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Nobody would have me, you see,’ said the lawyer, chuckling in the -manner of one who makes so preposterous a joke that he must needs laugh -at it himself. -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’ll just hae to bide as ye are,’ observed Granny consolingly; ‘maybe -it would be ill to change at your time of life.’ -</p> -<p> -Barclay’s laugh died away; he seemed to be no nearer his goal than when -he sat down, and Granny’s generalities were not congenial to him. He -plunged into his subject. -</p> -<p> -‘I think Mr. Speid should marry, at any rate,’ he said; ‘and if report -says true, it will not be long before he does so.’ -</p> -<p> -A gleam came into the old woman’s eye; she could not imagine her -visitor’s motives, but she saw what he wanted, and determined instantly -that he should not get it. Like many others, she had heard the report -that Gilbert Speid was paying his addresses to Lady Eliza Lamont’s -adopted niece, and, in her secret soul, had made up her mind that -Cecilia was not good enough for him. All femininity, in her eyes, -shared that shortcoming. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-123">[123]</a></span> -‘He’ll please himsel’, na doubt,’ she observed. -</p> -<p> -‘But do you think there is any truth in what we hear?’ continued -Barclay. -</p> -<p> -‘A’ll tell ye that when a’ ken what ye’re speirin’ about.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Do you believe that he is courting Miss Raeburn?’ he asked, compelled -to directness. -</p> -<p> -‘There’s jus’ twa that can answer that,’ said Granny, leaning forward -and looking mysterious; ‘ane’s Whanland, and ane’s the lassie.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Everybody says it is true, Mrs. Stirk.’ -</p> -<p> -‘A’body’s naebody,’ said the old woman, ‘an’ you an’ me’s less.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It would be a very suitable match, in my opinion,’ said the lawyer, -trying another tack. -</p> -<p> -‘Aweel, a’ll just tell Whanland ye was speirin’ about it,’ replied -Granny. ‘A’ can easy ask him. He doesna mind what a’ say to him.’ -</p> -<p> -‘No, no, my good woman; don’t trouble yourself to do that! Good Lord! -it does not concern me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘A’ ken that, but there’s no mony folk waits to be concairned when -they’re seeking news. A’ can easy do it, sir. A’ tell ye, he’ll no tak’ -it ill o’ me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Pray do not dream of doing such a thing!’ exclaimed Barclay. ‘Really, -it is of no possible interest to me. Mrs. Stirk, I must forbid you to -say anything to Mr. Speid.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Dod! ye needna fash yersel’; a’ll do it canny-like. “Laird,” a’ll say, -“Mr. Barclay would no have ye think it concairns him, but he’d like -fine to ken if ye’re courtin’ Miss Raeburn. He came here speirin’ at -me,” a’ll say——’ -</p> -<p> -‘You will say nothing of the sort,’ cried he. ‘Why I should even have -mentioned it to you I cannot think.’ -</p> -<p> -‘A’ dinna understand that mysel’,’ replied Granny. -</p> -<p> -All Barclay’s desire for discovery had flown before his keen anxiety to -obliterate the matter from his companion’s mind. He cleared his throat -noisily. -</p> -<p> -‘Let us get to business,’ he said. ‘What I came here for was not to -talk; I have come to ask whether the repairs<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-124">[124]</a></span> in the roof are -satisfactory, and to see what has been done. I have had no time to do -so before. My time is precious.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It’ll do weel eneuch. A’ let Whanland see it when he was in-by,’ -replied she casually. -</p> -<p> -‘It’s my duty to give personal inspection to all repairs in tenants’ -houses,’ said he, getting up. -</p> -<p> -She rose also, and preceded him into the little scullery which opened -off the back of the kitchen; it smelt violently of fish, for Jimmy’s -working clothes hung on a peg by the door. Barclay’s nose wrinkled. -</p> -<p> -She was pointing out the place he wished to see when a step sounded -outside, and a figure passed the window. Someone knocked with the head -of a stick upon the door. -</p> -<p> -‘Yon’s the laird!’ exclaimed Granny, hurrying back into the kitchen. -</p> -<p> -Barclay’s heart was turned to water, for he knew that the old woman was -quite likely to confront him with Speid, and demand in his name an -answer to the questions he had been asking. He turned quickly from the -door leading from scullery to yard, and lifted the latch softly. As he -slipped out he passed Jimmy, who, with loud hissings, was grooming Rob -Roy. -</p> -<p> -‘Tell your grandmother that I am in a hurry,’ he cried. ‘Tell her I am -quite satisfied with the roof.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Sit down, Whanland,’ said Granny, dusting the wooden armchair as -though the contact of the lawyer’s body had made it unfit for Gilbert’s -use; ‘yon man rinnin’ awa’s Mr. Barclay. Dinna tak’ tent o’ him, but -bide ye here till a’ tell ye this.’ -</p> -<p> -The sun was getting low and its slanting rays streamed into the room. -As Gilbert sat down his outline was black against the window. The light -was burning gold behind him, and Granny could not see his face, or she -would have noticed that he looked harassed and tired. -</p> -<p> -It was pure loyalty which had made her repress Barclay, for curiosity -was strong in her, and it had cost her something to forego the pleasure -of extracting what knowledge<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-125">[125]</a></span> she could. But though she had denied -herself this, she meant to speak freely to Gilbert. The lawyer had -escaped through her fingers and robbed her of further sport, but she -was determined that Speid should know of his questions. She resented -them as a great impertinence to him, and as an even greater one to -herself. She was inclined to be suspicious of people in general, and -everything connected with her landlord made her smell the battle afar -off, like Job’s war-horse, and prepare to range herself on his side. -</p> -<p> -‘Laird, are ye to get married?’ said she, seating herself opposite to -the young man. -</p> -<p> -‘Not that I am aware of,’ said Gilbert. ‘Why do you ask, Granny? Do you -think I ought to?’ -</p> -<p> -‘A’ couldna say as to that, but Mr. Barclay says ye should.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What has he to do with it?’ exclaimed Gilbert, his brows lowering. -</p> -<p> -‘Fegs! A’ would hae liked terrible to ask him that mysel’. He came ben -an’ he began, an’ says he, “A’ve heard tell he’s to get married,” says -he; an’ “What do ye think about it?” says he. A’ was that angered, ye -ken, laird, an’ a’ just says till him, “Just wait,” says I, “an’ a’ll -speir at him,” says I, “an’ then ye’ll ken. A’ll tell him ye’re -terrible taken up about it—impident deevil that ye are.” A’ didna say -“deevil” to him, ye ken, laird, but a’ warrant ye a’ thocht it. What -has the likes of him to do wi’ you? Dod! a’ could see by the face o’ -him he wasna pleased when a’ said a’d tell ye. “My good woman,” says -he—here Granny stuck out her lips in imitation of Barclay’s rather -protrusive mouth, “dinna fash yersel’ to do that;” an’ syne when ye -came in-by, he was roond about an’ up the road like an auld dog that’s -got a skelp wi’ a stick.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Did he say anything more?’ inquired Gilbert gravely. -</p> -<p> -‘Ay, did he—but maybe a’ll anger ye, Whanland.’ -</p> -<p> -‘No, no, Granny, you know that. I have a reason for asking. Tell me -everything he said.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’ll see an’ no be angered, laird?’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-126">[126]</a></span> -‘Not with you, Granny, in any case.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Well, he was sayin’ a’body says ye’re courtin’ Miss Raeburn. “Let me -get a sicht o’ the roof,” says he “that’s what a’ come here for.” By -Jarvit! he didna care very muckle about that, for a’ the lang words he -was spittin’ out about it!’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert got up, and stood on the hearth with his head turned from the -old woman. -</p> -<p> -‘A’ve vexed ye,’ she said, when she saw his face again. -</p> -<p> -‘Listen to me, Granny,’ he began slowly; ‘I am very much annoyed that -he—or anyone—should have joined that lady’s name and mine together. -Granny, if you have any friendship for me, if you would do me a -kindness, you will never let a word of what you have heard come from -your lips.’ -</p> -<p> -As he stood looking down on the Queen of the Cadgers the light from the -evening sun was full upon her marked features and the gold ear-rings in -her ears. -</p> -<p> -‘Ye needna fear, Whanland,’ she said simply. -</p> -<p> -‘I will tell you why,’ burst out Gilbert, a sudden impulse to -confidence rushing to his heart like a wave; ‘it is true, Granny—that -is the reason. If I cannot marry her I shall never be happy again.’ -</p> -<p> -Sitting alone that night, he asked himself why he should have spoken. -</p> -<p> -What power, good or evil, is answerable for the sudden gusts of change -that shake us? Why do we sometimes turn traitor to our own character? -How is it that forces, foreign to everything in our nature, will, at -some undreamed-of instant, sweep us from the attitude we have -maintained all our lives? The answer is that our souls are more -sensitive than our brains. -</p> -<p> -But Gilbert, as he thought of his act, did not blame himself. Neither -did eternal wisdom, which watched from afar and saw everything. -</p> - -<hr class="fnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a id="ftnttxt12-1" href="#ftntanc12-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>Endure. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_13"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-127">[127]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_13_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_13_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XIII</span><br /> -<br /> -PLAIN SPEAKING</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -T<small>HE</small> outward signs of Lady Eliza’s wrath endured for a few days after -Crauford’s untimely mistake, and then began to die a lingering death; -but her determination that the enemy should make amends was unabated. -In her heart, she did not believe that Cecilia cared for her suitor, -and that being the case, she knew her well enough to be sure that -nothing would make her marry him. For this she was both glad and sorry. -It would have been easy, as Crauford had applied to her, to discover -the state of the girl’s feelings; and should she find her unwilling to -accept him, convey the fact to Fullarton and so end the matter. -</p> -<p> -But that course was not at all to her mind; Lady Fordyce should, if -Cecilia were so inclined, pay for her words. She should write the -letter her son had undertaken to procure, and he should present it and -be refused. She was thinking of that as she sat on a bench in the -garden at Morphie, and she smiled rather fiercely. -</p> -<p> -The development she promised herself was, perhaps, a little hard on -Crauford, but, as we all know, the sins of the fathers are visited upon -the children, and that did not concern her; written words had the -powerful effect upon her that they have upon most impulsive people. She -was no schemer, and was the last being on earth to sit down -deliberately to invent trouble for anyone; but all the abortive -maternity in her had expended itself upon Cecilia, and to slight her -was the unforgivable sin. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-128">[128]</a></span> -She sat in the sun looking down the garden to the fruit-covered wall, -her shady hat, which, owing, perhaps, to the wig beneath it, was seldom -at the right angle, pulled over her eyes. No other lady of those days -would have worn such headgear, but Lady Eliza made her own terms with -fashion. All the hot part of the afternoon she had been working, for -her garden produce interested her, and she was apt to do a great deal -with her own hands which could more safely have been left to the -gardeners. Cecilia, who was picking fruit, had forced her to rest while -she finished the work, and her figure could be seen a little way off in -a lattice of raspberry-bushes; the elder woman’s eyes followed her -every movement. Whether she married Fordyce or whether she did not, the -bare possibility seemed to bring the eventual separation nearer, and -make it more inevitable. Lady Eliza had longed for such an event, -prayed for it; but now that it had come she dreaded it too much. It was -scarcely ever out of her mind. -</p> -<p> -When her basket was full Cecilia came up the path and set it down -before the bench. ‘There is not room for one more,’ she said lightly. -</p> -<p> -‘Sit down, child,’ said her companion; ‘you look quite tired. We have -got plenty now. That will be—let me see—five baskets. I shall send two -to Miss Robertson—she has only a small raspberry-bed—and the rest are -for jam.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Then perhaps I had better go in and tell the cook, or she will put on -all five to boil.’ -</p> -<p> -‘No, my dear, never mind; stay here. Cecilia, has it occurred to you -that we may not be together very long?’ -</p> -<p> -The idea was so unexpected that Cecilia was startled, and the blood -left her face. For one moment she thought that Lady Eliza must have -some terrible news to break, some suddenly-acquired knowledge of a -mortal disease. -</p> -<p> -‘Why?’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, aunt, what do you mean?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I suppose you will marry, Cecilia. In fact, you must some day.’ -</p> -<p> -The blood came back rather violently. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-129">[129]</a></span> -‘Don’t let us think of that, ma’am,’ she said, turning away her head. -</p> -<p> -‘You do not want to leave me, Cecilia?’ -</p> -<p> -The two women looked into each other’s eyes, and the younger laid her -hand on that of her companion. The other seized it convulsively, a -spasm of pain crossing her features. -</p> -<p> -‘My little girl,’ she said; ‘my darling!’ -</p> -<p> -In those days, endearments, now made ineffective by use and misuse, had -some meaning. Young people addressed their elders as ‘ma’am’ and ‘sir,’ -and equals, who were also intimates, employed much formality of speech. -While this custom was an unquestionable bar to confidence between -parents and children, it emphasized any approach made by such as had -decided to depart from it; also, it bred strange mixtures. To address -those of your acquaintance who had titles as ‘your lordship’ or ‘your -ladyship’ was then no solecism. Women, in speaking to their husbands -or their men friends, would either use their full formal names or -dispense with prefix altogether; and Lady Eliza, whose years of -friendship with Fullarton more than justified his Christian name on her -tongue, called him ‘Fullarton,’ ‘Robert,’ or ‘Mr. Fullarton,’ with the -same ease, while to him she was equally ‘your ladyship’ or ‘Eliza.’ -Miss Hersey Robertson spoke to ‘Gilbert’ in the same breath in which -she addressed ‘Mr. Speid.’ -</p> -<p> -Though Cecilia called her adopted aunt ‘ma’am,’ there existed between -them an intimacy due, not only to love, but to the quality of their -respective natures. The expectancy of youth which had died so hard in -Lady Eliza had been more nearly realized in the loyal and tender -devotion of her adopted niece than in any other circumstance in life. -There was so fine a sympathy in Cecilia, so great a faculty for seizing -the innermost soul of things, that the pathos of her aunt’s character, -its nobility, its foibles, its prejudices, its very absurdities, were -seen by her through the clear light of an understanding love. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-130">[130]</a></span> -‘I suppose you have guessed why Mr. Crauford Fordyce has been here so -much?’ said Lady Eliza in a few minutes. ‘You know his feelings, I am -sure.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He has said nothing to me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But he has spoken to me. We shall have to decide it, Cecilia. You know -it would be a very proper marriage for you, if—if—— He annoyed me -very much the other day, but there is no use in talking about it. -Marry him if you like, my dear—God knows, I ought not to prevent -you. I can’t bear his family, Cecilia, though he is Fullarton’s -nephew—insolent fellow! I have no doubt he is a very worthy young man. -You ought to consider it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What did you say to him, ma’am?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Oh—well, I cannot exactly tell you, my dear. I would not bias you for -the world.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But you promised him nothing, aunt? You do not mean that you wish me -to accept him?’ exclaimed Cecilia, growing pale again. -</p> -<p> -‘You are to do what you please. I have no doubt he will have the face -to come again. I wish you were settled.’ -</p> -<p> -‘If he were the only man in the world, I would not marry him,’ said the -girl firmly. -</p> -<p> -‘Thank Heaven, Cecilia! What enormous front teeth he has—they are like -family tombstones. Take the raspberries to the cook, my dear; I am so -happy.’ -</p> -<p> -As Cecilia went into the house a man who had ridden up to the stable -and left his horse there entered the garden. Fullarton’s shadow lay -across the path, and Lady Eliza looked up to find him standing by her. -Her thoughts had been far away, but she came back to the present with a -thrill. He took a letter from his pocket, and handed it to her, -smiling. -</p> -<p> -‘This is from my sister,’ he said. ‘If you knew her as well as I do you -would understand that it has taken us some trouble to get it. But here -it is. Be lenient, Eliza.’ -</p> -<p> -Robert, if he had given himself the gratification of teasing his -nephew, had yet expressed himself willing to take the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-131">[131]</a></span> part of Noah’s -dove, and go out across the troubled waters to look for a piece of dry -land and an olive-branch. His task had not been an easy one at first, -and he had been obliged to make a personal matter of it before he could -smooth the path of the unlucky lover. But his appeal was one which -could not fail, and, as a concession to himself, his friend had -consented to look with favour upon Crauford, should he return bringing -the letter she demanded. -</p> -<p> -Having disposed of one difficulty, Fullarton found that his good -offices were not to end; he was allowed no rest until he sat down with -his pen to bring his sister, Lady Fordyce, to a more reasonable point -of view and a suitable expression of it. As he had expected, she proved -far more obdurate than Lady Eliza; for her there was no glamour round -him to ornament his requests. ‘God gave you friends, and the devil gave -you relations,’ says the proverb, but it does not go on to say which -power gave a man the woman who loves him. Perhaps it is sometimes one -and sometimes the other. Be that as it may, though Robert returned -successful from Morphie, it took him more time and pains to deal with -Lady Fordyce than he had ever thought to expend on anybody. -</p> -<p> -He sat down upon the bench while Lady Eliza drew off her gloves and -began to break the seal with her tapered fingers. He wondered, as he -had done many times, at their whiteness and the beauty of their shape. -</p> -<p> -‘You have the most lovely hands in the world, my lady,’ he said at -last; ‘some of the hands in Vandyke’s portraits are like them, but no -others.’ -</p> -<p> -He was much relieved by having finished his share in a business which -had begun to weary him, and his spirits were happily attuned. She -blushed up to the edge of her wig; in all her life he had never said -such a thing to her. Her fingers shook so that she could hardly open -the letter. She gave it to him. -</p> -<p> -‘Open it,’ she said; ‘my hands are stiff with picking fruit.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-132">[132]</a></span> -He took it complacently and spread it out before her. -</p> -<p> -It was Crauford’s distressed appeals rather than her brother’s counsels -which had moved Lady Fordyce. She was really fond of her son, and, in -company with almost every mother who has children of both sexes, -reserved her daughters as receptacles for the overflowings of her -temper; they were the hills that attract the thunderstorms from the -plain. Crauford was the plain, and Sir Thomas represented sometimes one -of these natural objects and sometimes the other. Of late the whole -household had been one long chain of mountains. -</p> -<p> -She was unaware of what had happened to her former letter; uncle and -nephew had agreed that it was unnecessary to inform her of it, and -Robert had merely explained that Crauford would not be suffered by Lady -Eliza to approach his divinity without the recommendation of her -special approval. It was a happy way of putting it. -</p> -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -‘M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAR</small> C<small>RAUFORD</small>, -</p> -<p class="first_para nobottom"> -‘I trust that I, <i>of all people</i>, understand that it is not <i>wealth and -riches</i> which <i>make true happiness</i>, and I shall be glad if you will -assure Lady Eliza Lamont that you have <i>my consent in addressing</i> the -young lady who is <i>under her protection.</i> I shall hope to become -acquainted with her before she <i>enters our family</i>, and also with her -ladyship. -</p> -<p class="closing5"> -‘I remain, my dear Crauford, -</p> -<p class="closing4"> -‘Your affectionate mother, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -‘L<small>OUISA</small> C<small>HARLOTTE</small> F<small>ORDYCE</small>. -</p> -<p> -‘P.S.—When do you <i>intend to return home?</i>’ -</p> -</div> -<p class="pad_top"> -She ran her eyes over the paper and returned it to Fullarton. -</p> -<p> -‘From my sister that is a great deal,’ he observed; ‘more than you can -imagine. She has always been a difficulty. As children we suffered from -her, for she was the eldest, and my life was made hard by her when I -was a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-133">[133]</a></span> little boy. Thomas Fordyce has had some experiences, I fancy.’ -</p> -<p> -‘And this is what you propose for Cecilia?’ exclaimed Lady Eliza. -</p> -<p> -‘My dear friend, they would not live together; Crauford will take care -of that.’ -</p> -<p> -‘And Cecilia too. She will never marry him, Fullarton. She has told me -so already. I should like to see Lady Fordyce’s face when she hears -that he has been refused!’ she burst out. -</p> -<p> -Fullarton stared. -</p> -<p> -‘I think your ladyship might have spared me all this trouble,’ he said, -frowning; ‘you are making me look like a fool!’ -</p> -<p> -‘But I only asked her to-day,’ replied she, her warmth fading, ‘not an -hour ago—not five minutes. I had meant to say nothing, and let him be -refused, but you can tell him, Fullarton—tell him it is no use.’ -</p> -<p> -A peculiar smile was on his face. -</p> -<p> -‘My dear Eliza,’ he said, ‘Crauford is probably on his way here now. I -undertook to bring you the letter and he is to follow it. I left him -choosing a waistcoat to propose in.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I am sorry,’ said Lady Eliza, too much cast down by his frown to be -amused at this picture. -</p> -<p> -‘Well, what of it?’ he said, rather sourly. ‘He must learn his hard -lessons like the rest of the world; there are enough of them and to -spare for everyone.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You are right,’ she replied, ‘terribly right.’ -</p> -<p> -He looked at her critically. -</p> -<p> -‘What can you have to complain of? If anyone is fortunate, surely you -are. You are your own mistress, you are well enough off to lead the -life you choose, you have a charming companion, many friends——’ -</p> -<p> -‘Have I? I did not know that. Who are they?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Well, if there are few, it is your own choice. Those you possess are -devoted to you. Look at myself, for instance; have I not been your firm -friend for years?’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-134">[134]</a></span> -‘You have indeed,’ she said huskily. -</p> -<p> -‘There are experiences in life which mercifully have been spared you, -Eliza. These are the things which make the real tragedies, the things -which may go on before the eyes of our neighbours without their seeing -anything of them. I would rather die to-morrow than live my life over -again. You know I speak truly; I know that you know; you made me -understand that one day.’ -</p> -<p> -She had turned away during his speech, for she could not trust her -face, but at these last words she looked round. -</p> -<p> -‘I have never forgiven myself for the pain I caused you,’ she said; ‘I -have never got over that. I am so rough—I know it—have you forgiven -me, Robert?’ -</p> -<p> -‘It took me a little time, but I have done it,’ replied he, with an -approving glance at the generosity he saw in his own heart. -</p> -<p> -‘I behaved cruelly—cruelly,’ she said. -</p> -<p> -‘Forget it,’ said Fullarton; ‘let us only remember what has been -pleasant in our companionship. Do you know, my lady, years ago I was -fool enough to imagine myself in love with you? You never knew it, and -I soon saw my folly; mercifully, before you discovered it. We should -have been as wretched in marriage as we have been happy in friendship. -We should never have suited each other.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What brought you to your senses?’ inquired Lady Eliza with a laugh. -She was in such agony of heart that speech or silence, tears or -laughter, seemed all immaterial, all component parts of one -overwhelming moment. -</p> -<p> -He looked as a man looks who finds himself driven into a <i>cul-de-sac.</i> -</p> -<p> -‘It was—she,’ said Lady Eliza. ‘Don’t think I blame you, Fullarton.’ -</p> -<p> -She could say that to him, but, as she thought of the woman in her -grave, she pressed her hands together till the nails cut through the -skin. -</p> -<p> -At this moment Crauford, in the waistcoat he had selected, came through -the garden door. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-135">[135]</a></span> -As he stood before Lady Eliza the repressed feeling upon her face was -so strong that he did not fail to notice it, but his observation was -due to the fact that he saw his mother’s letter in Fullarton’s hand; -that, of course, was the cause of her agitation, he told himself. But -where was Cecilia? He looked round the garden. -</p> -<p> -His civil, shadeless presence irritated Lady Eliza unspeakably as he -stood talking to her, evidently deterred by his uncle’s proximity from -mentioning the subject uppermost in his mind. He possessed the fell -talent for silently emphasizing any slight moment of embarrassment. -Robert watched him with grim amusement, too indolent to move away. -Fordyce was like a picture-book to him. -</p> -<p> -The little group was broken up by Cecilia’s return; Crauford went -forward to meet her, and pompously relieved her of the two garden -baskets she carried. This act of politeness was tinged with distress at -the sight of the future Lady Fordyce burdened with such things. -</p> -<p> -‘Let us go to the house,’ exclaimed Lady Eliza, rising from her bench. -If something were not done to facilitate Crauford’s proposal she would -never be rid of him, never at leisure to reason with her aching heart -in solitude. When would the afternoon end? She even longed for -Fullarton to go. What he had said to her was no new thing; she had -known it all, all before. But the words had fallen like blows, and, -like an animal hurt, she longed to slink away and hide her pain. -</p> -<p> -‘Put the baskets in the tool-house, Cecilia. Fullarton, come away; we -will go in.’ -</p> -<p> -The tool-house stood at the further end of the garden, outside the -ivy-covered wall, and Crauford was glad of the chance given him of -accompanying Cecilia, though he felt the difficulty of approaching -affairs of the heart with a garden basket in either hand. He walked -humbly beside her. She put the baskets away and turned the key on them. -</p> -<p> -‘May I ask for a few minutes, Miss Raeburn?’ he began.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-136">[136]</a></span> ‘I have come -here for a serious purpose. My uncle is the bearer of a letter to her -ladyship. It is from my mother, and is written in corroboration of one -which I lately received from my father. I had written to ask their -approval of a step—a very important step—which I contemplate. Miss -Raeburn—or may I say Cecilia?—it concerns yourself.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Really, sir?’ said Cecilia, the cheerfulness of despair in her voice. -</p> -<p> -‘Yes, yourself. No young lady I have ever seen has so roused my -admiration—my affection, I may say. I have made up my mind on that -subject. Do not turn away, Miss Raeburn; it is quite true, believe me. -My happiness is involved. To-morrow I shall hope to inform my parents -that you will be my wife.’ -</p> -<p> -He stopped in the path and would have taken her hand. She stepped back. -</p> -<p> -‘I cannot,’ she said. ‘I am sorry, but I cannot.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You cannot!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why?’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is impossible, sir, really.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But you have Lady Eliza’s permission. She told me so herself. This is -absurd, Miss Raeburn, and you are distressing me infinitely.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Please put it out of your head, Mr. Fordyce. I cannot do it; there is -no use in thinking of it. I do not want to hurt you, but it is quite -impossible—quite.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But why—why?’ he exclaimed. He looked bewildered. -</p> -<p> -Cecilia’s brows drew together imperceptibly. -</p> -<p> -‘I do not care for you,’ she said; ‘you force me to speak in this way. -I do not love you in the least.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But what is there that you object to in me?’ he cried. ‘Surely you -understand that my father, in consenting, is ready to establish me very -well. I am the eldest son, Miss Raeburn.’ -</p> -<p> -Cecilia’s pale face was set, and her chin rose a little higher at each -word. -</p> -<p> -‘That is nothing to me,’ she replied; ‘it does not concern<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-137">[137]</a></span> me. I do -not care what your prospects are. I thank you very much for -your—civility, but I refuse.’ -</p> -<p> -He was at a loss for words; he felt like a man dealing with a mad -person, one to whom the very rudiments of reason and conduct seemed to -convey nothing. But the flagrant absurdity of her attitude gave him -hope; there were some things too monstrous for reality. -</p> -<p> -‘I will give you time to think it over,’ he said at last. -</p> -<p> -‘That is quite useless. My answer is ready now.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But what can be your objection?’ he broke out. ‘What do you want, what -do you expect, that I cannot give you?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I want a husband whom I can love,’ she replied, sharply. ‘I have told -you that I do not care for you, sir. Let that be the end.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But love would come after, Miss Raeburn; I have heard that often. It -always does with a woman; you would learn to love me.’ -</p> -<p> -He stopped and looked at her. Through her growing exasperation his very -fatuity, as he stood there, almost touched her. To her mind he was so -unfit an object for the love he spoke of, parrot-fashion, so ignorant -of realities. A man cannot understand things for which he has been -denied the capacity; like Lady Eliza, in the midst of her anger, she -could see the piteous side of him and be broad-minded enough to realize -the pathos of limitation. -</p> -<p> -‘Don’t think I wish to hurt you,’ she said gently, ‘but do not allow -yourself to hope for anything. I could never love you—not then any more -than now. I am honestly sorry to give you pain.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Then why do you do so?’ he asked pettishly. -</p> -<p> -She almost laughed; his attitude was invincible. -</p> -<p> -‘You will regret it some day,’ he said. -</p> -<p> -‘But <i>you</i> never will; you will be very happy one day with someone else -who finds importance in the same things as you do. I should never suit -you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Not suit me? Why not? You do yourself injustice.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-138">[138]</a></span> -‘But it is true, sir.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You are fitted for the very highest position,’ he said, with -solemnity. -</p> -<p class="break2"> -That night Cecilia sat in her room at the open window. Her dark hair -fell in a long, thick rope almost to the ground as she leaned her arms -on the sill, and looked out over the dew. High in the sky the moon -sailed, the irresponsible face on her disc set above the trailing -fragments of cloud. From fields near the coast the low whistle of -plover talking came through the silence, and a night-jar shrieked -suddenly from the belt of trees near the dovecot. She turned her face -towards the sound, and saw in its shadow a piece of stonework -glimmering in the white light. To her mind’s eye appeared the whole -wall in a flare of torchlight, and a figure standing in front of it, -panting, straight and tense, with a red stain on brow and cheek. She -had told Crauford Fordyce that she could not marry him because she did -not love him, and, assuredly, she had not lied. She had spoken the -truth, but was it the whole truth? -</p> -<p> -Out there, far over the woods, lay Whanland, with the roar of the -incoming sea sending its never-ceasing voice across the sandhills, and -the roll of its white foam crawling round the skirts of the land. It -was as though that sea-voice, which she could not hear, but had known -for years, were crying to her from the distant coast. It troubled her; -why, she knew not. In all the space of night she was so small, and life -was vast. She had been completely capable of dealing with her own -difficulties during the day, of choosing her path, of taking or leaving -what she chose. Now she felt suddenly weak in spirit. A sense of -misgiving took her, surrounded as she was by the repose of mighty -forces greater than herself, greater, more eternal, more changeless -than humanity. She laid her head upon her arms, and rested so till the -sound of midnight rang from the tongue of the stable-clock across the -sleeping house. The plover had ceased their talking. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-139">[139]</a></span> -She drew down the blind and stretched herself among the dim curtains of -the bed, but, though she closed her eyes, she lay in a kind of waking -trance till morning; and when, at last, she fell asleep, her -consciousness was filled by the monotony of rolling waters and the roar -of the seas by Whanland. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_14"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-140">[140]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_14_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_14_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XIV</span><br /> -<br /> -STORM AND BROWN SILK</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -A<small>GNETA</small> and Mary Fordyce were in the drawing-room of Fordyce Castle, an -immensely solemn apartment rendered more so by the blinds which were -drawn half-mast high in obedience to an order from Lady Fordyce. She -was economical, and the carpet was much too expensive to be looked upon -by the sun. In the semi-darkness which this induced the two girls were -busy, one with her singing, which she was practising, and the other -with the tambour-work she loved. Mary, the worker, was obliged to sit -as close as possible to the window in order to get light by which to -ply her needle. Agneta’s voice rose in those desolate screams which are -the exclusive privilege of the singer practising, and for the emitting -of which any other person would justly be punished. Though thin, she -was very like Crauford, with the same fresh colour and the same large -front teeth, now liberally displayed by her occupation. Mary was -short-sighted and a little round-shouldered from much stooping over her -work-frame. -</p> -<p> -‘I am afraid from what mamma has heard that Lady Eliza Lamont is not a -very nice person; so eccentric and unfeminine, she said,’ observed -Mary. -</p> -<p> -‘Perhaps Miss Raeburn is the same. I am afraid poor Crauford is -throwing himself away. A-a-ah-ah!’ replied Agneta, leaping an octave as -though it were a fence. -</p> -<p> -‘He has never answered your letter, Agneta. I really wonder what she is -like. Mamma only hopes she is presentable;<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-141">[141]</a></span> one can never trust a young -man’s description of the person he is in love with, she says.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Oh-h-h-oh! A-a-a-ah! I shall be very curious to see her, shan’t you, -Mary?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I suppose she will be invited here soon. It would be funny if she were -here with Lady Maria, would it not?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Mamma says it is all Uncle Fullarton’s doing, because he is so much -mixed up with that dreadful Lady Eliza. Ah-a-a-a-ah!’ -</p> -<p> -‘I know; she has always thought that very undesirable, she says. I -wonder how she has consented to write; I am sure she would never have -done it for anyone but Crauford.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I wonder what it is like to have a sister-in-law?’ said Agneta, -pausing in her shrieks. -</p> -<p> -‘It would depend very much what kind of person she is,’ replied her -sister, with some show of sense. -</p> -<p> -‘Yes, but should we be allowed to go anywhere with her? Perhaps she -would take us out,’ said Agneta. -</p> -<p> -Lady Fordyce was one of those mothers who find it unnecessary to take -their daughters into society, and yet confidently expect them to marry -well. Though Agneta, the youngest, was twenty-five, and Mary was past -thirty, Lady Maria Milwright was the only young person who had ever -stayed in the house. A couple of stiff parties were given every year, -and, when there was a county ball, the Misses Fordyce were duly driven -to it, each in a new dress made for the occasion, to stand one on -either side of their mother’s chair during the greater part of the -evening. Had anyone suggested to Lady Fordyce that Mary was an old maid -and that Agneta would soon become one, she would have been immoderately -angry. ‘When my daughters are married I shall give up the world -altogether,’ she would sometimes say; and her hearer would laugh in his -sleeve; first, at the thought of any connection between Lady Fordyce -and the world, and secondly, at the thought of any connection between -the Misses Fordyce and matrimony.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-142">[142]</a></span> Had they been houris of Paradise -their chances would have been small, and unfortunately, they were -rather plain. -</p> -<p> -‘I should think Crauford will soon come back,’ continued Agneta, as she -put away her music. ‘I shall ask him all sorts of questions.’ -</p> -<p> -To do Fordyce justice, he was a kind brother in an ordinary way, and -had often stood between his sisters and the maternal displeasure when -times were precarious. He did not consider them of much importance, -save as members of his own family, but he would throw them small -benefits now and again with the tolerant indulgence he might have shown -in throwing a morsel to a pet animal. -</p> -<p> -‘He has never said whether she is pretty,’ observed Mary reflectively. -‘He always calls her “ladylike,” and I don’t think mamma believes him; -but, after all, she <i>may</i> be, Agneta.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Mamma says she must have had a deplorable bringing-up with Lady -Eliza.’ -</p> -<p> -‘If she comes we must do what we can to polish her,’ rejoined Mary, who -was inclined to take herself seriously; ‘no doubt there are a lot of -little things we could show her—how to do her hair and things like -that. I dare say she is not so bad.’ -</p> -<p> -Agneta pursed up her lips and looked severe. -</p> -<p> -‘I think it is a great pity he did not choose Lady Maria. Of course, -she is not at all pretty, but mamma says it is nonsense to think about -such things. He has been very foolish.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I really can hardly see this dull day,’ sighed Mary. ‘I wonder if I -might pull up the blind ever so little. You see, mamma has made a -pencil-mark on all the sashes to show the housemaids where the end of -the blind is to come, and I am afraid to raise it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘There is no sun,’ observed her sister; ‘I think you might do it.’ -</p> -<p> -Mary rose from her frame, but, as she did so, a step was<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-143">[143]</a></span> heard outside -which sent her flying back to her place, and her mother entered. -</p> -<p> -Lady Fordyce was a short, stout woman, whose nose and forehead made one -perpendicular outline without any depression between the brows. Her -eyes were prominent and rather like marbles; in her youth she had been -called handsome. She had married late in life, and was now well over -sixty, and her neck had shortened with advancing years; her very tight -brown silk body compressed a figure almost distressingly ample for her -age. -</p> -<p> -She installed herself in a chair and bade her daughter continue -practising. -</p> -<p> -‘I have practised an hour and my music is put away,’ said Agneta. ‘We -were talking about Miss Raeburn. Will she come here, ma’am?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I suppose so,’ said Lady Fordyce; ‘but whether you will see much of -her depends upon whether I consider her desirable company for you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘She may be nice after all,’ hazarded Mary. -</p> -<p> -‘I trust that I am a fit judge of what a young lady should be,’ replied -her mother. ‘As Lady Eliza Lamont spends most of her time in the -stable, she is hardly the person to form my daughter-in-law -successfully.’ -</p> -<p> -‘She is Lady Eliza’s niece, ma’am, is she not?’ -</p> -<p> -‘She is a relation—a poor relation, and no doubt gets some sort of -salary for attending to her ladyship. I must say a paid companion is -<i>scarcely</i> the choice that I should have made for Crauford. What a -chance for her!’ -</p> -<p> -‘She is most fortunate,’ echoed Agneta. -</p> -<p> -‘Fortunate? A little more than fortunate, I should think! Adventuresses -are more often called skilful than fortunate. Poor, poor boy!’ -</p> -<p> -With this remark Lady Fordyce opened an account-book which lay on her -lap, and began to look over its items. The girls were silent. -</p> -<p> -Mary stitched on, and Agneta spread out some music she was copying; the -leaden cloud which hung over domestic<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-144">[144]</a></span> life at Fordyce Castle had -settled down upon the morning when there was a sound of arrival in the -hall outside. No bell had rung, and the sisters, astonished, suspended -their respective employments and opened their mouths. Though there were -things they proposed to teach Cecilia, their ways were not always -decorative. Lady Fordyce, who was a little deaf, read her account-book -undisturbed, and, when the door opened to admit Crauford, it slid off -her brown silk knee like an avalanche. -</p> -<p> -‘I hardly expected you would take my hint so quickly,’ she said -graciously, when the necessary embraces were over. -</p> -<p> -Crauford’s face, not usually complicated in expression, was a curious -study; solemnity, regret, a sense of injury, a sense of importance, -struggled on it, and he cleared his throat faintly now and then, as -some people will when they are ill at ease. -</p> -<p> -‘I am sorry to tell you, ma’am, that your trouble has been useless. I -have had a great disappointment—a very great one: Miss Raeburn has -refused my offer.’ -</p> -<p> -He looked round at his sisters as though appealing to them to -expostulate with Providence. -</p> -<p> -‘What?’ cried his mother. -</p> -<p> -‘She has refused,’ repeated Crauford. -</p> -<p> -‘<i>Refused?</i> Oh, my dear boy, it is impossible! <i>I</i> refuse—I refuse to -believe it! Nonsense, my dear Crauford! It is unheard of!’ -</p> -<p> -Mary, who had never taken her eyes off her brother’s face, laid down -her needle and came forward. -</p> -<p> -‘Sit down!’ thundered her mother. ‘Sit down, and go on with your work! -Or you can leave the room, you and Agneta. There is nothing so -detestable as curiosity. Leave the room this moment!’ -</p> -<p> -Dreadfully disappointed, they obeyed. Though it was safer in the hall, -the other side of the door was far more entertaining. -</p> -<p> -Crauford moved uneasily about; he certainly was not to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-145">[145]</a></span> blame for what -had happened, but the two lightning-conductors had gone, and the clouds -looked black around him. Also he had no tact. -</p> -<p> -‘You need not be annoyed, ma’am,’ he began; ‘you did not approve of my -choice.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Happy as I am to see you deterred from such a fatal step, I cannot -submit to the indignity to which you—and we all—have been subjected,’ -said his mother. ‘That a <i>paid companion</i> should have refused <i>my son</i> -is one of those things I find it hard to accept.’ -</p> -<p> -‘She may yet change,’ replied he. ‘I told her I should give her time.’ -</p> -<p> -Lady Fordyce’s prominent eyes were fixed. ‘Do you mean to tell me that -you will ask her again? That you will so far degrade yourself as to -make another offer?’ -</p> -<p> -He made a sign of assent. -</p> -<p> -She threw up her hands. ‘What have I done?’ she exclaimed, addressing -an imaginary listener—‘what have I done that my own children should -turn against me? When have I failed in my duty towards them? Have I -ever thought of myself? Have I ever failed to sacrifice myself where -their interests were concerned?’ -</p> -<p> -She turned suddenly on Crauford. -</p> -<p> -‘No, never,’ he murmured. -</p> -<p> -During her life Lady Fordyce had seldom bestirred herself for anyone, -but habit had made everybody in the house perjure themselves at moments -like the present. Declamation was one of her trump-cards; besides, her -doctor had once hinted that apoplexy was not an impossible event. -</p> -<p> -‘As a mother, I have surely <i>some</i> right to consideration. I do not say -much—I trust I understand these modern times too well for that—but I -beg you will spare us further mortification. Are there no young ladies -of suitable position that you must set your heart upon this -charity-girl of Lady Eliza Lamont’s?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I don’t understand why you should be so much set<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-146">[146]</a></span> against her, ma’am; -if you only saw Miss Raeburn you would be surprised.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I have <i>no doubt</i> that I should!’ exclaimed his mother in a sarcastic -voice; ‘indeed, I have no doubt that I should!’ -</p> -<p> -Like violin playing, sarcasm is a thing which must be either masterly -or deplorable, but she was one of the many from whom this truth is -hidden. -</p> -<p> -‘It would be a good thing if my sisters had one half of her looks or -manners,’ retorted he, goaded by her tone. ‘Beside her, Agneta and Mary -would look like dairy-maids.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Am I to sit here and hear my own daughters abused and vilified?’ -exclaimed Lady Fordyce, rising and walking about. ‘You have indeed -profited by your stay among those people! I hope you are satisfied. I -hope you have done enough to pain me. I hope you will never live to -repent the way in which you have insulted me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘My dear mother, pray, pray be calmer. What am I doing that you should -be in this state?’ -</p> -<p> -‘You have called your sisters dairy-maids—<i>servants!</i> You are throwing -yourself away upon this worthless creature who has been trying all the -time to entrap you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘How can you say such a thing, ma’am, when I tell you that she has -refused me? Not that I mean to accept it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Refused you, indeed! I tell you I do not believe it; she merely wants -to draw you on. I ask you, <i>is it likely</i> that a girl who has not a -penny in the world would refuse such prospects? Pshaw!’ cried Lady -Fordyce, with all the cheap sense of one who knows nothing of the -varieties of human character. -</p> -<p> -‘I wish you could see her,’ sighed her son. -</p> -<p> -‘If you persist in your folly I shall no doubt have that felicity in -time.’ -</p> -<p> -‘My father has not taken this view,’ said Crauford. ‘You are very hard -upon me, ma’am.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Let me remind you that you have shown no consideration <i>for me</i> -throughout the whole matter,’ she replied. ‘I, of course, come last. I -ask you again, will you be guided<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-147">[147]</a></span> by one who is more fitted to judge -than you can be, and put this unjustifiable marriage out of your head?’ -</p> -<p> -She stood waiting; their eyes met, and he cast his down. -</p> -<p> -‘I must try again,’ he said with ineffective tenacity. -</p> -<p> -She turned from him and left the room, brown silk, account-book, and -all. -</p> -<p> -He was accustomed to scenes like the one he had just experienced, but -generally it was someone else who played the part of victim, not -himself. For a week or more the world had used him very badly; his -visit to Lady Eliza had been startling, his interview with Cecilia -humiliating, and his reception by his mother terrific; even his uncle -had maintained an attitude towards him that he could not understand. -His thoughts went back to Barclay, the one person who seemed to see him -in his true colours, and he longed for him as a man who has had an -accident longs for the surgeon to come and bind his wounds. He had left -Fullarton hurriedly and now he was sorry for what he had done. -</p> -<p> -He was certainly not going to accept Cecilia’s mad folly as final; his -mother had rated him for his want of pride in not abandoning his suit, -but, had she understood him, she would have known that it was his pride -which forbade him to relinquish it, and his vanity which assured him -that he must be successful in the end. Each man’s pride is a -differently constructed article, while each man is certain that his -private possession is the only genuine kind existing. -</p> -<p> -Lady Fordyce’s own pride had received a rude blow, and she looked upon -her brother as the director of it; he it was who had thrown her son -into the society of the adventuress, he it was who had persuaded her to -give unwilling countenance to what she disapproved. From their very -infancy he had gone contrary to her. As a little boy he had roused her -impatience over every game or task that they had shared. There had -always been something in him which she disliked and which eluded her, -and one of her greatest grievances against him had been her own<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-148">[148]</a></span> -inability to upset his temper. She was anything but a clever woman, and -she knew that, though his character was weaker than her own, his -understanding was stronger. Brother and sister, never alike, had grown -more unlike with the years; his inner life had bred a semi-cynical and -indolent toleration in him, and her ceaseless worldly prosperity had -brought out the arrogance of her nature and developed a vulgarity which -revolted Robert. -</p> -<p> -As her brown silk dress rustled up the staircase, her son, driven into -an unwonted rebellion, made up his mind that, having seen his father, -he would depart as soon as he could decide where to go. He hankered -after Kaims. He had written to Barclay, bidding his ally farewell and -telling him of Cecilia’s refusal, and the ally had written a soothing -reply. He praised his determination to continue his suit, assured him -of his willingness to keep him acquainted with anything bearing on his -interests, and, finally, begged him to remember that, at any time or -season, however unpropitious, a room in his house would be at his -disposal. Protestations of an admiring friendship closed the letter. -</p> -<p> -When the rustling was over, and he heard his mother’s door close, he -left the drawing-room with the determination of accepting the lawyer’s -offer; while he had sense enough to see that there was something -undignified in such a swift return to the neighbourhood of Morphie, he -yet so longed for the balm in Gilead that he made up his mind to brave -the opinion of Fullarton, should he meet him. He would only spend a few -quiet days in Kaims and then betake himself in some other direction. -Fordyce Castle had grown intolerable. -</p> -<p> -While he pondered these things, Agneta, at her mother’s dictation, was -writing to Lady Milborough to ask if her daughter Maria might hasten -her promised visit, and pay it as soon as possible, instead of waiting -until the autumn. -</p> -<p> -‘The girls were so impatient,’ said Lady Fordyce; ‘and it would be such -a kindness on Lady Milborough’s part if she could be prevailed upon to -spare her dear Maria.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-149">[149]</a></span> -Thus two letters were dispatched; one by Crauford unknown to his -mother, and one by his mother unknown to Crauford. It chanced that the -two answers arrived each on the same day. -</p> -<p> -Lady Fordyce’s serenity was somewhat restored by the one which found -its way into her hands. Her correspondent expressed herself much -gratified by the appreciation shown of her Maria. Her daughter, under -the care of an elderly maid, should start immediately. -</p> -<p> -‘We shall all be pleased to welcome Lady Maria, shall we not, -Crauford?’ said Lady Fordyce, as the family were gathered round the -dinner-table. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -‘I shall not be here, ma’am,’ replied her son, looking up from his veal -pie. ‘I am starting on a visit the day after to-morrow.’ -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_15"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-150">[150]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_15_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_15_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XV</span><br /> -<br /> -THE THIRD VOICE</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -S<small>PEID</small> stood at the corner of a field, in the place from which he had -looked up the river with Barclay on the day of his arrival. His steps -were now often turned in that direction, for the line of the Morphie -woods acted as a magnet to his gaze. Since the day he had spoken so -freely to Granny Stirk he had not once met Cecilia, and he was weary. -It was since he had last seen her that he had discovered his own heart. -</p> -<p> -Away where the Lour lost itself in the rich land, was the casket that -held the jewel he coveted. He put his hand up to his cheek-bone. He was -glad that he would carry that scar on it to his death, for it was an -eternal reminder of the night when he had first beheld her under the -branches, as they walked in the torchlight to Morphie House. He had not -been able to examine her face till it looked into his own in the mirror -as she put the plaster on his cheek. That was a moment which he had -gone over, again and again, in his mind. It is one of the strangest -things in life that we do not recognise its turning-points till we have -passed them. -</p> -<p> -The white cottage which Barclay had pointed out to him as the march of -his own property was a light spot in the afternoon sunshine, and the -shadows were creeping from under the high wooded banks across the -river’s bed. Beyond it the Morphie water began. By reason of the wide -curves made by the road, the way to Morphie House<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-151">[151]</a></span> was longer on the -turnpike than by the path at the water-side. He crossed the fence and -went down to the Lour, striking it just above the bridge. To follow its -bank up to those woods would bring him nearer to her, even if he could -not see her. It was some weeks since he had been to Morphie, and he had -not arrived at such terms with Lady Eliza as should, to his mind, -warrant his going there uninvited. Many and many times he had thought -of writing to Cecilia and ending the strain of suspense in which he -lived, once and for all; but he had lacked courage, and he was afraid; -afraid of what his own state of mind would be when he had sent the -letter and was awaiting its answer. How could he convince her of all he -felt in a letter? He could not risk it. -</p> -<p> -He looked round at the great, eight-spanned bridge which carried the -road high over his head, and down, between the arches, to the ribbon of -water winding out to sea; to the cliffs above that grave lying in the -corner of the kirkyard-wall; to the beeches of Whanland covering the -bank a hundred yards from where he stood. He had come to love them all. -All that had seemed uncouth, uncongenial to him, had fallen into its -place, and an affinity with the woods and the wide fields, with the -grey sea-line and the sand-hills, had entered into him. He had thought -to miss the glory of the South when he left Spain, months ago, but now -he cared no more for Spain. This misty angle of the East Coast, -conveying nothing to the casual eye in search of more obvious beauty, -had laid its iron hand on him, as it will lay it on all sojourners, and -blinded him to everything but its enduring and melancholy charm. There -are many, since Gilbert’s day, who have come to the country in which he -lived and loved and wandered, driven by some outside circumstance and -bewailing their heavy fate, who have asked nothing better than to die -in it. And now, for him, from this mist of association, from this -atmosphere of spirit-haunted land and sea, had risen the star of life. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-152">[152]</a></span> -He crossed the march of Whanland by green places where cattle stood -flicking the flies, and went onwards, admiring the swaying heads of -mauve scabious and the tall, cream-pink valerian that brushed him as he -passed. He did not so much as know their names, but he knew that the -world grew more beautiful with each step that brought him nearer to -Morphie. -</p> -<p> -The sun was beginning to decline as he stood half a mile below the -house, and the woods were dark above his head. A few moss-covered -boulders lay in the path and the alders which grew, with their roots -almost in the water, seemed to have stepped ashore to form a thicket -through which his way ran. The twigs touched his face as he pushed -through them. -</p> -<p> -On the further side stood Cecilia, a few paces in front of him, at the -edge of the river. She had heard the footsteps, and was looking -straight at him as he emerged. At the sight of her face he knew, as -surely as if he had been told it, that she was thinking of him. -</p> -<p> -They stood side by side in a pregnant silence through which that third -voice, present with every pair of lovers who meet alone, cried aloud to -both. -</p> -<p> -‘I did not expect to see you here, sir,’ she began. -</p> -<p> -(‘He has come because he cannot keep away; he has come because the very -sight of the trees that surround your home have a glamour for him; -because there is no peace any more for him, day nor night,’ said the -voice to her.) -</p> -<p> -(‘She has come here to think of you, to calm her heart, to tell herself -that you are not, and never can be, anything to her, and then to -contradict her own words,’ it cried to him.) -</p> -<p> -He could not reply; the third voice was too loud. -</p> -<p> -‘Let us go on a little way,’ said Cecilia. -</p> -<p> -Her lips would scarcely move, and the voice and the beating of her -heart was stopping her breath. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert turned, and they went through the alders, he holding back the -twigs for her to pass. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-153">[153]</a></span> -(‘He loves you! he loves you! he loves you!’ cried the voice.) -</p> -<p> -As she brushed past him through the narrow way her nearness seemed to -make the scar on his face throb, and bring again to him the thrill of -her fingers upon his cheek. He could bear it no more. They were at the -end of the thicket, and, as she stepped out of it in front of him, he -sprang after her, catching her in his arms. -</p> -<p> -‘Cecilia!’ he said, almost in a whisper. -</p> -<p> -He had grown white. -</p> -<p> -She drew herself away with an impulse which her womanhood made natural. -He followed her fiercely, on his face the set look of a man in a -trance. -</p> -<p> -There are some things in a woman stronger than training, stronger than -anything that may have hedged her in from her birth, and they await but -the striking of an hour and the touch of one man. As he stretched out -his arms anew she turned towards him and threw herself into them. Their -lips met, again—again. He held her close in silence. -</p> -<p> -‘Ah, I am happy,’ she exclaimed at last. -</p> -<p> -‘And I have been afraid to tell you, torturing myself to think that you -would repulse me. Cecilia, you understand what you are saying—you will -never repent this?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Never,’ she said. ‘I shall love you all my life.’ -</p> -<p> -He touched the dark hair that rested against his shoulder. -</p> -<p> -‘I am not worthy of it,’ he said. ‘My only claim to you is that I adore -you. I cannot think why the whole world is not in love with you.’ -</p> -<p> -She laughed softly. -</p> -<p> -‘I have been half mad,’ he went on, ‘but I am cured now. I can do -nothing by halves, Cecilia.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I hope you may never love me by halves.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Say Gilbert.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Gilbert.’ -</p> -<p> -‘How perfect it sounds on your lips! I never thought of admiring my -name before.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Gilbert Speid,’ repeated she. ‘It is beautiful.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-154">[154]</a></span> -‘Cecilia Speid is better,’ he whispered. -</p> -<p> -She disengaged herself gently, and stood looking over the water. The -shadow lay across it and halfway up the opposite bank. He watched her. -</p> -<p> -‘I have lived more than thirty years without you,’ he said. ‘I cannot -wait long.’ -</p> -<p> -She made no reply. -</p> -<p> -‘We must speak to my aunt,’ she said, after a pause. ‘We cannot tell -what she may think. At least, I shall not be going far from her.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I cannot offer you what many others might,’ said he, coming closer. ‘I -am not a rich man. But, thank God, I can give you everything you have -had at Morphie. Nothing is good enough for you, Cecilia; but you shall -come first in everything. You know that.’ -</p> -<p> -‘If you were a beggar, I would marry you,’ she said. -</p> -<p> -Honesty, in those days, was not supposed to be a lady’s accomplishment, -but, to Cecilia, this moment, the most sacred she had ever known, was -not one for concealment of what lay in the very depths of truth. She -had been unconscious of it at the time, but she now knew that that -first moment at the dovecot had sealed the fate of her heart. Looking -back, she wondered why she had not understood. -</p> -<p> -‘May God punish me if I do not make you happy,’ said Gilbert, his eyes -set upon her. ‘A woman is beyond my understanding. How can you risk so -much for a man like me? How can you know that you are not spoiling your -life?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I think I have always known,’ said she. -</p> -<p> -He stood, neither speaking nor approaching her. The miracle of her love -was too great for him to grasp. In spite of the gallant personality he -carried through life, in spite of the glory of his youth and strength, -he was humble-hearted, and, before this woman, he felt himself less -than the dust. In the old life in Spain which had slipped from him he -had been the prominent figure of the circle in which<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-155">[155]</a></span> he lived. His men -friends had admired and envied him, and, to the younger ones, Gilbert -Speid, who kept so much to himself, who looked so quiet and could do so -many things better than they, was a model which they were inclined to -copy. To women, the paradox of his personal attraction and irregular -face, and the fact that he only occasionally cared to profit by his own -advantages, made him consistently interesting. He had left all that and -come to a world which took little heed of him, to find in it this -peerless thing of snow and flame, of truth and full womanhood, and she -was giving her life and herself into his hand. He was shaken through -and through by the charm of her eyes, her hands, her hair, her slim -whiteness, the movements of her figure, the detachment which made -approach so intoxicating. He could have knelt down on the river-bank. -</p> -<p> -The sun had gone from the sky when the two parted and Cecilia went up -through the trees to Morphie. He left her at the edge of the woods, -standing to watch her out of sight. Above his head the heavens were -transfigured by the evening, and two golden wings were spread like a -fan across the west. The heart in his breast was transfigured too. As -he neared Whanland and looked at the white walls of the palace that was -to contain his queen, the significance of what had happened struck him -afresh. She would be there, in these rooms, going in and out of these -doors; her voice and her step would be on the stair, in the hall. He -entered in and sat down, his elbows on the table, his face hidden in -his hands, and the tears came into his eyes. -</p> -<p> -When the lights were lit, and Macquean’s interminable comings-in and -goings-out on various pretexts were over, he gave himself up to his -dreams of the coming time. In his mind he turned the house upside down. -She liked windows that looked westward; he would go out of his own -room, which faced that point, and make it into a boudoir for her. She -liked jessamine, and jessamine should clothe every gate and wall. She -had once admired<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-156">[156]</a></span> some French tapestry, and he would ruin himself in -tapestry. She should have everything that her heart or taste could -desire. -</p> -<p> -He would buy her a horse the like of which had never been seen in the -country, and he would go to England to choose him; to London, to the -large provincial sales and fairs, until he should come upon the animal -he had in his mind. He must have a mouth like velvet, matchless manners -and paces, the temper of an angel, perfect beauty. He thought of a -liver-chestnut, mottled on the flank, with burnished gold hidden in the -shades of his coat. But that would not do. Chestnuts, children of the -sun, were hot, and he shivered at the bare idea of risking her precious -body on the back of some creature all nerves and sudden terrors and -caprices. He would not have a chestnut. He lost himself in -contemplation of a review of imaginary horses. -</p> -<p> -She must have jewels, too. He had passed them over in his dreams, and -he remembered, with vivid pleasure, that he need not wait to gratify -his eyes with the sight of something fit to offer her. In a room near -the cellar was a strong box which Barclay had delivered to him on his -arrival, and which had lain at Mr. Speid’s bankers all the years of his -life in Spain. He had never opened it, although he kept the key in the -desk at his elbow, but he knew that it contained jewels which had -belonged to his mother. He sprang up and rang for a light; then, with -the key in his hand, he went down to the basement, carried up the box, -and set it on the table before him. -</p> -<p> -He found that it was made in two divisions, the upper being a shelf in -which all kinds of small things and a few rings were lying; the lower -part was full of cases, some wooden and some made of faded leather. He -opened the largest and discovered a necklace, each link of which was a -pink topaz set in diamonds. The stones were clear set, for the -artificer had not foiled them at the back, as so many of his trade were -apt to do, and the light flowed through<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-157">[157]</a></span> them like sunlight through -roses. Gilbert was pleased, and laid it again in its leather case -feeling that this, his first discovery, was fit even for Cecilia. -</p> -<p> -The next thing that he opened was a polished oval wooden box, tied -round and round with a piece of embroidery silk, and having a painted -wreath of laurel-leaves encircling the ‘C. L.’ on the top of the lid. -It was a pretty, dainty little object, pre-eminently a woman’s intimate -property; a little thing which might lie on a dressing-table among -laces and fans, or be found tossed into the recesses of some frivolous, -scented cushion close to its owner. It did not look as though made to -hold jewels. Inside lay the finest and thinnest of gold chains, long -enough to go round a slender throat, and made with no clasp nor -fastening. It was evidently intended to be crossed over and knotted in -front, with the ends left hanging down, for each terminated in a -pear-shaped stone—one an emerald set in diamonds, and one a diamond set -in emeralds. The exquisite thing charmed him, and he sat looking at it, -and turning it this way and that to catch the light. He loved emeralds, -because they reminded him of the little brooch he had often seen on -Cecilia’s bosom. It should be his first gift to her. -</p> -<p> -He next came upon the shagreen case containing the pearl necklace which -Mr. Speid had carried with him when he went to fetch his bride, and -which had adorned his mother’s neck as she drove up in the family -chariot to Whanland. He did not know its history, but he admired the -pearls and their perfect uniformity and shape, and he pictured Cecilia -wearing them. He would have her painted in them. -</p> -<p> -Instinctively he glanced up to the wall where Clementina Speid’s -portrait hung. By his orders it had been taken from the garret, -cleaned, and brought down to the room in which he generally sat. She -had always fascinated him, and the discovery of her brilliant, wayward -face hidden in the dust, put away like a forgotten thing in gloom and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-158">[158]</a></span> -oblivion, had produced an unfading impression on his mind. What a -contrast between her smiling lips, her dancing eyes, her mass of -curling chestnut hair, and the forlorn isolation of her grave on the -shore with the remorseless inscription chosen for it by the man he -remembered! Those words were not meant to apply to her, but to him who -had laid her there. Gilbert had no right to think of her as aught but -an evil thing, but, for all that, he could not judge her. Surely, -surely, she had been judged. -</p> -<p> -And this was her little box, her own private, intimate little toy, for -a toy it was, with its tiny, finely-finished wreath of laurel, and its -interlaced gilt monogram in the centre. He took the candle and went up -close to the wall to look at her. The rings he had found in the -jewel-box were so small that he wondered if the painted fingers -corresponded to their size. The picture hung rather high, and though he -was tall, he could not clearly see the hands, which were in shadow. He -brought a chair and stood upon it, holding the light. The portrait had -been cleaned and put up while he was absent for a few days from -Whanland, and he had not examined it closely since that time. Yes, the -fingers were very slender, and they were clasped round a small, dark -object. He pulled out his silk handkerchief and rubbed the canvas -carefully. What she held was the laurel-wreathed box. -</p> -<p> -He took it up from the table again with an added interest, for he had -made sure that she prized it, and it pleased him to find he was right. -On the great day on which he should bring Cecilia to Whanland he would -show her what he had discovered. -</p> -<p> -He replaced all the other cases and boxes, locking them up, but the -painted one with the emerald and diamond drops inside it he put into a -drawer of his desk—he would need it so soon. As he laid it away there -flashed across him the question of whether Cecilia knew his history. It -had never occurred to him before. He sat down on the edge of his -writing-table, looking into space. In his intoxication<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-159">[159]</a></span> he had not -remembered that little cloud in the background of his life. -</p> -<p> -That it would make any difference to Cecilia’s feelings for him he did -not insult her by supposing, but how would it affect Lady Eliza? Like a -breath of poison came the thought that it might influence her approval -of the marriage. He needed but to look back to be certain that the -shadow over his birth was a dark one. Whether the outer world were -aware of it he did not know. -</p> -<p> -Any knowledge which had reached the ears of the neighbourhood could -only have been carried by the gossip of servants, and officially, there -was no stain resting upon him. He had been acknowledged as a son by the -man whom he had called father, he had inherited his property, he had -been received in the county as the representative of the family whose -name he bore. Lady Eliza herself had accepted him under it, and invited -him to her house. For all he knew, she might never have heard anything -about the matter. But, whether she had, or whether she had not, it was -his plain duty, as an honourable man, to put the case before her, and -when he went to Morphie to ask formally for Cecilia he would do it. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -But he could not believe that it would really go against him. From Lady -Eliza’s point of view, there was so much in his favour. She need -scarcely part with the girl who was to her as her own child. Besides -which, the idea was too hideous. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_16"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-160">[160]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_16_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_16_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XVI</span><br /> -<br /> -BETWEEN LADY ELIZA AND CECILIA</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -L<small>ADY</small> E<small>LIZA</small> L<small>AMONT</small> was like a person who has walked in the dark and been -struck to the ground by some familiar object, the existence and -position of which he has been foolish enough to forget. Straight from -her lover, Cecilia had sought her, and put what had happened plainly -before her; she did not know what view her aunt might take, but she was -not prepared for the effect of her news. She sat calm under the torrent -of excited words, her happiness dying within her, watching with -miserable eyes the changes of her companion’s face. Lady Eliza was -shaken to the depths; she had not foreseen the contingency which might -take her nearest and dearest, and set her in the very midst of the -enemy’s camp. -</p> -<p> -Though she forced herself to be civil to Gilbert Speid, and felt no -actual enmity towards him, everything to do with him was hateful to -her. Cecilia, whom she loved as a daughter, and to whom she clung more -closely with each passing year, would be cut off from her, not in love -nor in gratitude, as she knew well enough, but by the barrier of such -surroundings as she, Lady Eliza, could never induce herself to -penetrate. That house from which, as she passed its gates, she was wont -to avert her face, would be Cecilia’s home. For some time she had been -schooling herself to the idea of their parting. When Crauford’s -laborious courtship had ended in failure, she had been glad; but, in -comparison to this new suitor, she would have welcomed him with open<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-161">[161]</a></span> -arms. He had a blameless character, an even temper, excellent -prospects, and no distance to which he could have transported Cecilia -would divide them so surely as the few miles which separated Morphie -from Whanland. She would hear her called ‘Mrs. Speid’; she would -probably see her the mother of children in whose veins ran the blood of -the woman she abhorred. The tempest of her feelings stifled all justice -and all reason. -</p> -<p> -‘Why did you not take Crauford Fordyce, if your heart was set on -leaving me?’ she cried. -</p> -<p> -The thrust pierced Cecilia like a knife, but she knew that it was not -the real Lady Eliza who had dealt it. -</p> -<p> -‘I did not care for him,’ she replied, ‘and I love Gilbert Speid.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He is not Gilbert Speid!’ burst out her companion; ‘he is no more -Speid than you are! He is nothing of the sort; he is an impostor—a man -of no name!’ -</p> -<p> -‘An impostor, ma’am?’ -</p> -<p> -‘His mother was a bad woman. I would rather see you dead than married -to him! If you wanted to break my heart, Cecilia, you could not have -taken a better way of doing it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Do you mean that he is not Mr. Speid’s son?’ said Cecilia, her face -the colour of a sheet of paper. -</p> -<p> -‘Yes, I do. He has no business in that house; he has no right to be -here; his whole position is a shameful pretence and a lie.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But Whanland is his. He has every right to be there, ma’am.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Mr. Speid must have been mad to leave it to him. You would not care to -be the wife of an interloper! That is what he is.’ -</p> -<p> -‘All that can change nothing,’ said Cecilia, after a moment. ‘The man -is the same; he has done no wrong.’ -</p> -<p> -‘His very existence is a wrong,’ cried Lady Eliza, her hand shutting -tightly on the gloves she held; ‘it is a wrong done by an infamous -woman!’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-162">[162]</a></span> -‘I love him,’ said Cecilia: ‘nothing can alter that. You received him, -and you told me nothing, and the thing is done—not that I would undo it -if I could. How could I know that you would be so much against it?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I had rather anything in the world than this!’ exclaimed the -other—‘anyone but this man! What has driven you to make such a choice?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Does it seem so hard to understand why anyone should love Gilbert -Speid?’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is a calamity that you should; think of it again—to please me—to -make me happy. I can scarcely bear the thought, child; you do not know -the whole of this miserable business.’ -</p> -<p> -‘And I hoped that you would be so pleased!’ -</p> -<p> -The tears were starting to Cecilia’s eyes; her nerves, strained to the -utmost by the emotions of the day, were beginning to give way. -</p> -<p> -‘Whanland is so near,’ she said; ‘we should scarcely have to part, dear -aunt.’ -</p> -<p> -She was longing to know more, to ask for complete enlightenment, but -her pride struggled hard, and she shrank from the mere semblance of -misgiving about Gilbert. She had none in her heart. -</p> -<p> -‘Is this that you have told me generally known?’ she said at last. -</p> -<p> -‘No one knows as much as I do,’ answered the elder woman, turning her -head away. -</p> -<p> -‘Does Mr. Fullarton know?’ asked Cecilia. -</p> -<p> -Lady Eliza did not reply for a moment, and, when she did, her head was -still turned from the girl. -</p> -<p> -‘I know his real history—his whole history,’ she replied in a thick -voice; ‘other people may guess at it, but they know nothing.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You will not tell me more?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I cannot!’ cried Lady Eliza, getting up and turning upon her almost -fiercely; ‘there is no more to be said. If you want to marry him, I -suppose you will marry<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-163">[163]</a></span> him; I cannot stop you. What is it to you if my -heart breaks? What is it to you if all my love for you is forgotten?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Aunt! Dear, dear aunt!’ cried Cecilia, ‘you have never spoken to me -like this in all your life!’ -</p> -<p> -She threw her arms round Lady Eliza, holding her tightly. For some time -they stood clinging to each other without speaking, and the tears in -Cecilia’s eyes dropped and fell upon the shoulder that leaned against -her; now and then she stroked it softly with her fingers. -</p> -<p> -They started apart as a servant entered, and Lady Eliza went out of the -room and out of the house, disappearing among the trees. Though her -heart was smiting her for her harshness, a power like the force of -instinct in an animal fought against the idea of connecting all she -loved with Whanland. She had called Gilbert an interloper, and an -interloper he was, come to poison the last days of her life. She -hurried on among the trees, impervious to the balm of the evening air -which played on her brow; tenderness and fierceness dragged her in two -directions, and the consciousness of having raised a barrier between -herself and Cecilia was grievous. She seemed to be warring against -everything. Of what use was it to her to have been given such powers of -love and sympathy? They had recoiled upon her all her life, as curses -are said to recoil, and merely increased the power to suffer. -</p> -<p> -She had come to the outskirts of the trees, and, from the place in -which she stood, she could see over the wall into the road. The sound -of a horse’s trotting feet was approaching from the direction of Kaims, -and she remembered that it was Friday, the day on which the weekly -market was held, and on which those of the county men who were -agriculturally inclined made a point of meeting in the town for -business purposes. The rider was probably Fullarton. He often stopped -at Morphie on his way home, and it was likely he would do so now. She -went quickly down to a gate in the wall to intercept him. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-164">[164]</a></span> -Yes, it was Robert trotting evenly homewards, a fine figure of a man on -his sixteen-hand black. For one moment she started as he came into -sight round the bend, for she took him for Speid. The faces of the two -men were not alike, but, for the first time, and for an instant only, -the two figures seemed to her almost identical. As he neared her the -likeness faded; Fullarton was the taller of the two, and he had lost -the distinctive lines of youth. She went out and stood on the road; he -pulled up as he saw her, and dismounted, and they walked on side by -side towards the large gate of Morphie. -</p> -<p> -‘Crauford has come back,’ he began, ‘and I have just seen him in Kaims. -He is staying with Barclay; they seemed rather friendly when he was -with me, but I am surprised. Why he should have come back I can’t -think, for Cecilia gave him no doubt of her want of appreciation of -him. In any case, it is too soon. You don’t like Barclay, I know, my -lady.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I can’t bear him,’ said Lady Eliza. -</p> -<p> -‘I have tolerated him for years, so I suppose I shall go on doing so. -Sometimes it is as much trouble to lay down one’s load as to go on with -it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I wish I could think as you do,’ said she. -</p> -<p> -‘Not that Barclay is exactly a load,’ he continued, pursuing his own -train of thought, ‘but he is a common, pushing fellow, and I think it a -pity that Crauford should stay with him.’ -</p> -<p> -Lady Eliza walked on in silence, longing to unburden her mind to her -companion, and shrinking from the mention of Gilbert’s name. He thought -her dull company, and perhaps a little out of temper, and he was not -inclined to go up to the house. She stood, as he prepared to remount -his horse, laying an ungloved hand upon the shining neck of the black; -his allusion to its beauty had made her doubly and trebly careful of -it. Had he noticed her act, with its little bit of feminine vanity, he -might have thought it ridiculous; but it was so natural—a little<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-165">[165]</a></span> green -sprig from stunted nature which had flowered out of season. -</p> -<p> -‘Fullarton, Gilbert Speid has proposed to Cecilia,’ she said. -</p> -<p> -‘And do you expect me to be astonished?’ he inquired, pausing with his -foot in the stirrup-iron. -</p> -<p> -‘It came like a thunder-clap; I never thought of it!’ she exclaimed. -</p> -<p> -‘Pshaw, Eliza! Why, I told Crauford long ago that he had a pretty -formidable rival in him,’ said he, from the saddle. -</p> -<p> -‘She wants to marry him,’ said Lady Eliza, looking up at him, and -restraining the quivering of her lips with an effort. -</p> -<p> -‘Well, if she won’t take Crauford, she had better take him; he’ll be -the more interesting husband of the two. Good-night, my lady.’ -</p> -<p> -She went back to the house, her heart like lead, her excitement calmed -into dull misery. Fullarton did not understand, and, while she was -thankful that he did not, the fact hurt her in an unreasonable way. -</p> -<p> -The evening was a very quiet one, for, as neither of the two women -could speak of what she felt, both took refuge in silence. It was the -first shadow that had come between them, and that thought added to the -weight of Lady Eliza’s grief. She sat in the deep window-seat, looking -out at the long light which makes northern summer nights so short, -seeming to notice nothing that went on in the room. The sight was -torture to Cecilia, for a certain protectiveness which mingled with her -love for her aunt made her feel as though she had wounded some trusting -child to death. Her anticipations of a few hours ago had been so -different from the reality she had found, and she could not bear to -think of her lover sitting in his solitary home, happy in the false -belief that all was well. If ever she had seen happiness on a human -face, she had seen it on his as they parted. To-morrow Lady Eliza would -receive his letter. -</p> -<p> -‘Cecilia,’ she said, turning suddenly towards the girl, ‘I<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-166">[166]</a></span> said things -I did not mean to you to-day; God knows I did not mean them. You must -forgive me because I am almost beside myself to-night. You don’t -understand, child, and you never will. Oh, Cecilia, life has gone so -hard with me! I am a miserable old woman with rancour in her heart, who -has made a sorry business of this world; but it is not my fault—it is -not all my fault—and it shall never divide you from me. But have -patience with me, darling; my trouble is so great.’ -</p> -<p> -As they parted for the night, she looked back from the threshold of her -room. -</p> -<p> -‘To-morrow I shall feel better,’ she said; ‘I will try to be different -to-morrow.’ -</p> -<p> -Cecilia lay sleepless, thinking of many things. She recalled herself, a -little, thin girl, weak from a long illness, arriving at Morphie more -than a dozen years ago. She had been tired and shy, dreading to get out -of the carriage to face the unknown cousin with whom she was to stay -until the change had recruited her. Life, since the death of her -parents, who had gone down together in the wreck of an East Indiaman, -had been a succession of changes, and she had been bandied about from -one relation to another, at home nowhere, and weary of learning new -ways; the learning had been rough as well as smooth, and she did not -know what might await her at Morphie. Lady Eliza had come out to -receive her in a shabby riding-habit, much like the plum-coloured one -she wore now and in much the same state of repair, and she had looked -with misgiving at the determined face under the red wig. She had cried -a little, from fatigue of the long journey and strangeness, and the -formidable lady had petted her and fed her with soup, and finally -almost carried her upstairs to bed. Well could she recall the -candlelight in the room, and Lady Eliza sitting at her bedside holding -her hand until she fell asleep. She had not been accustomed to such -things. -</p> -<p> -She remembered how, next day, she had been coaxed to talk and to amuse -herself, and how surprised she had been<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-167">[167]</a></span> at the wonderful things her -new friend could do—how she could take horses by the ears as though -they were puppies, and, undaunted, slap the backs of cows who stood in -their path as they went together to search for new entertainment in the -fields. She had been shown the stable, and the great creatures, -stamping and rattling their head-ropes through the rings of their -mangers, had filled her with awe. How familiar she had been with them -since and how different life had been since that day! One by one she -recalled the little episodes of the following years—some joyful, some -pathetic, some absurd; as she had grown old enough to understand the -character beside which she lived, her attitude towards it had changed -in many ways, and, unconsciously, she had come to know herself the -stronger of the two. With the growth of strength had come also the -growth of comprehension and sympathy. She had half divined the secret -of Lady Eliza’s life, and only a knowledge of a few facts was needed to -show her the deeps of the soul whose worth was so plain to her. She was -standing very near to them now. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -She fell into a restless sleep troublous with dreams. Personalities, -scenes, chased each other through her wearied brain, which could not -distinguish the false from the true, but which was conscious of an -unvarying background of distress. Towards morning she woke and set her -door open, for she was feverish with tossing and greedy of air. As she -stood a moment on the landing, a subdued noise in her aunt’s room made -her go quickly towards it and stand listening at the door. It was the -terrible sound of Lady Eliza sobbing in the dawn. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_17"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-168">[168]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_17_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_17_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XVII</span><br /> -<br /> -CECILIA PAYS HER DEBTS</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -C<small>ECILIA</small> rose to meet a new day, each moment of which the coming years -failed to obliterate from her memory. In the first light hours she had -taken her happiness in her two hands and killed it, deliberately, for -the sake of the woman she loved. She had decided to part with Gilbert -Speid. -</p> -<p> -She hid nothing from herself and made no concealment. She did not -pretend that she could offer herself up willingly, or with any glow of -the emotional flame of renunciation, for she had not that temperament -which can make the sacrificial altar a bed of inverted luxury. She -neither fell on her knees, nor prayed, nor called upon Heaven to -witness her deed, because there was only one thing which she cared it -should witness, and that was Lady Eliza’s peace of mind. Nor, while -purchasing this, did she omit to count the cost. The price was a higher -one than she could afford, for, when it was paid, there would be -nothing left. -</p> -<p> -The thing which had culminated but yesterday had been growing for many -months, and only those who wait for an official stamp to be put upon -events before admitting their existence will suppose that Cecilia was -parting with what she had scarcely had time to find necessary. She was -parting with everything, and she knew it. The piteousness of her aunt’s -unquestionably real suffering was such that she determined it must end. -That someone should suffer was inevitable, and the great gallantry in -her rose up and told her that she could bear more than could Lady -Eliza. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-169">[169]</a></span> -What she could scarcely endure to contemplate was Gilbert’s trouble, -and his almost certain disbelief in the genuineness of her love. In the -eyes of the ordinary person her position was correct enough. Her -engagement had been disapproved of by her natural guardian, and she -had, in consequence, broken it. This did not affect her in any way, for -she was one to whom more than the exterior of things was necessary. -What did affect her was that, without so much as the excuse of being -forbidden to marry her lover, she was giving him his heart’s desire and -then snatching it away. But, as either he or Lady Eliza had to be -sacrificed, she determined that it should be Speid, though she never -hesitated to admit that she loved him infinitely the better of the two. -He was young, and could mend his life again, whereas, for her aunt, -there was no future which could pay her for any present loss. And she -had had so little. She understood that there was more wrapped up in -Lady Eliza’s misery than she could fathom, and that, whatever the cause -of the enigma might be, it was something vital to her peace. -</p> -<p> -The hours of the day dragged on. She did not know whether to dread -their striking or to long for the sound, for she had told her aunt that -she wished to see her lover, and tell him the truth with her own lips, -and a message had been sent to Whanland to summon him to Morphie in the -afternoon. There had been a curious interview between the two women, -and Lady Eliza had struggled between her love for her niece and her -hatred of the marriage she contemplated. She, also, had chastened her -soul in the night-season, and told herself that she would let no -antipathy of her own stand in the way of her happiness; but her -resolution had been half-hearted, and, unable to school her features or -her words, she had but presented a more vivid picture of distress. She -had not deceived Cecilia, nor, to tell the truth, had Cecilia entirely -succeeded in deceiving her; but her own feelings had made the -temptation to shut her eyes too great for her complete honesty of -purpose. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-170">[170]</a></span> -Cecilia had given her reasons for her change of intention very simply, -saying merely, that, since their discussion of yesterday, she had seen -the inadvisability of the marriage. To all questions she held as brave -a front as she could, only demanding that she should see Gilbert alone, -and tell him her decision with no intervention on the part of Lady -Eliza. To be in a position to demand anything was an unusual case for a -girl of those days, but the conditions of life at Morphie were unusual, -both outwardly and inwardly, and the two women had been for years as -nearly equals as any two can be, where, though both are rich in -character, one is complicated in temperament and the other primitive. -It was on Cecilia’s side that the real balance of power dipped, however -unconsciously to herself the scale went down. -</p> -<p> -The task before her almost took her courage away, for she had, first, -to combat Speid, when her whole heart was on his side, and then to part -from him—not perhaps, finally, in body, for she was likely to meet him -at any time, but in soul and in heart. One part of her work she would -try, Heaven helping her, to do, but the other was beyond her. Though -she would never again feel the clasp of his arm, nor hear from his lips -the words that had made yesterday the crown of her life, she would be -his till her pulses ceased to beat. Much and terribly as she longed to -see him, dread of their parting was almost stronger than the desire; -but fear lest he should suppose her decision rested on anything about -his parentage which Lady Eliza had told her kept her strong. Never -should he think that. Whatever reasons she had given her aunt, he -should not go without understanding her completely, and knowing the -truth down to the very bed-rock. She shed no tears. There would be -plenty of time for tears afterwards, she knew, when there would be -nothing for her to do, no crisis to meet, and nothing to be faced but -daily life. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert started for Morphie carrying the note she had sent him in his -pocket. He had read and re-read it many<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-171">[171]</a></span> times since its arrival that -morning had filled his whole being with gloom. The idea of his -presenting himself, full of hope, to meet the decree which awaited him -was so dreadful that she had added to her summons a few sentences -telling him that he must be prepared for bad news. She had written no -word of love, for she felt that, until she had explained her position -to him, such words could only be a mockery. -</p> -<p> -He stood waiting in the room into which he had been ushered, listening -for her step. He suspected that he had been summoned to meet Lady -Eliza, but he did not mean to leave Morphie without an endeavour to see -Cecilia herself. When she entered he was standing quietly by the -mantelpiece. She looked like a ghost in her white dress, and under her -eyes the fingers of sleeplessness had traced dark marks. He sprang -forward, and drew her towards him. -</p> -<p> -‘No, no!’ she cried, throwing out her hands in front of her. -</p> -<p> -Then, as she saw his look, she faltered and dropped them, letting his -arms encircle her. The intoxication of his nearness was over her, and -the very touch of his coat against her face was rest, after the -struggle of the hours since she had seen him. -</p> -<p> -She drew herself away at last. -</p> -<p> -‘What does that message mean?’ he asked, as he let her go. -</p> -<p> -She had thought of so many things to say to him, she had meant to tell -him gently, to choose her words; but, now he was beside her, she found -that everything took flight, and only the voice of her own sorrow -remained. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, Gilbert—Gilbert!’ she sighed, ‘there are stronger things than you -or I! Yesterday we were so happy, but it is over, and we must not think -of each other any more!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Cecilia!’ he cried, aghast. -</p> -<p> -‘It is true.’ -</p> -<p> -‘What are you saying?’ he exclaimed, almost roughly.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-172">[172]</a></span> ‘What did you -promise me? You said that nothing should change you, and I believed it!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Nothing has—nothing can—but, for all that, you must give me up. It is -for my aunt’s sake, Gilbert. If you only saw her you would understand -what I have gone through. It is no choice of mine. How can you think it -is anything to me but despair?’ -</p> -<p> -Speid’s heart sank, and the thing whose shadow had risen as he locked -up the jewels and looked at his mother’s face on the wall loomed large -again. He guessed the undercurrent of her words. -</p> -<p> -‘She has not forbidden me to marry you,’ continued Cecilia, ‘but she -has told me it will break her heart if I do, and I believe it is true. -What is the use of hiding anything from you? There is something in the -background that I did not know; but if you imagine that it can make any -difference to me, you are not the man I love, not the man I thought. -You believe me? You understand?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I understand—I believe,’ he said, turning away his head. ‘Ah, my God!’ -</p> -<p> -‘But you do not doubt me—myself?’ she cried, her heart wrung with fear. -</p> -<p> -He turned and looked at her. Reproach, suffering, pain unutterable were -in his eyes; but there was absolute faith too. -</p> -<p> -‘But must it be, Cecilia? I am no passive boy to let my life slip -between my fingers without an effort. Let me see Lady Eliza. Let me -make her understand what she is doing in dividing you and me. I tell -you I <i>will</i> see her!’ -</p> -<p> -‘She will not forbid it, for she has told me to act for myself and -leave her out of my thoughts; but she is broken-hearted. It is piteous -to see her face. There is something more than I know at the root of -this trouble—about you—and it concerns her. I have asked her, and -though she admitted I was right, she forbade me to speak of it. You -would have pitied her if you had seen her. I cannot make her suffer—I -cannot, even for you.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-173">[173]</a></span> -‘And have you no pity for me?’ he broke out. -</p> -<p> -The tears she had repressed all day rushed to her eyes. She sat down -and hid her face. There was a silence as she drew out her handkerchief, -pressing it against her wet eyelashes. -</p> -<p> -‘Think of what I owe her,’ she continued, forcing her voice into its -natural tone—‘think what she has done for me! Everything in my life -that has been good has come from her, and I am the only creature she -has. How can I injure her? I thought that, at Whanland, we should -hardly have been divided, but it seems that we could never meet if I -were there. She has told me that.’ -</p> -<p> -He struck the back of the chair by which he stood with his clenched -fist. -</p> -<p> -‘And so it is all over, and I am to go?’ he cried. ‘I cannot, Cecilia—I -will not accept it! I will not give you up! You may push me away now, -but I will wait for ever, for you are mine, and I shall get you in the -end!’ -</p> -<p> -She smiled sadly. -</p> -<p> -‘You may waste your life in thinking of that,’ she answered. ‘To make -it afresh is the wisest thing for you to do, and you can do it. There -is the difference between you and my aunt. It is nearly over for her, -and she has had nothing; but you are young—you can remake it in time, -if you will.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I will not. I will wait.’ -</p> -<p> -He gazed at her, seeing into her heart and finding only truth there. -</p> -<p> -‘You will learn to forget me,’ says the flirt and jilt, raising chaste -eyes to heaven, and laying a sisterly hand on the shoulder of the man -she is torturing, while she listens, with satisfaction, to his hot and -miserable denial. -</p> -<p> -The only comfort in such cases is that he generally does so. But with -Cecilia there was no false sentiment, nor angling for words to minister -to her vanity. He knew that well. Thoroughly did he understand the -worth of what he was losing. He thought of the plans he had made<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-174">[174]</a></span> only -last night, of the flowers to be planted, of the rooms to be -transformed, of the horse to be bought, of the jewels he had chosen for -her from the iron box. One was lying now in a drawer of his -writing-table, ready to be brought to her, and last night he had -dreamed that he was fastening it round her neck. That visionary act -would have to suffice him. -</p> -<p> -He came across the room and sat down by her, putting his arm about her. -They were silent for a few moments, looking together into the gulf of -separation before them. Life had played both of them an evil trick, but -there was one thing she had been unable to do, and that was to shake -their faith in each other. Cecilia had told her lover that he should -make his own afresh, and had spoken in all honesty, knowing that, could -she prevent his acting on her words by the holding up of her finger, -she would not raise it an inch; but for all that, she did not believe -he would obey her. Something in herself, which also had its counterpart -in him, could foretell that. -</p> -<p> -To struggle against her decision was, as Speid knew, hopeless, for it -was based upon what it would lower him in her eyes to oppose. To a -certain extent he saw its force, but he would not have been the man he -was, nor, indeed, a man of any kind, had he not felt hostile to Lady -Eliza. He paid small attention to the assurance that, behind her -obvious objection to his own history, there lurked a hidden personal -complication, for the details of such an all-pervading ill as the ruin -she had made for him were, to him, indifferent. He would wait -determinedly. Crauford Fordyce ran through his mind, for, though his -trust in Cecilia was complete, it had annoyed him to hear that he was -in Kaims. Evidently the young man was of a persevering nature, and, -however little worldly advantages might impress her, he knew that these -things had an almost absolute power over parents and guardians. -</p> -<p> -‘You told me to remake my life,’ he said, ‘and I have answered that I -will not. Oh, Cecilia! I cannot tell you<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-175">[175]</a></span> to do that! Do you know, it -makes me wretched to think that Fordyce is here again. Forgive me for -saying it. Tell me that you can never care for him. I do not ask to -know anything more. Darling, do not be angry.’ -</p> -<p> -He raised her face and looked into it. There was no anger, but a little -wan ray of amusement played round her mouth. -</p> -<p> -‘You need not be afraid; there is nothing in him to care for. His only -merits are his prospects, and Heaven knows they do not attract me,’ she -replied. -</p> -<p> -The clock on the mantelpiece struck, and the two looked up. Outside on -the grass the shadows of the grazing sheep were long. His arm tightened -round her. -</p> -<p> -‘I cannot go yet,’ he said. ‘A little longer, Cecilia—a few -minutes—and then the sooner it is over the better.’ -</p> -<p> -The room grew very still, and, through the open window, came the long -fluting of a blackbird straying in the dew. All her life the sound -carried Cecilia back to that hour. There seemed nothing more to be -spoken but that last word that both were dreading. -</p> -<p> -‘This is only torment,’ she said at last—‘go now.’ -</p> -<p> -An overpowering longing rushed through her to break the web that -circumstances had woven between them, to take what she had renounced, -to bid him stay, to trust to chance that time would make all well. How -could she let him go when it lay in her hands to stave off the moment -that was coming? She had reached the turning-point, the last piece of -her road at which she could touch hands with happiness. -</p> -<p> -He was holding her fast. -</p> -<p> -‘I am going,’ he said, in a voice like the voice of a stranger—someone -a long way off. -</p> -<p> -She could not speak. There were a thousand things which, when he was -gone, she knew that she must blame herself for not saying, but they -would not stay with her till her lips could frame them. -</p> -<p> -‘Perhaps we shall sometimes see each other,’ he whispered, ‘but God -knows if I could bear it.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-176">[176]</a></span> -They clung together in a maze of kisses and incoherent words. When they -separated, she stood trembling in the middle of the room. He looked -back at her from the threshold, and turned again. -</p> -<p> -‘Gilbert! Gilbert!’ she cried, throwing her arms round his neck. -</p> -<p> -Then they tore themselves apart, and the door closed between them and -upon everything that each had come to value in life. -</p> -<p> -When the sound of his horse’s feet had died, she stayed on where he had -left her. One who is gone is never quite gone while we retain the fresh -impression of his presence. She knew that, and she was loth to leave a -place which seemed still to hold his personality. She sat on, -unconscious of time, until a servant came into shut the windows, and -then she went downstairs and stood outside the front-door upon the -flags. The blackbird was still on the grass whistling, but at the -sudden appearance of her figure in the doorway, he flew, shrieking in -rich gutturals, into cover. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_18"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-177">[177]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_18_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_18_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XVIII</span><br /> -<br /> -THE BOX WITH THE LAUREL-WREATH</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -S<small>PEID</small> rode home without seeing a step of the way, though he never put -his horse out of a walk; he was like a man inheriting a fortune which -has vanished before he has had time to do more than sign his name to -the document that makes it his. But, in spite of the misery of their -parting, he could not and would not realize that it was final. He was -hot and tingling with the determination to wear down Lady Eliza’s -opposition; for he had decided, with Cecilia’s concurrence or without -it, to see her himself, and to do what he could to bring home to her -the ruin she was making of two lives. -</p> -<p> -He could not find any justice in her standpoint; if she had refused to -admit him to her house or her acquaintance, there might have been some -reason in her act, but she had acknowledged him as a neighbour, invited -him to Morphie, and had at times been on the verge of friendliness. She -knew that, in spite of any talk that was afloat, he had been well -received by the people of the county, for the fact that he had not -mixed much with them was due to his own want of inclination for the -company offered him. He was quite man of the world enough to see that -his presence was more than welcome wherever mothers congregated who had -daughters to dispose of, and, on one or two occasions of the sort, he -remembered that Lady Eliza had been present, and knew she must have -seen it too. -</p> -<p> -As he had no false pride, he had also no false humility,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-178">[178]</a></span> for the two -are so much alike that it is only by the artificial light of special -occasions that their difference can be seen. He had believed that Lady -Eliza would be glad to give him Cecilia. He knew very well that the -girl had no fortune, for it was a truth which the female part of the -community were not likely to let a young bachelor of means forget; and -he had supposed that a man who could provide for her, without taking -her four miles from the gates of Morphie, would have been a desirable -suitor in Lady Eliza’s eyes. Her opposition must, as he had been told, -be rooted in an unknown obstacle; but, more ruthless than Cecilia, he -was not going to let the hidden thing rest. He would drag it to the -light, and deal with it as he would deal with anything which stood in -his way to her. Few of us are perfect; Gilbert certainly was not, and -he did not care what Lady Eliza felt. It was not often that he had set -his heart upon a woman, and he had never set his heart and soul upon -one before. If he had not been accustomed to turn back when there was -no soul in the affair, he was not going to do so now that it was a -deeper question. -</p> -<p> -The curious thing was that, though it went against himself, he admired -Cecilia’s attitude enormously; at the same time, the feeling stopped -short of imitation. While with her he had been unable to go against -her, and the creeping shadow of their imminent parting had wrought a -feeling of exaltation in him which prevented him from thinking clearly. -But that moment had passed. He understood her feelings, and respected -them, but they were not his, and he was going to the root of the matter -without scruple. -</p> -<p> -For all that, it was with a heavy heart that he stood at his own door -and saw Macquean, who looked upon every horse as a dangerous wild -beast, leading the roan to the stable at the full stretch of his arm. -With a heavier one still he sat, when the household had gone to bed, -contrasting to-night with yesterday. Last night Whanland had been -filled with dreams; to-night it was filled with forebodings.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-179">[179]</a></span> To-morrow -he must collect his ideas, and send his urgent request for an interview -with Lady Eliza Lamont; and, if she refused to see him, he would put -all he meant to ask into writing and despatch the letter by hand to -Morphie. -</p> -<p> -In his writing-table drawer was the chain with the emerald and diamond -ends, which he had left there in readiness to give to Cecilia, and he -sighed as he took it out, meaning to return it to its iron -resting-place in the room by the cellar. What if it should have to rest -there for years? He opened the little laurel-wreathed box and drew out -the jewel; the drop of green fire lay in his hand like a splash of -magic. Though he had no heart for its beauty to-night, all precious -gems fascinated Gilbert, this one almost more than any he had ever -seen. Emeralds are stones for enchantresses, speaking as they do of -velvet, of poison, of serpents, of forests, of things buried in -enchanted seas, rising and falling under the green moonlight of -dream-countries beyond the bounds of the world. But all he could think -of was that he must hide it away in the dark, when it ought to be lying -on Cecilia’s bosom. -</p> -<p> -He replaced it in its box, shutting the lid, and went to the -writing-table behind him to close the drawer; as he turned back -quickly, his coat-tail swept the whole thing off the polished mahogany, -and sent it spinning into the darkness. He saw the lid open as it went -and the chain flash into a corner of the room, like a snake with -glittering eyes. He sprang after it, and brought it back to the light -to find it unhurt, then went to recover the box. This was not easy to -do, for the lid had rolled under one piece of furniture and the lower -part under another; but, with the help of a stick, he raked both out of -the shadows, and carried them, one in either hand, to examine them -under the candle. It struck him that, for an object of its size, the -lower half was curiously heavy, and he weighed it up and down, -considering it. As he did so, it rattled, showing that the fall must -have loosened something in its construction. It was a deep box, and its -oval shape did not give the idea<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-180">[180]</a></span> that it had been originally made to -hold the chain he had found in it. It was lined with silk which had -faded to a nondescript colour, and he guessed, from the presence of a -tiny knob which he could feel under the thin stuff, that it had a false -bottom and that the protuberance was the spring which opened it. This -had either got out of repair from long disuse, or else its leap across -the floor had injured it, for, press as he might, sideways or -downwards, he could produce no effect. He turned the box upside down, -and the false bottom fell out, broken, upon the table, exposing a -miniature which fitted closely into the real one behind it. -</p> -<p> -It was the carefully-executed likeness of a young man, whose face set -some fugitive note of association vibrating in him, and made him pause -as he looked, while he mentally reviewed the various ancestors on his -walls. The portrait had been taken full face, which prevented the -actual outline of the features from being revealed, but it was the -expression which puzzled Gilbert by its familiarity. The character of -the eyebrows, drooping at the outer corner of the eyes, gave a certain -look of petulance that had nothing transient and was evidently natural -to the face. He had seen something like it quite lately, though whether -on a human countenance or a painted one, he could not tell. The young -man’s dress was of a fashion which had long died out. Under the glass -was a lock of hair, tied with a twist of gold thread and not unlike his -own in colour, and the gold rim which formed the frame was engraved -with letters so fine as to be almost illegible. He tried to take out -the miniature, but he could not do so, for it was fixed firmly into the -bottom of the box, with the evident purpose of making its concealment -certain. He drew the light close. The sentence running round the band -was ‘<i>Addio, anima mia</i>,’ and, in a circle just below the hair, was -engraved in a smaller size these words: ‘<i>To C. L. from R. F.</i>, 1765.’ -</p> -<p> -He was face to face with the secret of his own life, and, in an -instant, he understood the impression of familiarity produced upon him -by the picture, for the ‘<i>R. F.</i>’ told him<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-181">[181]</a></span> all that he had not -known. There was no drop in his veins of the blood of the race whose -name he bore, for he was no Speid. Now all was plain. He was Robert -Fullarton’s illegitimate son. -</p> -<p> -He sat in the sleeping house looking at the little box which had -wrecked his hopes more effectually than anything he had experienced -that day. Now he understood Lady Eliza; now he realized how justifiable -was her opposition. How could he, knowing what he knew, and what no -doubt every soul around him knew, stand up before his neighbours and -take Cecilia by the hand? how ask her to share the name which everyone -could say was not his own? how endure that she should face with him a -state of affairs which, for the first time, he clearly understood? He -had been morally certain, before, that the bar sinister shadowed him, -but, though he could have asked her to live under it with him when its -existence was only known to herself and to him, the question being a -social, not an ethical one, it would be an impossibility when the whole -world was aware of it; when the father who could not acknowledge him -was his neighbour. Never should she spend her life in a place where she -might be pointed at as the wife of the nameless man. Ah, how well he -understood Lady Eliza! -</p> -<p> -But, thoroughly as he believed himself able to appreciate her motives, -he had no idea of the extraordinary mixture of personal feeling in -which they were founded, and he credited her with the sole desire to -save Cecilia from an intolerable position. Though he never doubted that -those among whom he lived were as enlightened as he himself now was, -the substance of the posthumous revival of rumours, attributed by many -to gossip arising from Mr. Speid’s actions after his wife’s death, was, -in reality, the only clue possessed by anyone. -</p> -<p> -By an act the generosity of which he admired with all his soul, his -so-called father had legitimized him as far as lay in his power. No -person could bring any proof against him<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-182">[182]</a></span> of being other than he -appeared, and in the eyes of the law he was as much Speid of Whanland -as the man he had succeeded. He admired him all the more when he -remembered that it was not an overwhelming affection for himself which -had led him to take the step, but pure, abstract justice to a human -being, who, through no fault of his own, had come into the world at a -disadvantage. Nevertheless, whatever his legal position, he was an -interloper, a pretender. He had identified himself with Whanland and -loved every stick and stone in it, but he had been masquerading, for -all that. What a trick she had played him, that beautiful creature upon -the wall! -</p> -<p> -That the initials painted on the box and engraved on the frame inside -were C. L. and not C. S. proved one thing. However guilty she had been, -it was no transient influence which had ruined Clementina. Had any -chance revealed the miniature’s existence to Mr. Speid, it would have -explained the letter he had received from her father after his own -refusal by her, and it would have shown him an everyday tragedy upon -which he had unwittingly intruded, to his own undoing and to hers. Like -many another, she had given her affections to a younger son—for Robert, -in inheriting Fullarton, had succeeded a brother—and, her parents being -ambitious, the obstacle which has sundered so many since the world -began had sundered these two also. Mr. Lauder was a violent and -determined man, and his daughter, through fear of him, had kept secret -the engagement which she knew must be a forlorn hope so soon as he -should discover it. When chance, which played traitor to the couple, -brought it to light, the sword fell, and Robert, banished from the -presence of the Lauder family, returned to Fullarton and to the society -of his devoted elder brother, who asked no more than that the younger, -so much cleverer than himself, should share all he had. The miniature, -which he had gone to Edinburgh to sit for, and for which he had caused -the little box to be contrived, was conveyed to Clementina with much -difficulty and some bribery.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-183">[183]</a></span> He had chosen Italian words to surround -it, for he had made the ‘grand tour’ with his brother, and had some -knowledge of that language. There is a fashion, even in sentiment, and, -in those days, Italian was as acceptable a vehicle for it to the polite -world as French would be now. She yielded to circumstances which she -had no more strength to fight and married Mr. Speid a couple of years -later; and she kept the relic locked away among her most cherished -treasures. She had not changed, not one whit, and when, at her -husband’s desire, she sat for her portrait to David Martin, then in the -zenith of his work in the Scottish capital, she held the little box in -her hand, telling the painter it was too pretty to go down to oblivion, -and must be immortalized also. Martin, vastly admiring his sitter, -replied gallantly, and poor Clementina, who never allowed her dangerous -treasure to leave her hand, sat in agony till it was painted, and she -could return it to the locked drawer in which it was kept. There was a -vague hope in her mind that the man she had not ceased to love might, -one day, see the portrait and understand the silent message it -contained. -</p> -<p> -Meanwhile, at Fullarton, Robert, who had been absent when Clementina -came to Whanland as a bride, was trying to cure his grief, and, -superficially, succeeding well enough to make him think himself a -sounder man than he was. -</p> -<p> -He went about among the neighbours far and near, plunged into the -field-sports he loved, and, in so doing, saw a great deal of Mr. -Lamont, of Morphie, and his sister, a rather peculiar but companionable -young woman, whose very absence of feminine charm made him feel an -additional freedom in her society. -</p> -<p> -At this time his elder brother, who had a delicate heart, quitted this -world quietly one morning, leaving the household awestruck and Robert -half frantic with grief. In this second sorrow he clung more closely to -his friends, and was more than ever thrown into the company of Lady -Eliza. To her, this period was the halcyon time of her life, and to -him, there is no knowing what it might have become if<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-184">[184]</a></span> Clementina Speid -had not returned from the tour she was making with her husband, to find -her old lover installed a few miles from her door. Was ever woman so -conspired against by the caprices of Fate? -</p> -<p> -Afterwards, when her short life ended in that stirring of conscience -which opened her lips, she confessed all. She had now lain for years -expiating her sin upon the shore by Garviekirk. -</p> -<p> -And that sin had risen to shadow her son; he remembered how he had been -moved to a certain comprehension on first seeing her pictured face, -without even knowing the sum of the forces against her. Little had he -thought how sorely the price of her misdoing was to fall upon himself. -It would be a heavy price, involving more than the loss of Cecilia, for -it would involve banishment too. He could not stay at Whanland. In -time, possibly, when she had married—he ground his teeth as he told -himself this—when she was the wife of some thrice-fortunate man whose -name was his own, he might return to the things he loved and finish his -life quietly among them. But not this year nor the next, not in five -years nor in ten. He had no more heart for pretence. This was not his -true place; he should never have come to take up a part which the very -gods must have laughed to see him assume. What a dupe, what a fool he -had been! -</p> -<p> -He would not try to see Cecilia again, but he would write to her, and -she should know how little he had understood his real position when he -had asked for her love—how he had believed himself secure against the -stirring-up of a past which no one was sufficiently certain of to bring -against him; which was even indefinite to himself. She should hear that -he had meant to tell her all he knew, and that he believed in her so -firmly as never to doubt what the result would have been. He would bid -her good-bye, irrevocably this time; for she should understand that, -whatever her own feelings, he would not permit her to share his false -position before a world which might try to make her feel it.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-185">[185]</a></span> He -thought of the lady in the Leghorn bonnet, who had sat on the red sofa -at the Miss Robertsons’ house, and whose chance words had first made -him realize the place Cecilia had in his heart. How she and her like -would delight to exercise their clacking tongues in wounding her! How -they would welcome such an opportunity for the commonplace ill-nature -which was as meat and drink to them! But it was an opportunity he would -not give them. -</p> -<p> -So he sat on, determining to sacrifice the greater to the less, and, in -the manliness of his soul, preparing to break the heart of the woman he -loved—to whose mind the approval or disapproval of many ladies in -Leghorn bonnets would be unremarkable, could she but call herself his. -</p> -<p> -In less than a week he had left the country, and, following an instinct -which led him back to the times before he had known Scotland, was on -his way to Spain. -</p> -<p class="end"> -END OF BOOK I -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_19"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-186">[186]</a></span></p> - -<h3 class="book"> -BOOK II -</h3> - -<h4 class="first" id="Chapter_19_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_19_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XIX</span><br /> -<br /> -SIX MONTHS</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -I<small>T</small> was six months since Gilbert Speid had gone from Whanland. Summer, -who often lingers in the north, had stayed late into September, to be -scared away by the forest fires of her successor, Autumn. The leaves -had dropped, and the ice-green light which spreads above the horizon -after sunset on the east coast had ushered in the winter. -</p> -<p> -Christmas, little observed in Scotland, was over; the New Year had -brought its yearly rioting and its general flavour of whisky, goodwill, -and demoralization. Many of the county people had resorted to their -‘town-houses’ in Kaims, where card-parties again held their sway, and -Mrs. Somerville, prominent among local hostesses, dispensed a genteel -hospitality. -</p> -<p> -The friendship between Barclay and Fordyce was well established, for -the young gentleman had paid the lawyer a second visit, even more -soothing to his feelings than the first. In the minds of these allies -Gilbert’s departure had caused a great stir, for Crauford was still at -Kaims when his rival summoned Barclay, and informed him that he was -leaving Whanland for an indefinite time. But, though Fordyce had no -difficulty in deciding that Speid’s action was the result of his being -refused by Cecilia Raeburn, Kaims fitted a new and more elaborate -explanation to the event each time it was mentioned. The matter had -nothing<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-187">[187]</a></span> to do with the young lady, said some. Mr. Speid was ruined. -Anyone who did not know of his disastrous West Indian speculations must -have kept his ears very tight shut. And this school of opinion—a male -one—closed its hands on the top of its cane, and assumed an aspect of -mingled caution and integrity. This view was generally expressed in the -street. -</p> -<p> -In the drawing-rooms more luscious theories throve. Miss Raeburn, as -everyone must have seen, had made a perfect fool of poor Mr. Speid. All -the time she had been flirting—to call it by no worse a name—with that -rich young Fordyce, and had even enticed him back, when his uncle at -last succeeded in getting him out of her way. It was incredible that -Mr. Speid had only now discovered how the land lay! He had taken it -very hard, but surely, he ought to have known what she was! It was -difficult to pity those very blind people. It was also opined that Mr. -Speid’s departure was but another proof of the depravity of those who -set themselves up and were overnice in their airs. He was already a -married man, and justice, in the shape of an incensed Spanish lady—the -mother of five children—had overtaken him while dangling after Miss -Raeburn. With the greatest trouble, the stranger had been got out of -the country unseen. It was a lesson. -</p> -<p> -Among the few who had any suspicions of the truth, or, at least, of a -part of it, was Barclay; for he had been a young clerk in his father’s -office at the time when the first Mr. Speid left Whanland in much the -same way. He could not help suspecting that something connected with -the mystery he remembered was now driving Gilbert from Scotland, for he -scorned no means of inquiry, and had heard through channels he was not -ashamed to employ, of a demeanour in Cecilia which proved it impossible -that she had sent her lover away willingly. Some obstacle had come -between them which was not money; the lawyer had good reasons for -knowing that there was enough of that. He<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-188">[188]</a></span> also knew how devoted Lady -Eliza was to the young woman, and how welcome it would be to her to -have her settled within such easy reach. He did not believe that any -personal dislike on her part had set her against the marriage, for, -however little he liked Gilbert himself, he knew him for a type of man -which does not generally find its enemies among women. He was certain, -in his own mind, that she had stood in the way, and his suspicion of -her reasons for doing so he duly confided to Fordyce, bidding him pluck -up heart; he was willing, he said, to take a heavy bet that a year -hence would see Cecilia at the head of his table. Thus he expressed -himself. -</p> -<p> -‘And I hope it may often see you at it too,’ rejoined Crauford, with -what he considered a particularly happy turn of phrase. Barclay -certainly found no fault with it. -</p> -<p> -Though Crauford’s vanity had made the part of rejected one -insupportable, and therefore spurred him forward, he probably had less -true appreciation of Cecilia than any person who knew her, and in the -satisfactory word ‘ladylike’ he had sunk all her wonderful charm and -unobvious, but very certain, beauty; he would have to be a new man -before they could appeal to him as they appealed to Gilbert. What had -really captivated him was her eminent suitability to great-ladyhood, -for the position of being Mrs. Crauford Fordyce was such an important -one in his eyes that he felt it behoved him to offer it immediately, on -finding anyone who could so markedly adorn it. -</p> -<p> -But, under the manipulation of Barclay, his feelings were growing more -intense, and he lashed himself into a far more ardent state of mind. -The lawyer hated Gilbert with all his heart, and therefore spared no -pains in urging on his rival. His desire to stand well with Fordyce and -his pleasure in frustrating his client jumped the same way, and he had -roused his new friend’s jealousy until he was almost as bitter against -Speid as himself. Crauford, left alone, would probably have recovered -from his disappointment and betaken himself elsewhere, had he not been -stung by<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-189">[189]</a></span> Barclay into a consistent pursuit of his object; and, as it -was upon his worst qualities that the lawyer worked, his character was -beginning to suffer. For all the elder man’s vulgarity, he had a great -share of cleverness in dealing with those who had less brains than -himself, and Fordyce was being flattered into an unscrupulousness of -which no one would have believed him capable. He would have done -anything to worst Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -Meantime, there was consternation at Fordyce Castle. Crauford had no -wish to be more at home than was necessary, and it was only towards the -end of Lady Maria Milwright’s sojourn there that he returned, to find -his mother torn between wrath at his defection and fear lest he should -escape anew. The latter feeling forced her into an acid compliance -towards him, strange to see. But he was impervious to it, and, to the -innocent admiration of Lady Maria, in whose eyes he was something of a -hero, he made no acknowledgment; his mind was elsewhere. Mary and -Agneta looked on timidly, well aware of a volcanic element working -under their feet; and Agneta, who felt rebellion in the air and had -some perception of expediency, made quite a little harvest, obtaining -concessions she had scarce hoped for through her brother, to whom Lady -Fordyce saw herself unable to deny anything in reason. It was a -self-conscious household, and poor Lady Maria, upon whom the whole -situation turned, was the only really peaceful person in it. -</p> -<p> -Macquean was again in charge of Whanland and of such things as remained -in the house; the stable was empty, the picture which had so influenced -Gilbert was put away with its fellows, and the iron box of jewels had -returned to the bankers. The place was silent, the gates closed. -</p> -<p> -Before leaving, Speid had gone to Kaims to bid his cousins good-bye, -and had remained closeted with Miss Hersey for over an hour. He said -nothing of his discovery, and made no allusion to the barrier which had -arisen between him and the woman he loved. He only told her that -Cecilia had refused him at Lady Eliza’s wish, and that,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-190">[190]</a></span> in -consequence, he meant to leave a place where he was continually -reminded of her and take his trouble to Spain, that he might fight it -alone. At Miss Hersey’s age there are few violent griefs, though there -may be many regrets, but it was a real sorrow to her to part with her -kinsman, so great was her pride in him. To her, Lady Eliza’s folly was -inexplicable, and the ‘ill-talk’ on account of which she no longer -visited Mrs. Somerville did not so much as enter her mind. Relations -are the last to hear gossip of their kinsfolk, and the rumours of -thirty years back had only reached her in the vaguest form, to be -looked upon by her with the scorn which scurrilous report merits. That -they had the slightest foundation was an idea which had simply never -presented itself. Very few ideas of any kind presented themselves to -Miss Caroline, and to Miss Hersey, none derogatory to her own family. -</p> -<p> -‘Her ladyship is very wrong, and she will be punished for it,’ said the -old lady, holding her gray head very high. ‘Mr. Speid of Whanland is a -match for any young lady, I can assure her.’ -</p> -<p> -He looked away. Evidently ‘Speid of Whanland’ sounded differently to -himself and to her. He wondered why she did not understand what had -gone against him, but he could not talk about it, even to Miss Hersey. -</p> -<p> -‘You will find plenty as good as Miss Raeburn,’ she continued. ‘You -should show her ladyship that others know what is to their advantage -better than herself.’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert sighed, seeing that his point of view and hers could never -meet. Granny Stirk would have understood him, he knew, for she had -tasted life; but this frail, gentle creature had reached that sexless -femininity of mind which comes after an existence spent apart from men. -And he loved her none the less for her lack of comprehension, knowing -the loyalty of her heart. -</p> -<p> -‘You will come back,’ she said, ‘and, maybe, bring a wife who will put -the like of Miss Raeburn out of your head. I would like to see it, -Gilbert; but Caroline and I are very<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-191">[191]</a></span> old, and I think you will have to -look for news of us on the stone in the churchyard. There are just the -two names to come. But, while we are here, you must tell me anything -that I can do for you after you have gone.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I will write to you, ma’am,’ said Speid, his voice a little thick; -‘and, in any case, I mean to ask you a favour before I go.’ -</p> -<p> -She looked at him with loving eyes. -</p> -<p> -‘I am going to give you my address,’ he said, ‘or, at least, an address -that will eventually find me. I am going to ask you to send me word of -anything that happens to Miss Raeburn.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You should forget her, Gilbert, my dear.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, ma’am! you surely cannot refuse me? I have no one but you of whom -I can ask it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I will do it, Gilbert.’ -</p> -<p> -It was with this understanding that they parted. -</p> -<p> -To Jimmy Stirk and his grandmother his absence made a blank which -nothing could fill. The old woman missed his visits and his talk, his -voice and his step, his friendship which had bridged the gulf between -age and youth, between rich and poor. She was hardly consoled by the -occasional visits of Macquean, who would drop in now and then to -recapitulate to her the circumstances of a departure which had never -ceased to surprise him. He was not cut after her pattern, but she -tolerated him for his master’s sake. -</p> -<p> -From Morphie bits of information had trickled; on the day of his last -visit the servants had let nothing escape them, and Lady Eliza’s face, -as she went about the house, was enough to convince the dullest that -there was tragedy afoot. A maid had been in the passage, who had seen -Gilbert as he left Cecilia. -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’ll no have gotten any word o’ the laird?’ inquired Granny on one of -the first days of the young year, as Macquean stopped at her door. -</p> -<p> -‘Na, na.’ -</p> -<p> -The old woman sighed, but made no gesture of invitation.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-192">[192]</a></span> From behind -her, through the open half of the door, Macquean heard the sound of a -pot boiling propitiously, and a comfortable smell reached him where he -stood. -</p> -<p> -‘A’ was saying that a’ hadna heard just very muckle,’ continued he, his -nostrils wide—‘just a sma’ word——’ -</p> -<p> -‘Come away in-by,’ interrupted the Queen of the Cadgers, standing back, -and holding the door generously open. ‘Maybe ye’ll take a suppie brose; -they’re just newly made. Bide till a’ gie ye spune to them.’ -</p> -<p> -It was warm inside the cottage, and he entered, and felt the contrast -between its temperature and that of the sharp January air with -satisfaction. Granny tipped some of the savoury contents of the black -pot into a basin. -</p> -<p> -‘What was it ye was hearin’ about the laird?’ she asked, as she added a -horn spoon to the concoction, and held it out to him. -</p> -<p> -‘Aw! it was just Wullie Nicol. He was sayin’ that he was thinkin’ the -laird was clean awa’ now. It’s a piecie cauld, d’ye no think?’ replied -Macquean, as well as he could for the pleasures of his occupation. -</p> -<p> -‘But what else was ye to tell me?’ she said, coming nearer. -</p> -<p> -‘There was nae mair nor that. Yon’s grand brose.’ -</p> -<p> -With the exception of the old ladies in the close, no one but Barclay -had heard anything of Speid. Macquean received his wages from the -lawyer, and everything went on as it had done before Gilbert’s return, -now more than a year since. Business letters came to Barclay at -intervals, giving no address and containing no news of their writer, -which were answered by him to a mail office in Madrid. To any -communication which he made outside the matter in hand there was no -reply. Miss Hersey had written twice, and whatever she heard in return -from Speid she confided only to her sister. It was almost as though he -had never been among them. The little roan hack and the cabriolet with -the iron-gray mare were sold. As Wullie Nicol had said, he was ‘clean -awa’ now.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-193">[193]</a></span> -Gilbert’s one thought, when he found himself again on Spanish soil, was -to obliterate each trace and remembrance of his life in Scotland, and -he set his face to Madrid. On arriving, he began to gather round him -everything which could help him to re-constitute life as it had been in -Mr. Speid’s days, and, though he could not get back the house in which -he had formerly lived, he settled not far from it with a couple of -Spanish servants and began to wonder what he should do with his time. -Nothing interested him, nothing held him. Old friends came flocking -round him and he forced himself to respond to their cordiality; but he -had no heart for them or their interests, for he had gone too far on -that journey from which no one ever returns the same, the road to the -knowledge of the strength of fate. Señor Gilbert was changed, said -everyone; it was that cold north which had done it. The only wonder was -that it had not killed him outright. And, after a time, they let him -alone. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -Miss Hersey’s letters did not tell him much; she heeded little of what -took place outside her own house and less since he had gone; only when -Sunday brought its weekly concourse to her drawing-room did she come -into touch with the people round her. Of Lady Eliza, whose Presbyterian -devotions were sheltered by Morphie kirk and who made no visits, she -saw nothing. Now and then the news would reach Spain that ‘Miss Raeburn -was well’ or that ‘Miss Raeburn had ridden into Kaims with her -ladyship,’ but that was all. Gilbert had wished to cut himself -completely adrift and he had his desire. The talk made by his departure -subsided as the circles subside when a stone has been dropped in a -duckpond; only Captain Somerville, seeing Cecilia’s face, longed to -pursue him to the uttermost parts of the earth, and, with oaths and -blows, if need be, to bring him back. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_20"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-194">[194]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_20_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_20_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XX</span><br /> -<br /> -ROCKET</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -T<small>HE</small> January morning was moist and fresh as Lady Eliza and Cecilia -Raeburn, with a groom following them, rode towards that part of the -country where the spacious pasture-land began. The sun was at their -backs and their shadows were shortening in front of them as it rose -higher. The plum-coloured riding-habit was still in existence, a little -more weather-stained, and holding together with a tenacity that -provoked Cecilia, who had pronounced it unfit for human wear and been -disregarded. -</p> -<p> -Rocket, the bay mare, was pulling at her rider and sidling along the -road, taking no count of remonstrance, for she had not been out for -several days. -</p> -<p> -‘I wish you had taken Mayfly, aunt,’ remarked Cecilia, whose horse -walked soberly beside his fidgeting companion. -</p> -<p> -‘And why, pray?’ inquired the other, testily. -</p> -<p> -‘Rocket has never seen hounds and I am afraid she will give you some -trouble when she does. At any rate, she will tire you out.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Pshaw!’ replied Lady Eliza. -</p> -<p> -Six months had passed Cecilia, bringing little outward change, though, -thinking of them, she felt as though six years had gone by in their -stead; her spirits were apparently as even, her participation in her -aunt’s interests apparently the same, for she was one who, undertaking -a resolve, did not split it into two and fulfil the half she liked -best. Each of our acts is made of two parts, the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-195">[195]</a></span> spirit and the -letter, and it is wonderful how nominally honest people will divide -them. Not that there is aught wrong in the division; the mistake lies -in taking credit for the whole. She had resolved to pay for her aunt’s -peace of mind with her own happiness, as it seemed that it could be -bought at no other price, and she was determined that that peace of -mind should be complete. She gave full measure and the irrevocableness -of her gift helped her to go on with her life. It was curious that a -stranger, lately introduced to her, and hearing that she lived with -Lady Eliza Lamont, had called her ‘Mrs. Raeburn,’ in the belief that -she was a widow. It was not an unnatural mistake, for there was -something about her that suggested it. Her one day’s engagement to her -lover was a subject never touched upon by the two women. Once, Lady -Eliza had suspected that all was not well with her and had spoken; once -in her life Cecilia had fostered a misunderstanding. -</p> -<p> -‘I could not have married him,’ she had replied; ‘I have thought over -it well.’ -</p> -<p> -No tone in her voice had hinted at two interpretations, and the elder -woman had read the answer by the light of her own feelings. -</p> -<p> -The laird with whose harriers they were to hunt that day lived at a -considerable distance. It was not often, in those times before railways -and horse-boxes were invented, that there was hunting of any sort -within reach of Morphie. There were no foxhounds in the county and no -other harriers, though Lady Eliza had, for years, urged Fullarton to -keep them; but the discussion had always ended in his saying that he -could not afford such an expense and in her declaring that she would -keep a pack herself. But things had gone on as they were, and a dozen -or so of days in a season was all that either could generally get. This -year she had only been out twice. -</p> -<p> -The meet was at a group of houses too small to be called a village, but -distinguished by the presence of a public-house<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-196">[196]</a></span> and the remains of an -ancient stone cross. A handful of gentlemen, among whom was Robert -Fullarton, had assembled on horseback when they arrived, and these, -with a few farmers, made up the field. Cecilia and her aunt were the -only females in the little crowd, except a drunken old woman whose -remarks were of so unbridled a nature that she had to be taken away -with some despatch, and the wife of the master, who, drawn up -decorously in a chaise at a decent distance from the public-house, cast -scathing looks upon Lady Eliza’s costume. Urchins, ploughmen, and a few -nondescript men who meant to follow on foot, made a background to the -hounds swarming round the foot of the stone cross and in and out -between the legs of the whips’ horses. The pack, a private one, -consisted of about fifteen couple. -</p> -<p> -Rocket, who expressed her astonishment at the sight of hounds by -lashing out at them whenever occasion served, was very troublesome and -her rider was obliged to keep her pacing about outside the fringe of -bystanders until they moved off; she could not help wishing she had -done as Cecilia suggested. The mare was always hot and now she bid fair -to weary her out, snatching continually at her bit and never standing -for a moment. -</p> -<p> -‘Her ladyship is very fond of that mare,’ observed Robert, as he and -Cecilia found themselves near each other. ‘Personally, good-looking as -she is, I could never put up with her. She has no vice, though.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It is her first sight of hounds,’ said his companion, ‘and no other -person would have the patience to keep her as quiet as she is. My -aunt’s saddle could so easily be changed on to Mayfly. She will be worn -out before the day is over.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He will be a bold man who suggests it,’ said he, with a smile which -irritated her unreasonably. -</p> -<p> -‘If he were yourself, sir, he might succeed. There’s Mayfly behind that -tree with James. It could be done in a moment.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-197">[197]</a></span> -‘It is not my affair, my dear young lady,’ said he. -</p> -<p> -They were in a part of the country where they could no longer see the -Grampians as they looked into the eastern end of the Vale of -Strathmore. Brown squares of plough land were beginning to vary the -pastures, and, instead of the stone walls—or ‘dykes,’ as they are -called on the coast—the fields were divided by thorn hedges, planted -thick, and, in some cases, strengthened with fencing. On their right, -the ground ran up to a fringe of scrub and whins under which dew was -still grey round the roots; the spiders’ webs, threading innumerable -tiny drops, looked like pieces of frosted wool, as they spread their -pigmy awnings between the dried black pods of the broom and the hips of -the rose briers. -</p> -<p> -The rank grass and the bracken had been beaten almost flat by the -storms of winter, and they could get glimpses of the pack moving about -among the bare stems and the tussocks. Fullarton and Cecilia stood in -the lower ground with Lady Eliza, whose mare had quieted down a good -deal as the little handful of riders spread further apart. -</p> -<p> -As the three looked up, from the outer edge of the undergrowth a brown -form emerged and sped like a silent arrow down the slope towards the -fields in front of them; a quiver of sound came from the whins as a -hound’s head appeared from the scrub. Then, in an instant, the air was -alive with music, and the pack, like a white ribbon, streamed down the -hillside. The whip came slithering and sliding down the steepest part -of the bank, dispersing that portion of the field which had -injudiciously taken up its position close to its base, right and left. -The two women and Fullarton, who were well clear of the rising ground, -took their horses by the head, and Robert’s wise old horse, with -nostrils dilated and ears pointing directly on the hounds, gave an -appreciative shiver; Rocket lifted her forefeet, then, as she felt the -touch of Lady Eliza’s heel, bounded forward through the plough. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-198">[198]</a></span> -They were almost in line as they came to the low fence which stretched -across their front, and, beyond which, the hounds were running in a -compact body. Rocket, who had been schooled at Morphie, jumped well in -the paddock, and, though Cecilia turned rather anxiously in her saddle -when she had landed on the further side of the fence, she saw, with -satisfaction, that Lady Eliza was going evenly along some forty yards -wide of her. They had got a better start than anyone else, but the rest -of the field was coming up and there seemed likely to be a crush at a -gate ahead of them which was being opened by a small boy. Fullarton -ignored it and went over the hedge; his horse, who knew many things, -and, among them, how to take care of himself, measuring the jump to an -inch and putting himself to no inconvenience. In those days few women -really rode to hounds, and, to those present who had come from a -distance, Lady Eliza and her niece were objects of some astonishment. -</p> -<p> -‘Gosh me!’ exclaimed a rough old man on a still rougher pony, as he -came abreast of Cecilia, ‘I’ll no say but ye can ride bonnie! Wha -learned ye?’ -</p> -<p> -‘My aunt,’ replied she. -</p> -<p> -‘Will yon be her?’ he inquired, shifting his ash plant into his left -hand and pointing with his thumb. -</p> -<p> -She assented. -</p> -<p> -‘Gosh!’ said he again, as he dropped behind. -</p> -<p> -They were running straight down the strath along the arable land; the -fields were large and Cecilia was relieved to see that Rocket was -settling down and that, though she jumped big, she was carrying Lady -Eliza well. The horse she herself was riding had a good mouth, and -liked hounds; and when they turned aside up a drain, and, crossing the -high road, were running through more broken ground, she found herself -almost the only person with them, except the master, the first whip, -and Fullarton, who was coming up behind. They were heading rather -north-west and were in sight of the Grampians again, and dykes began to -intersect<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-199">[199]</a></span> the landscape. Now and then, patches of heather and bits of -swamp intruded themselves on the cultivation. Though they had really -only come a very few miles, they had got into a different part of the -world, and she was beginning to think they would have a long ride home, -considering how far they had come to the meet and how steadily they had -been running inland, when the hounds checked in a small birch -plantation. The fresh air blew from the hills through the leafless -silver stems and the heavy clouds which hung over them seemed laden -with coming rain. The ground had been rising all the way and some of -the horses were rather blown, for, though the ascent was gradual, they -had come fast. The old man on the rough pony got off and stood, the -rein over his arm, on the outskirts of the trees; though he weighed -fifteen stone he had the rudiments of humanity and his beast’s rough -coat was dripping. -</p> -<p> -‘I’m thinking I’ll awa’ hame,’ he remarked to an acquaintance. -</p> -<p> -Cecilia was just looking round for Lady Eliza when an old hound’s -tongue announced his discovery, and the pack made once more, with their -heads down, for the lower ground. -</p> -<p> -‘Down again to the fields, I do believe,’ said Fullarton’s voice. ‘That -horse of yours carries you perfectly, Cecilia.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Do you know anything of my aunt?’ said she, as the hounds turned into -a muddy lane between high banks. -</p> -<p> -‘She was going well when I saw her,’ he replied. ‘I think she wants to -save Rocket as it is her first day. It does not do to sicken a horse -with hounds at the beginning. Yes, there they go—westward again—down -to the strath. I doubt but they changed their hare in the birches.’ -</p> -<p> -In the first quarter of an hour he had observed how Rocket’s vehemence -was giving way to the persuasion of Lady Eliza’s excellent hands, and -how well the mare carried her over the fences they met. It was a -pleasure to see her<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-200">[200]</a></span> enjoying herself, he thought; of late, he had -feared she was ageing, but to-day, she might be twenty-five, as far as -nerve or spirits were concerned. What a wonderful woman she was, how -fine a horsewoman, how loyal a friend! It did him good to see her -happy. It was a pity she had never married, though he could not imagine -her in such a situation and he smiled at the idea. But it <i>was</i> a -pity. It looked as if Cecilia would go the same way, though he could -imagine her married well enough. Two suitors in a year, both young, -both well-off, both well-looking and both sent about their business—one -even as far as Spain! The girl was a fool. -</p> -<p> -But, meanwhile, in spite of Fullarton’s satisfaction, Lady Eliza had -not got much good out of her day. It was when she was crossing the road -that she felt the mare going short; she was a little behind her -companions, and, by the time she had pulled up and dismounted, they -were galloping down the further side of the hedge which bounded it. -Though Rocket was resting her near foreleg she would hardly stand for a -moment; with staring eyes and head in the air she looked after the -vanishing field and Lady Eliza could hardly get near her to examine the -foot which, she suspected, had picked up a stone. She twisted round and -round, chafing and snatching at the reins; she had not had enough to -tire her in the least degree and her blood was up at the unwonted -excitement and hot with the love of what she had seen. Lady Eliza had -given orders to the groom who was riding Mayfly to keep the direction -of the hounds in his eye and to have the horse waiting, as near to -where they finished as possible, for her to ride home; as Fullarton had -said, she did not want to give Rocket a long day, and she meant, unless -the hounds were actually running, to leave them in the early afternoon. -Probably he was not far off at this moment; but, looking up and down -the road, she could see no one, not even a labourer nor a tramp. She -stood exasperated by the short-sighted stupidity of the beast. Again -and again she<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-201">[201]</a></span> tried to take the foot up, but Rocket persisted in -swerving whenever she came near; of all created beings, a horse can be -the most enraging. -</p> -<p> -At last she got in front of her, and, slipping the reins over her arm, -bent down, raising the foot almost by main force; wedged tightly -between the frog and the shoe was a three-cornered flint. -</p> -<p> -She straightened herself with a sigh, for she felt that there was no -chance of seeing hounds again that day. The stone was firm and it would -take some time to dislodge it. She led the mare to a sign-post which -stood at the roadside with all the officious, pseudo-human air of such -objects, and tied her silly head short to it; then, having wedged her -knee between her own knees, after the manner of smiths, began to hammer -the flint with another she had picked up on a stone-heap. The thing was -as tightly fixed in the foot as if it had grown there. -</p> -<p> -When, at last, she had succeeded in getting it out, her back was so -stiff that she sat down on a milestone which stood close by, offering -information to the world, and began to clean her gloves, which her -occupation had made very dirty. There was no use in galloping, for the -whole field must be miles away by this time, and her only chance of -coming up with it was the possibility of the hounds doubling back on -the road. She determined to stay about the place where she was and -listen. She mounted from her milestone, after endless frustrated -attempts, and walked Rocket as quietly along the road as she could -prevail upon her to go; luck was undoubtedly against her. -</p> -<p> -Has any reader of mine ever ridden in the pitch-dark, unwitting that -there is another horse near, and been silently apprized of the fact by -the manner of going of the one under him? If so, he will know the exact -sensations which Rocket communicated to her rider. Lady Eliza’s -attention was centred in the distance in front of her, but she became -aware, through the mare, that an unseen horse was not far off. In -another moment, she saw the rough<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-202">[202]</a></span> pony and the rough old man who had -accosted Cecilia emerging from a thicket half-way up the slope above -her. -</p> -<p> -‘What ails ye?’ he enquired, as he reached the road and observed, from -her looks, that she had been struggling with something. -</p> -<p> -‘Have you seen the hounds?’ she cried, ignoring his question. -</p> -<p> -‘I’m awa’ hame,’ replied he, on the same principle. -</p> -<p> -‘But which way have the hounds gone? God bless me! can’t you hear?’ she -cried, raising her voice louder. -</p> -<p> -‘Awa’ there!’ he shouted, waving his arm in the direction in which she -was going. ‘A’ saw them coming doon again as a’ cam’ ower the brae; -they’ll be doon across the road by this. Awa’ ye go!’ -</p> -<p> -Before the words were well out of his mouth she was off, scattering a -shower of liquid mud over him. -</p> -<p> -‘Fiech! ye auld limmer!’ he exclaimed, as he rubbed his face, watching -her angrily out of sight. -</p> -<p> -As she came to a bit of road where the land sloped away gently to her -left, she saw the hounds—who, as Fullarton guessed, had changed their -hare—in the fields below her. They had checked again, as they crossed -the highway, and just where she stood, there was a broken rail in the -fence. She could tell by the marks in the mud that they had gone over -it at that spot. She had an excellent chance of seeing something of the -sport yet, for Rocket was as fresh as when she had come out and the -land between her and the hounds was all good grass. -</p> -<p> -She turned her at the broken rail, riding quietly down the slope; then, -once on the level ground of the strath, she set her going. -</p> -<p> -She put field after field behind her; for though, on the flat, she -could not see far ahead, the ground was wet and the hoof-prints were -deep enough to guide her. Rocket could gallop, and, in spite of her -recent sins, she began to think that she liked her better than ever. -She had bought her on her own initiative, having taken a fancy to her -at a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-203">[203]</a></span> sale, and had ridden her for more than a year. It was from her -back that she had first seen Gilbert Speid at Garviekirk. Fullarton, -while admitting her good looks, had not been enthusiastic, and Cecilia -had said that she was too hot and tried to dissuade her from the -purchase; she remembered that she had been very much put out with the -girl at the time and had asked her whether she supposed her to be made -of anything breakable. Her niece had said ‘no,’ but added that she -probably would be when she had ridden the mare. Cecilia could be vastly -impudent when she chose; her aunt wondered if she had been impudent to -Fordyce. She did not pursue the speculation, for, as she sailed through -an open gate, she found herself in the same field with the tail end of -the hunt and observed that some of the horses looked as though they had -had enough. There must have been a sharp burst, she suspected, while -she was struggling with Rocket near the sign-post. Evidently Fullarton -and Cecilia were in front. -</p> -<p> -She passed the stragglers, and saw Robert’s old black horse labouring -heavily in a strip of plough on the near side of a stout thickset hedge -which hid the hounds from her view. Rocket saw him too and began to -pull like a fiend; her stall at Morphie was next to the one in which he -invariably stood when his master rode there; that being frequently, she -knew him as well as she did her regular stable companions. Lady Eliza -let her go, rejoicing to have recovered the ground she had lost, and to -be likely, after all her difficulties, to see the end of her morning’s -sport. -</p> -<p> -Fullarton was making for a thin place in the hedge, for his horse was -getting tired and he was a heavy man; besides which, he knew that there -was a deep drop on the other side. She resolved to take it at the same -gap and began to hold Rocket hard, in order to give him time to get -over before she was upon him. -</p> -<p> -But Rocket did not understand. The wisdom of the old hunter was not -hers and she only knew that the woman on<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-204">[204]</a></span> her back meant to baulk her -of the glories in front. Her rider tried to pull her wide of the black -horse, but in vain; she would have the same place. Robert was about -twenty yards from her when he jumped and she gathered herself together -for a rush. Lady Eliza could not hold her. -</p> -<p> -To her unutterable horror, just as the mare was about to take off, she -saw that Robert’s horse had stumbled in landing and was there, in front -of her—below her—recovering his feet on the grass. -</p> -<p> -With an effort of strength which those who witnessed it never forgot, -she wrenched Rocket’s head aside, almost in mid-air. As they fell -headlong, she had time, before her senses went, to see that she had -attained her object. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -For Fullarton stood, unhurt, not five paces from where she lay. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_21"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-205">[205]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_21_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_21_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXI</span><br /> -<br /> -THE BROKEN LINK</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -I<small>N</small> an upper room, whose window looked into a mass of bare branches, -Lady Eliza lay dying. This last act she was accomplishing with a -deliberation which she had given to nothing else in her life; for it -was two days since the little knot of horrified sportsmen had lifted -her on to the hurdle which someone had run to fetch from a neighbouring -farm. Rocket, unhurt, but for a scratch or two, had rolled over her -twice and she had not fallen clear. -</p> -<p> -The hounds had just killed when Cecilia, summoned by a stranger who had -pursued her for nearly half a mile, came galloping back to find her -unconscious figure laid upon the grass. The men who stood round made -way for her as she sprang from her horse. She went down on her knees -beside her aunt and took one of her helpless hands. -</p> -<p> -‘She is not dead?’ she said, looking at Fullarton with wild eyes. -</p> -<p> -She was not dead, and, but for a few bruises, there were no marks to -show what had happened; for her injuries were internal, and, when, at -last, the endless journey home was over and the two doctors from Kaims -had made their examination, Cecilia had heard the truth. The -plum-coloured habit might be put away, for its disreputable career was -done and Lady Eliza would not need it again. She had had her last ride. -In a few days she would come out of the house; but, for the first time, -perhaps, since it had known her, she would pass the stable door without -going in. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-206">[206]</a></span> -She had been carried every step of the way home, Cecilia and Fullarton -riding one on either side, and, while someone had gone to Kaims for a -doctor, another had pushed his tired horse forward to Morphie to get a -carriage. But, when it met them a few miles from the end of their -march, it had been found impossible to transfer her to it, for -consciousness was returning and each moment was agony. The men had -expressed their willingness to go on, and Robert, though stiff from his -fall, had taken his turn manfully. A mattress had been spread on the -large dining-room table and on it they had laid the hurdle with its -load. Another doctor had been brought from the town to assist his -partner in the examination he thought fit to make before risking the -difficult transport upstairs. Fullarton, when it was over, had taken -one of the men apart. It might be hours, it might even be a couple of -days, he was told. It was likely that there would be suffering, but -there would be no pain at the end, he thought. The spine, as well as -other organs, was injured. -</p> -<p> -And so, at last, they had carried her up to her own room. Cecilia was -anxious to have one on the ground-floor made ready, but she had prayed -to be taken to the familiar place, and the doctors, knowing that -nothing could avail now, one way or the other, had let her have her -will. -</p> -<p> -She had never had any doubts about her own condition. Before Cecilia -nerved herself to tell her the verdict that had been passed, she had -spoken. -</p> -<p> -‘Cecilia, my little girl,’ she had said, ‘what will become of you? What -will you do? If it were not for you, child, God knows I should not mind -going. But I can do nothing for you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘If I could only go with you,’ whispered Cecilia, laying her face down -on the sheet. -</p> -<p> -‘Perhaps I was wrong,’ continued Lady Eliza, ‘perhaps I have done harm. -I knew how little I could leave you; there were others who would have -taken you. And you were such a nice little girl, Cecilia, but so thin -and shy ...<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-207">[207]</a></span> and I shall not see you for a long time ... we went to see -the horses ... look, child!... tell James to come here. Can’t you see -that the mare’s head-collar is coming off?... Run, Cecilia, I tell you!’ -</p> -<p> -In the intervals between the pain and delirium which tortured her for -the first few nights and days, her one cry was about Cecilia—what would -become of Cecilia? -</p> -<p> -Through the dark hours the girl sat soothing her and holding the -feverish hand as she listened to the rambling talk. Now she was with -the horses, now back in the old days when her brother was alive, now -talking to Fullarton, now straying among the events of the past months; -but always returning again to what weighed on her mind, Cecilia’s -future. Occasionally she would speak to her as though she were -Fullarton, or Fordyce, or even James the groom. Worst of all were the -times when her pain was almost more than she could bear. -</p> -<p> -A woman had been got from the town to help in nursing her, a good -enough soul, but, with one of those strange whims which torment the -sick, Lady Eliza could not endure her in the room, and she sat in the -dressing-room waiting to do anything that was wanted. Trained nurses -were unknown outside hospitals in those days. -</p> -<p> -Robert had remained all night at Morphie after the accident and had sat -by the bedside while she was conscious of his presence. -</p> -<p> -‘I owe you my life,’ he said to her; ‘oh, Eliza! why did you do that? -My worthless existence could have so well been spared!’ -</p> -<p> -He went home in the morning, to return again later, and Cecilia, who -had been resting, went back to her post. The doctor now said that his -patient might linger for days and departed to his business in Kaims for -a few hours. -</p> -<p> -‘Robert!’ said Lady Eliza, suddenly. -</p> -<p> -‘It is I, ma’am; here I am,’ answered the girl, laying her fingers upon -her arm; there was no recognition in<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-208">[208]</a></span> the eyes which stared, with -unnatural brilliance, into her face. -</p> -<p> -‘Robert,’ said the voice from the bed, ‘I can never go to Whanland; you -shall not try to take me there ... she is not there—I know that very -well—she is out on the sands—dead and buried under the sand—— But -she can’t marry him.... I could never see her if she went to -Whanland.... How can I part with her? Cecilia, you will not go?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Here I am, dearest aunt, here I am.’ She leaned over Lady Eliza. ‘You -can see me; I am close to you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Is that impostor gone?’ asked Lady Eliza. -</p> -<p> -‘Yes, yes, he has gone,’ answered Cecilia, in a choked voice. -</p> -<p> -A look came into Lady Eliza’s face as though her true mind were -battling, like a swimmer, with the waves of delirium. -</p> -<p> -‘I have never told Cecilia that he is Fullarton’s son,’ she said, ‘I -have never told anyone.... She was a bad woman—she has taken him from -me and now her son will take my little girl.... Mr. Speid, your face is -cut—come away—come away. Cecilia, we will go to the house.... But that -is Fullarton standing there. Robert, I want to say something to you. -Robert, you know I did not mean to speak like that! Dear Robert, have -you forgiven me?... But what can I do about my little girl? What can I -do for her, Fullarton?’ -</p> -<p> -She held Cecilia’s fingers convulsively. The girl kept her hand closed -round the feeble one on the bed-cover, as though she would put her own -life and strength into it with her grasp; she fancied sometimes that it -quieted the sick woman in some strange way. She sat behind the curtain -like a stone; there was little time to think over what she had just -heard, for the wheels of the doctor’s gig were sounding in the avenue -and she must collect herself to meet him. He was to stay for the night. -But now everything that had been dark was plain to her. Her lover was<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-209">[209]</a></span> -Fullarton’s son! Down to the very depths she saw into her aunt’s heart, -and tears, as hot as any she had shed for her own griefs, fell from her -eyes. -</p> -<p> -‘Thank God, I did what I could for her,’ she said. -</p> -<p> -The night that followed was quieter than the one preceding it and she -sat up, having had a long rest, insisting that the doctor should go to -bed; while her aunt’s mind ran on things which were for her ears alone, -she did not wish for his presence. Towards morning he came in and -forced her to leave the bedside, and, worn out, she slept on till it -was almost noon. She awoke to find him standing over her. -</p> -<p> -‘Lady Eliza is conscious,’ he said, ‘and she is not suffering—at least, -not in body. But she is very uneasy and anxious to see you. I fancy -there is something on her mind. Do what you can to soothe her, Miss -Raeburn, for I doubt if she will last the day; all we can hope for her -now is an easy death.’ -</p> -<p> -Lady Eliza lay with her eyes closed; as Cecilia entered she opened them -and smiled. She went to the bed. -</p> -<p> -‘How tired you look,’ said Lady Eliza. ‘It will soon be over, my dear, -and we shall have parted at last. Don’t cry, child. What a good girl -you have been! Ah, my dear, I could die happy if it were not for you. I -have nothing to leave you but a few pounds a year and my own belongings -and the horses. Morphie will go to relations I have never seen. What am -I to do for you? What are you to do? Oh, Cecilia! I should have laid by -more. But I never thought of this—of dying like this—and I looked to -your marrying. I have been a bad friend to you—I see that now that I -come to lie here.’ -</p> -<p> -‘If you speak in that way you will break my heart,’ said Cecilia, -covering her face with her hands. -</p> -<p> -‘Come close; come where I can see you. You must make me a promise,’ -said Lady Eliza; ‘you must promise me that you will marry. Crauford -Fordyce will come back—I know that he will, for Fullarton has told me -so. I said it was useless, but that is different now. Cecilia, I can’t<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-210">[210]</a></span> -leave you like this, with no one to protect you and no money—promise me -when he comes, that you will say yes.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, aunt! oh, dear aunt!’ cried Cecilia. ‘Oh, not that, not that!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Promise me,’ urged Lady Eliza. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, anything but that—do not ask me that! There is only one man in the -world I can ever love. It is the same now as on the day he left.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Love is not for everybody,’ said Lady Eliza, slowly. ‘Some have to do -without it all their lives.’ -</p> -<p> -There was no sound in the room for a little time. -</p> -<p> -‘The world looks different now,’ began Lady Eliza again; ‘I don’t know -if I was right to do as I did about Gilbert Sp—about Whanland. I am a -wicked woman, my dear, and I cannot forgive—but you don’t know about -that.’ -</p> -<p> -‘If he comes back, aunt—if he comes back?’ -</p> -<p> -‘But you cannot wait all your life for that. He is gone and he has said -he will not come back. Put that away from you; I am thinking only of -you—believe me, my darling. I beg of you, Cecilia, I pray you. You know -I shall never be able to ask anything again, soon.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Give me time,’ she sobbed, terribly moved. -</p> -<p> -‘In a year, Cecilia—in a year?’ -</p> -<p> -Cecilia rose and went to the window. Outside, over the bare boughs, -some pigeons from the dovecot were whirling in the air. Her heart was -tortured within her. Crauford was almost abhorrent to her but it seemed -as though the relentless driving of fate were forcing her towards him. -She saw no escape. Why had Gilbert gone! His letter had made no mention -of Fullarton’s name and he had only written that he could not ask her -to share with him a position, which, as he now knew, was thoroughly -understood by the world and which she would find unbearable. In his -honesty, he had said nothing that should make her think of him as -anything but a bygone episode in her life, no vow of love, none of -remembrance. Even if she knew where he had gone she could not appeal to -him after that. She<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-211">[211]</a></span> looked back at Lady Eliza’s face on the pillow, -now so white, with the shadow of coming death traced on it. She had -thought that she had given up all to buy her peace, but it seemed as if -there were still a higher price to be paid. As she thought of Crauford, -of his dull vanity, of his slow perceptions, of his all-sufficing -egotism, she shuddered. His personality was odious to her. She hated -his heavy, smooth, coarse face and his heavier manner, never so hateful -as when he deemed himself most pleasant. She must think of herself, not -as a woman with a soul and a body, but as a dead thing that can neither -feel nor hope. What mattered it what became of her now? She had lost -all, absolutely all. It only remained for her to secure a quiet end to -the one creature left her for a pitiful few hours. -</p> -<p> -She went back and stood by the pillow. The dumb question that met her -touched her to the heart. -</p> -<p> -‘I will promise what you wish,’ she said, steadily. ‘In a year I will -marry him if he asks me. But if, if’—she faltered for a moment and -turned away—‘not if Gilbert Speid comes back. Aunt, tell me that I have -made you happy!’ -</p> -<p> -‘I can rest now,’ said Lady Eliza. -</p> -<p> -In spite of the predictions of the doctor, the days went on and still -she lingered, steadily losing strength, but with a mind at ease and a -simple acceptance of her case. She had not cared for Crauford, but he -would stand between Cecilia and a life of poverty, of even possible -hardship, and she knew that his faults were those that could only -injure himself. He would never be unkind to his wife, she felt sure. -The world was too bad a place for a beautiful young woman to stand -alone in, and Gilbert would not come back. Why should he when the -causes of his going could not be altered? Now, lying at the gate of -another life, this one, as she said, looked different. Cecilia had told -her, months ago, that she could never marry Speid, but her vision had -cleared enough to show her that she should not have believed her. -However, he was gone. -</p> -<p> -Her mind was generally clear now: bouts of pain there<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-212">[212]</a></span> were, and, at -night, hours of wandering talk; but her days were calm, and, as life -lost its grip, suffering was loosening its hold too. -</p> -<p> -It was late one night when Cecilia, grudging every moment spent away -from the bedside, saw that a change had come over her. She had been -sleeping, more the sleep of exhaustion than of rest, and, as she awoke, -the girl knew that their parting must be near. The doctor was due at -any moment, for he slept at Morphie every night, going to his other -patients in the day; he was a hard-worked man. She sat listening for -his coming. -</p> -<p> -The house was very quiet as she heard his wheels roll into the -courtyard. His answer to her question was the one she expected; there -was little time left. She ran out to the stable herself and sent a man -on horseback to Fullarton. -</p> -<p> -‘Lose no time,’ she said, as she saw him turn away. -</p> -<p> -When she re-entered the room the doctor looked at her with meaning -eyes. -</p> -<p> -‘I feel very weak,’ said Lady Eliza, ‘don’t go far from me, my dear. -Cecilia, is Fullarton here?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I have sent for him.’ -</p> -<p> -She took her seat again within sight of the eyes that always sought her -own; they were calm now and she knew that the chain which had held the -passing soul back from peace was broken, for she had broken it with her -own hand. Whatever the consequences, whatever she might be called upon -to go through, she was glad. When the time should come to face the -cost, she would find courage for it. -</p> -<p> -‘You do not wish to see the minister again?’ she asked, in a little -time. He had visited Lady Eliza once. -</p> -<p> -‘There is no more to say. Cecilia, do you think I shall go before -Fullarton comes?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I have told them to be quick. They have taken Rocket.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Oh—Rocket. I shall not see Rocket again. She was a good mare. But I -must not think of that now; perhaps I have thought too much of horses.’ -</p> -<p> -It was nearly an hour since her messenger had gone when<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-213">[213]</a></span> Cecilia looked -anxiously at the clock. The doctor had given Lady Eliza what stimulant -she could swallow to keep her alive till Fullarton should come, and, -though she could scarcely turn her head, her dying ears were listening -for his step at the door. It came at last. -</p> -<p> -‘I am here, my lady,’ he whispered, as he took Cecilia’s place. -</p> -<p> -‘I have been wearying for you, Robert,’ she said, ‘it is time to say -good-bye. You have been good to me.’ -</p> -<p> -He slipped his arm under the pillow and raised her till her head leaned -against his shoulder. She was past feeling pain. Instead of the wig she -had always insisted upon wearing, a few light locks of her own grey -hair strayed on her forehead from under the lace-edged scarf Cecilia -had put round her, softening her face. She looked strangely young. -</p> -<p> -Robert could not speak. -</p> -<p> -‘Eliza——’ he began, but his voice broke. -</p> -<p> -‘Be good to Cecilia, Fullarton. My little girl—if I had done -differently——’ -</p> -<p> -Cecilia rose from her knees and leaned over Fullarton to kiss her. -</p> -<p> -‘Aunt, I have promised. All will be well with me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Yes, yes, I know. I am happy. Robert——’ -</p> -<p> -With an effort she raised her hand, whiter, more fragile than when he -had admired it as they sat in the garden; even in her death she -remembered that moment. And, as, for the first and last time in her -life, he laid his lips upon it, the light in her eyes went out. -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p> -It was nearing sunrise when he left Cecilia in the dark house, and -daylight was beginning to look blue through the chinks of the shutter -as it met the shine of the candles. -</p> -<p> -‘I will come back to-day,’ he said; ‘there will be a great many things -I must help you about. To-morrow you must come to Fullarton.’ -</p> -<p> -‘And leave her?’ she exclaimed. -</p> -<p> -‘If her friendship for me had been less,’ said he, as they<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-214">[214]</a></span> parted, -‘you and I would have been happier to-day. My God! what a sacrifice!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Do you call that friendship?’ she cried, facing him, straight and -white in the dimness of the hall. ‘Is <i>that</i> what you call friendship? -Mr. Fullarton, have you never understood?’ -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p> -Fullarton rode home in the breaking morning, his long coat buttoned -high round his neck. It was chilly and the new day was rising on a -world poor and grey, a world which, yesterday, had held more than he -understood, and to-day, would hold less than he needed. His loss was -heavy on him and he knew that he would feel it more each hour. But what -bore him down was the tardy understanding of what he had done when he -forged the link just broken. He had accepted a life as a gift, without -thanks and without the knowledge of what he did, for he had been too -intent upon himself to see the proportions of anything. -</p> -<p> -Now only was he to realize how much she had lightened for him the -burden of his barren life. How often he had seen in her face the -forgiveness of his ungracious words, the condoning of his little -selfishnesses, how often known her patience with his ill-humours! She, -who was so impatient, had she ever been ungentle with him? Once only. -It was not so many months since she had asked his pardon for it as they -sat on the garden bench. With what magnanimity he had forgiven her! -</p> -<p> -He entered the house and sat down at the pale fire which a housemaid -had just lit. His heart was too worn, too numb, too old for tears; it -could only ache. His butler, an Englishman who had been with him twenty -years, came in and put some wine on the table, but he did not turn his -head; the man poured out a glass and brought it to him. -</p> -<p> -‘It will do you good, sir,’ he said, ‘and your bed is ready upstairs. -You should try to sleep, sir, if you are going to see her ladyship -again to-day.’ -</p> -<p> -Robert looked up. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -‘Her ladyship is dead,’ he said. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_22"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-215">[215]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_22_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_22_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXII</span><br /> -<br /> -CECILIA SEES THE WILD GEESE</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -T<small>HERE</small> are some periods in life when the heart, from very excess of -misery, finds a spurious relief; when pain has so dulled the nerves, -that, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, we sink into an endurance that -is not far from peace. -</p> -<p> -Thus it was with Cecilia Raeburn. When the vault in the little cemetery -between Morphie House and Morphie Kirk had been closed over Lady Eliza, -Robert brought her and all her belongings to Fullarton, in accordance -with a promise he had made at the bedside of his friend. She went with -him passively, once that the coffin had been taken away, for the house, -after the gloom and silence of its drawn blinds, was beginning to -resume its original look and the sight hurt her. She had been uprooted -many times since her early youth, and, like a wayfarer, she must take -the road again. Her last rest had continued for fourteen happy years -whose happiness made it all the harder to look forward. Her next would -be Fullarton, and, after that, possibly—probably, wherever the solid -heir to the house of Fordyce should pitch his tent. But a year was a -respite, for who knew what might happen in a year? He might transfer -his unwelcome attentions to someone else, or death, even, might step in -to save her; she had just seen how near he could creep without sign or -warning. She would not look forward, but, in her secret heart, she -could not banish the faint hope that Gilbert might come back. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-216">[216]</a></span> -All the dead woman’s possessions which had passed to herself she had -brought to Fullarton. Necessity had compelled her to sell the furniture -and the horses; and the sight of the former being carried away from its -familiar place was softened to her by the fact that Robert had bought -it all. He had also secured Rocket; and, although the mare’s headlong -impatience had dug her owner’s grave, she had been so much loved by -Lady Eliza that Cecilia could scarce have endured to think of her in -strange hands. She had wished to give her to Fullarton, but he, knowing -that each pound must be of importance to her, had refused to accept the -gift. Rocket now stood in a stall next to the black horse she had -followed with such fatal haste. -</p> -<p> -Among the many things for which Cecilia was grateful to Fullarton, not -the least was the consideration which moved him to forbid Crauford the -house. He was aware that his nephew meant to recommence his suit, and -though, knowing her and being ignorant of Lady Eliza’s dying desire, he -did not think she would accept him now more than before, he would not -allow her to be annoyed. Some weeks after the funeral Fordyce had -proposed himself as his uncle’s guest for a few days and been told -that, for some time to come, it would be inconvenient to receive him. -</p> -<p> -During the fierce ordeal of her last days at Morphie Cecilia had had -little time to turn over in her mind the startling truth which her -aunt, in her delirious state, had revealed; but now, as she sat in the -long Spring evenings, silent while Fullarton read, she would look -earnestly at him to discover, if she might, some resemblance to his -son. Occasionally she fancied she could trace it, scarcely in feature, -but in voice and figure. Whether rightly or wrongly, what she had -learned drew her closer to him, and she took a sad satisfaction in the -thought that her lover’s father was, till she could settle some way of -existence, playing father to her too. She loved him because he had been -so much to Lady Eliza and because she now saw how profoundly<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-217">[217]</a></span> the -revelation of the part he had borne in her life moved him. He had -become sadder, more cynical, more impervious to outer influence, but -she knew what was making him so and loved him for the knowledge. Only -on one point did she judge him hardly, and that was for the entire lack -of interest or sympathy he had shown to Gilbert; not realizing what -havoc had been wrought in his life by his birth nor giving due weight -to the fact that, until a year previously, he had never so much as set -eyes on him. His intense desire had been to bury his past—but for one -adored memory—as deep as the bottomless pit and Gilbert’s return had -undone the work of years. He could never look at him without the -remembrance of what he had cost. He did not know if his son were aware -of the bond between them and he was determined to check any approach, -however small, which might come of his knowledge by an unchangeable -indifference; though he could not banish him, at least he would ignore -him as much as was consistent with civility of a purely formal kind. -Lady Eliza had understood this and it had deepened her prejudice; what -small attention she had given to Speid had been the outcome of her -desire that Robert should appreciate her absolute neutrality; that he -should know she treated him as she would treat any presentable young -man who should become her neighbour; with neither hostility nor special -encouragement. -</p> -<p> -And so Cecilia stayed on at Fullarton, silenced by Robert when she made -any mention of leaving it, until spring merged into summer and Crauford -Fordyce, making Barclay’s house the base of his operations, knocked -once more at his uncle’s door in the propitious character of wooer. He -returned in the evening to his friend with the news that Miss Raeburn -had refused to listen to his proposal: while Lady Eliza had not been a -year in her grave, she said, she had no wish to think of marrying. To -his emphatic assurance that he would return when that period should be -over she had made no reply, and, as they parted and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-218">[218]</a></span> he reiterated his -intention, she had told him to hope for nothing. -</p> -<p> -‘I know what women are at when they say that!’ exclaimed Barclay; -‘there is nothing like perseverance, Fordyce. If you don’t get her next -time you may laugh at me for a fool. She got nothing by her ladyship’s -death, and she will find out what that means when she leaves Fullarton. -Keep up heart and trust Alexander Barclay.’ -</p> -<p> -Crauford’s visit shook Cecilia out of the surface composure that her -unmolested life had induced, and brought home to her the truth that -every day was lessening her chance of escape. Apparently, his mind was -the same, and, meanwhile, no word of the man she would never cease to -love came to her from any source. Once she had gone to Kaims and paid a -visit to the Miss Robertsons, hoping for news of him, however meagre, -but she had been stiffly received. A woman who had driven away Gilbert -Speid by her cold refusal was scarcely a guest appreciated by Miss -Hersey, nor was the old lady one to detect anything showing another -side to the situation. She looked with some disdain upon her visitor -and longed very heartily to assure her that such a fine young fellow as -her kinsman was not likely to go solitary about the world for lack of a -wife. She reported the visit duly when she wrote to him, but without -comment. -</p> -<p> -When winter came hope died in Cecilia; there was no one to stay her up, -no one to whom she could go for a touch of sympathy, and, should -Fordyce carry out his threat of returning in January, the time would -have come when she must redeem her word. She had felt the strength of a -lion when she saw her promise bring content to Lady Eliza; now, her -heart was beginning to fail. But, fail or not, there was but one end to -it. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes she would go out alone and walk through the wet fields -towards the river—for the higher reaches of the Lour were almost within -sight of the windows of Fullarton—and look at its waters rolling -seaward past that bit<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-219">[219]</a></span> of country which had held so much for her. She -loved it the more fiercely for the thought that she must soon turn her -back on it. Once, a skein of wild geese passed over her head on their -flight to the tidal marshes beyond Kaims, and the far-away scream in -the air held her spellbound. High up, pushing their way to the sea, -their necks outstretched as though drawn by a magnet to their goal, -they held on their course; and their cry rang with the voice of the -north—the voice of the soul of the coast. She leaned her head against a -tree and wept unrestrainedly with the relief of one not commonly given -to tears. Once more, she told herself, before leaving Fullarton, she -would ride to Morphie and look at the old house from the road; so far, -she had never had courage to turn her horse in that direction, though -she now rode almost daily. Once too, she would go and stand by the Lour -bridge where she could see the white walls of Whanland. -</p> -<p> -While Cecilia, at Fullarton, was trying to nerve herself to the part -she must play, Crauford, at Fordyce, was spending a more peaceful time -than he had experienced since he first confided the state of his heart -to his family. Lady Fordyce’s suspicions were lulled by his demeanour -and by a fact, which, to a person of more acumen, would have been -alarming; namely, that he never, by any chance, mentioned Miss -Raeburn’s name nor the name of anything connected with her. He had said -nothing about his fruitless visit to Barclay, and Fullarton, whose -inclination it was to let sleeping dogs lie, did not supplement the -omission. His nephew no longer honoured him with his confidence and he -had no desire to provoke another correspondence with his sister. To -Cecilia also, he said nothing; while he realized that to settle herself -so well would be a good thing from a worldly point of view, his -contempt for Crauford gave him a liberal notion of her feelings when -she refused him. He knew what had happened but he dismissed the episode -without comment. -</p> -<p> -Autumn had again brought Lady Maria Milwright as a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-220">[220]</a></span> guest to Fordyce, -and the prodigal son, having temporarily finished with his husks and -being inwardly stayed up by Cecilia’s half-implied permission to -address her again, had time for the distractions of home life. Fordyce -Castle blossomed as the rose, and Mary and Agneta would, no doubt, have -done the same thing, had it not been a little late for such an -experience. Lady Fordyce went so far as to give a dinner-party and a -school feast. -</p> -<p> -Crauford kept his own counsel strictly, and, though he had the honesty -to make no advances to Lady Maria, her appreciation of him made her an -agreeable companion; his sisters looked on with keen interest and -Agneta was emboldened to congratulate him on his return to the paths of -wisdom. -</p> -<p> -‘Admit, brother,’ she began one day as they found themselves alone -together, ‘that Lady Maria is vastly superior to Miss Raeburn, after -all.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed he, taken aback. -</p> -<p> -‘But why is it nonsense?’ continued his sister, ‘what is amiss with -Lady Maria?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Her face,’ said Crauford shortly. -</p> -<p> -‘But Mama says it is absurd to think of that; I heard her say so to -Papa—quite lately too.’ -</p> -<p> -‘And what did he answer?’ enquired her brother, thinking of a sentiment -in the memorable letter Sir Thomas had written him. -</p> -<p> -‘I think he said that he supposed all cats were grey in the dark. He -could not quite have understood what Mama said; it seemed such an odd -answer, for they had not been talking about cats. It made her rather -angry too.’ -</p> -<p> -Crauford said nothing and the two walked on. They were on the lawn, -watching Sir Thomas and the local minister playing bowls in the shower -of dead horse-chestnut leaves, which fell, periodically, like so many -yellow fans, to the ground. -</p> -<p> -‘Did Miss Raeburn play the harp?’ asked Agneta, at last. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-221">[221]</a></span> -‘No; at least I have never heard her,’ he replied. -</p> -<p> -‘Lady Maria does; did she sing?’ -</p> -<p> -‘No.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Lady Maria sings. She has had lessons from an Italian master; I saw a -little drawing of him that is in her workbox. What could Miss Raeburn -do that you thought her so wonderful?’ persisted Agneta. -</p> -<p> -Crauford knit his brows. Cecilia’s general mastery of life was -difficult to explain, nor, indeed, did he quite understand it himself. -</p> -<p> -‘She is so—so ladylike,’ he said. -</p> -<p> -‘Why do you always say that? Miss Raeburn was only a companion; now -Lady Maria has a title.’ -</p> -<p> -People were much more outwardly snobbish in those days than they are -now that the disease has become internal; at present, it would scarcely -be possible to make such a speech and survive it. -</p> -<p> -‘You know nothing about it. Miss Raeburn was Lady Eliza’s relation and -she called her her niece. And why do you say “was”? She is not dead.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I don’t know; I suppose, because we need not trouble about her any -more. Do tell me what she was like, Crauford, I have so often wanted to -know. Do, do, dear Crauford!’ -</p> -<p> -‘If I tell you a great many things, will you promise to keep them -entirely to yourself?’ he enquired, in an access of gracious elder -brotherhood. He longed for a confidant. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, yes! yes!’ cried Agneta, running her arm through his, ‘I will not -even tell Mary.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I think she has seen the folly of her refusal,’ said he, gravely. ‘I -saw her a few weeks ago; in fact, I renewed my offer, but she said she -could not listen to me so soon after her aunt’s death. I am going back -next January and I have reason to suppose, in fact, Barc—— I am almost -sure she will accept me then. I trust you will receive her kindly, -Agneta. I shall look to you.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-222">[222]</a></span> -Between gratification at his words and apprehension for the future his -sister was almost struck dumb. -</p> -<p> -‘What will Mama say?’ she exclaimed when she found her tongue. -</p> -<p> -‘I am afraid it does not much matter what Mama says,’ replied Crauford, -with playful intrepidity. -</p> -<p> -He knew very well that he would not be at Fordyce to hear. -</p> -<p> -But there was no use in meeting troubles half-way and Agneta was dying -to know more. -</p> -<p> -‘Is she tall, brother?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Rather tall,’ he replied. ‘She has a beautiful figure—very slender.’ -</p> -<p> -‘As thin as Lady Maria?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Good gracious, no!’ exclaimed Crauford. -</p> -<p> -‘And what is her hair like, dark or fair?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Rather dark, but not black.’ -</p> -<p> -‘And her eyes?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Remarkable eyes—in fact, rather too extraordinary. Not quite usual.’ -</p> -<p> -‘She does not squint?’ cried Agneta, seized with horror. -</p> -<p> -‘Should I wish for a wife who squinted?’ asked he, rather huffily. -</p> -<p> -‘No, no, of course not; don’t be angry, Crauford. Why do you not like -her eyes?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, I do like them; only I wish they were more like other people’s, -wider open and bluer; you will see her for yourself, Agneta. There was -another man who wanted to marry her not long ago, a sulky-looking -fellow called Speid; but she soon sent him away and he has gone off to -Spain.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Because of her? Did he really?’ exclaimed Agneta, taking a long breath -as she recognised the desperate matters life could contain. -</p> -<p> -Lady Maria’s parasol, which was seen advancing in the distance between -the laurel bushes, put an end to further<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-223">[223]</a></span> confidences, for Lady Maria’s -eyes, round enough and blue enough to satisfy anybody, had discovered -the brother and sister and she was coming towards them. -</p> -<p> -Crauford, having been absent from the breakfast table, had not met the -young lady that morning. He made a stiff, serio-comic bow, laying his -hand on his heart. He could unbend sometimes. -</p> -<p> -‘I hope your ladyship is well to-day,’ he observed. -</p> -<p> -She blushed awkwardly, not knowing how to take his pleasantries. She -looked good and modest, and, in feature, rather as if she had changed -faces with a pea-hen. Agneta surveyed her from head to heel, earnestly -and covertly; she did not look as if she would drive anyone to Spain. -She was rather impressed by the idea of a sister-in-law who could so -ruffle her brother and his sex, for, though she was over twenty-six -years old, she had only read of such things in books; she had an -overwhelming respect for men, and it had scarcely occurred to her that -women whom one might meet every day, and who were not constitutionally -wicked, could deal with them so high-handedly. The possibilities of -womanhood had never dawned on her, any more than they dawn on hundreds -of others, both well and ill-favoured, who live contentedly, marry -early, have children frequently, and, finally, die lamented, knowing as -much of the enthralling trade of being a woman as they did on the day -they were born. -</p> -<p> -But Agneta was groping along the edge of a world of strange -discoveries, as she stood by the bowling-green and mechanically watched -the figures of her father and the Reverend Samuel Mackay straddling as -they appraised their shots. Crauford and Lady Maria had long vanished -into the house by the time she turned to look after them, and the -bowl-players had finished their game, discussed it, and begun another. -She felt that being in her brother’s confidence had given her a great -stride in life. -</p> -<p> -Four months later, she stood in the same place by the bowling-green and -saw him drive up the avenue to the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-224">[224]</a></span> Castle; he had been at Fullarton for -nearly a week and she went round to the front door to meet him. -</p> -<p> -‘My news is important, Agneta,’ he said, as he greeted her. ‘Miss -Raeburn has consented; I have come to fetch some clothes I want and am -going away again to-morrow. Say nothing.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Oh!’ said his sister. ‘I——’ -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -The sentence was never completed, for Lady Fordyce appeared in the -hall. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_23"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-225">[225]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_23_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_23_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXIII</span><br /> -<br /> -AN EMPTY HOUSE</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -W<small>HEN</small> the decisive step had been taken and Crauford’s perseverance was -at last crowned with success, he straightway informed his uncle of his -good fortune; also, he begged him to say nothing of the matter till he -should have gone to Fordyce Castle to announce his news. As we have -seen, he did not mean to announce it in person, but he wished to see -Agneta before retiring to a safe distance and writing to Sir Thomas, of -whose consent the past had made him sure; from his sister he counted on -hearing how soon it would be wise for him to face Lady Fordyce. Before -he left Fullarton he had allowed himself one day to be spent with -Cecilia. -</p> -<p> -‘You cannot expect me to go to-morrow,’ he said to her, with solemn -gallantry, as he emerged from Fullarton’s study, where he had been to -declare the engagement. -</p> -<p> -‘Do you not think your parents might be offended if you delay?’ she -suggested faintly. -</p> -<p> -‘Let them!’ exclaimed Crauford. -</p> -<p> -All next day she had clung to Fullarton’s proximity, hating to be alone -with the man with whom she was to pass her life, and feeling half -desperate when Robert closeted himself with a tenant who had come to -see him on business. Crauford’s blunt lack of perception made him -difficult to keep at a distance, and she had now no right to hurt his -feelings. On her finger was the ring he had, with much forethought, -brought with him; and, had it been an iron chain on her neck, it could -not have galled her more. When,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-226">[226]</a></span> at last, he had driven away, she -rushed to her room and pulled it off; then she dipped her handkerchief -in rose-water and dabbed her face and lips; for, though she had tried -to say good-bye to him in Fullarton’s presence, she had not succeeded -and she had paid heavily for her failure. -</p> -<p> -For whatever motive she was accepting his name, his protection, and the -ease of life he would give her, she must treat him fairly; she felt -this strongly. She had not hid from him a truth which she would have -liked him better for finding more unpalatable, namely, that she did not -love him. -</p> -<p> -‘You will learn to, in time,’ he had observed, complacently. -</p> -<p> -If he had said that he loved her well enough for two, or some such -trite folly as men will say in like circumstances, it would have been -less hateful. But he had merely changed the subject with a commonplace -reflection. For all that, she felt that she was cheating him. -</p> -<p> -To play her part with any attempt at propriety, she must have time to -bring her mind to it without the strain of his presence. He might -appear at Fullarton at any moment, with the intention of staying for -days, and Cecilia decided that she must escape from a position which -became hourly more difficult. While she racked her brain in thinking -how this might be effected, like a message from the skies, came a -letter from her friend and Fullarton’s cousin, the Lord Advocate’s -widow. ‘Though I know Mr. Crauford Fordyce very slightly,’ she wrote, -‘he is still related to me and I have to thank him warmly for being the -means of bringing my dearest Miss Raeburn into the family. Would that I -could see you to offer you my sincerest good wishes! I do not know -whether the day is yet fixed, but, should you have time to spare me a -visit, or inclination to consult the Edinburgh mantua-makers, I should -receive you with a pleasure of whose reality you know me well enough to -be assured.’ -</p> -<p> -She had still nearly eight weeks’ respite. The wedding,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-227">[227]</a></span> which was to -take place upon the tenth of April, was, at her earnest request, to be -at Morphie Kirk, for she wanted to begin her new life near the scenes -of the old one. She was to be married from Fullarton; Robert, having -constituted himself her guardian, would give her away, and Crauford, -according to time-honoured etiquette, would be lodged in Kaims; Mr. -Barclay had offered his house. In justice to the bridegroom, she must -not fall short of the ordinary standard of bridal appearance, and she -showed Robert his cousin’s letter, saying that, with his permission, -she would go to Edinburgh to buy her wedding gown. On the plea of -ill-health Lady Fordyce had refused to be present at the ceremony, and -it was only the joint pressure brought to bear on her by brother and -husband which forced from her a reluctant consent that Mary and Agneta -should go to Fullarton and play the part of bridesmaids. Sir Thomas had -shown unusual decision. -</p> -<p> -It was on the day before her departure that Cecilia rode out to take a -last look at Morphie. Though there was, as yet, no hint of coming -spring in the air, in a month the thrushes and blackbirds would be -proclaiming their belief in its approach, and a haze, like a red veil, -would be touching the ends of the boughs. As she stopped on the -highroad and looked across the wall at Morphie House, she felt like a -returned ghost. Its new owners had left it uninhabited and the white -blinds were drawn down like the eyelids of a dead face; her life there -seemed sometimes so real and sometimes so incredible—as if it had never -been. She saw herself going through the rooms, loitering in the garden, -and performing the hundred and one duties and behests she had done so -willingly. She smiled, though her heart ached, as she remembered her -aunt’s short figure leaning out of a window above the stable-yard, -watching the horses being brought out for exercise and calling out her -orders to the men. How silent it all was now; the only moving things -were the pigeons which had always haunted Morphie, the descendants of -those for which Gilbert had fought two<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-228">[228]</a></span> years ago. She turned away and -took the road that followed the river’s course to Whanland. -</p> -<p> -Here too, everything was still, though the entrance gate was standing -open. She had never yet been inside it; long before it had acquired -special interest for her she had felt a curiosity about the untenanted -place; but Lady Eliza had always driven by quickly, giving -unsatisfactory answers to any questions she had put. She rode in, -unable to resist her impulse, and sat on horseback looking up at the -harled walls. The front-door was ajar, and, seeing this, she was just -about to ride away, when there were footsteps behind her and Granny -Stirk, her arms loaded with fresh-cut sticks, came round a corner of -the house. She let her bundle fall in a clattering shower and came up -to Cecilia. Since Gilbert had left she had not seen the woman who, she -was sure, had been the cause of his departure, and her heart was as -hard against her as the heart of Miss Hersey Robertson. -</p> -<p> -‘Do you take care of the house?’ asked Cecilia, when they had exchanged -a few words. -</p> -<p> -‘Ay; whiles a’ come in-by an’ put on a bittie fire. The Laird asket me. -But Macquean’s no verra canny to work wi’.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, Granny, let me come in!’ cried Cecilia. ‘I want so much to see -this place, I shall never see it again—I am going away you know.’ -</p> -<p> -The Queen of the Cadgers eyed her like an accusing angel. -</p> -<p> -‘And what for are ye no here—you that sent the Laird awa’?’ she cried. -‘Puir lad! He cam’ in-by to me, and says he, “Ye’ve been aye fine to -me, Granny,” says he. And a’ just asket him, for a’ kenned him verra -well, “Whaur is she?” says I. “It’s a’ done, Granny,” says he, “it’s a’ -done!” An’ he sat down to the fire just wearied-like. “An’ are ye no to -get her?” says I. “Na,” says he. “<i>Aweel, ye’ll get better</i>,” says I. -A’ tell’t him that, Miss Raeburn—but he wadna believe it, puir lad.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-229">[229]</a></span> -Cecilia had not spoken to one living creature who had met Gilbert Speid -since they parted and her eyes filled with tears; she slid from her -horse and stood weeping before the old woman. Her long self-control -gave way, for the picture raised by Granny’s tongue unnerved her so -completely that she seemed to be losing hold of everything but her own -despair. She had not wept since the day she had heard the wild geese. -</p> -<p> -‘Ay! ye may greet,’ said the Queen of the Cadgers, ‘ye’ve plenty to -greet for! Was there ever a lad like Whanland?’ -</p> -<p> -Cecilia could not speak for sobs; when the barriers of such a nature as -hers are broken down there is no power that can stay the flood. -</p> -<p> -‘He thocht the world o’ you,’ continued Granny, folding her arms; -‘there was naething braw eneuch for you wi’ him. There wasna mony that -kent him as weel as a’ kent him. He didna say verra muckle, but it was -sair to see him.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Granny! Granny! have pity!’ cried Cecilia, ‘I cannot bear this! Oh, -you don’t understand! I love him with all my heart and I shall never -see him again. You are so cruel, Granny Stirk—where are the reins? I am -going now.’ -</p> -<p> -Blind with her tears, she groped about in the horse’s mane. -</p> -<p> -‘What ailed ye to let him awa’ then?’ exclaimed the old woman, laying -her hand on the bridle. -</p> -<p> -‘I could not help it. I cannot tell you, Granny, but I had to give him -up. Don’t ask me—I was obliged to give him up though I loved him better -than anything in the world. It was not my fault; he knew it. I am so -miserable—so miserable!’ -</p> -<p> -‘An’ you that’s to be married to the Laird o’ Fullarton’s nephew!’ -cried Granny Stirk. -</p> -<p> -‘I wish I were dead,’ sobbed Cecilia. -</p> -<p> -Though Granny knew nothing of the tangle in which her<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-230">[230]</a></span> companion was -held, she knew something of life and she knew real trouble when she saw -it. Her fierceness against her was turned into a dawning pity. How any -woman could give up a man she loved was a mystery to her, and how any -woman could give up the Laird of Whanland, incomprehensible. But the -ways of the gentry were past finding out. -</p> -<p> -‘Come awa’ in,’ she said, as Cecilia dried her eyes, ‘and a’ll cry on -Macquean to tak’ the horse. Jimmy’s at the stable an’ he’ll mind it; -’twas him brocht me here i’ the cairt.’ -</p> -<p> -She took the rein from her and walked round the house, leading the -animal. -</p> -<p> -‘Macquean, ye thrawn brute!’ she cried, as she went, ‘tak’ yon horse to -Jimmy. He’ll no touch ye, man!’ -</p> -<p> -Cecilia entered, and, through a passage window, she could see Macquean -in a rusty black coat, sitting on a stone-heap outside. -</p> -<p> -‘Come here, a’ tell ye!’ cried the Queen of the Cadgers. -</p> -<p> -Cecilia saw him shake his head. -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’d be mair use as a golloch<a id="ftntanc23-1" href="#ftnttxt23-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> than a man,’ said Granny, throwing -the reins to her grandson, who was coming towards them. -</p> -<p> -Cecilia went into a room and sat down on a window-seat; most of the -furniture was put away, and what was left had been covered up carefully -by Granny and Macquean. Clementina’s portrait was gone from the wall, -as well as that of the bay coach-horse, and the alcoves by the -fireplace were empty of books. She sat and gazed at the bare -beech-trees and the fields between Whanland and the sand-hills. He must -have looked out at that view every day, and her eyes drank it in; the -garden wall and the stable buildings broke its flat lines. Being on the -ground floor, she could not see the sea; but the heaven above, with its -long-drawn, fine clouds, wore the green-gray<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-231">[231]</a></span> which suggests an -ocean-sky. She was quite calm by the time Granny came in and stood -beside her. -</p> -<p> -The old woman, though softened and puzzled, was yet in an inquisitorial -mind; she stood before the window-seat, her arms akimbo and her skirt -turned up and drawn through the placket-hole, for she had been -cleaning. -</p> -<p> -‘An’ what gar’d ye put Whanland awa’ if ye liket him sae weel?’ she -asked again. ‘Dod, that wasna the gait a’ wad hae gaed when a’ was a -lassie!’ -</p> -<p> -‘I cannot speak about it,’ answered Cecilia, rising, her face set; -‘there is no use in asking me. I was forced to do it. God knows I have -no heart left. Oh, Granny! if he could but come back! In two months I -shall be married.’ -</p> -<p> -The Queen of the Cadgers stood silent; there was so much more in the -matter than she had suspected; Cecilia might be a fool, but she was not -the cold-hearted flirt whom she had pictured torturing Gilbert for her -own entertainment. -</p> -<p> -‘It’s ill work mendin’ ae man’s breeks when yer hairt’s in anither -ane’s pocket,’ she said. -</p> -<p> -Though mirth was far, indeed, from her, Cecilia could not help smiling -at this crusty cutting from the loaf of wisdom. -</p> -<p> -‘Ah! ye may lauch now,’ exclaimed Granny solemnly, ‘but what ’ll ye do -when he comes hame, an’ you married? Ye’ll need to mind yersel’ then.’ -</p> -<p> -Neither of the women knew on how appropriate a spot the warning was -offered, as they stood within a few feet of Clementina Speid’s empty -place upon the wall. -</p> -<p> -‘I shall be gone,’ answered Cecilia. ‘I pray that I may never see his -face again.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Wad ye tak’ him, syne he was hame?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Do you mean if he were to come now?’ asked Cecilia. -</p> -<p> -‘Ay.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, Granny, stop—there is no use in thinking or hoping.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Wad ye gang wi’ him?’ persisted the old woman. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-232">[232]</a></span> -‘What do you think?’ cried Cecilia, facing her suddenly, ‘do you think -anything could keep me back? Do you think I have ever ceased hoping or -praying? Don’t torment me—I have enough to bear. Come, let me see -Whanland. Show me everything, dear Granny, before I go. I shall look at -it and never forget it; all my life I shall remember it. Come.’ -</p> -<p> -The two went from room to room, Granny leading the way. Cecilia’s eyes -devoured everything, trying to stamp each detail on her mind. They went -through the lower rooms, and upstairs, their steps echoing in the -carpetless passages. There was little to see but the heavy four-post -beds, a few high-backed chairs which still stood in their places, and -the mantelpieces carved with festoon and thyrsus. They went up to the -attics and into the garret; the pictures had come back to the place in -which Gilbert had first found them. -</p> -<p> -‘Yon’s the Laird’s mother,’ said Granny, turning Clementina’s portrait -to the light, ‘she’s bonnie, puir thing.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Was that like her?’ -</p> -<p> -‘The very marrows o’ her,’ replied she. -</p> -<p> -The mother Gilbert had never seen and the bride he had never married -were come face to face. The living woman looked at the painted one, -searching for some trace of resemblance to the man from whom she had -divided her; it was too dark for her to see the little box in -Clementina’s hand. There was something in her bearing which recalled -Gilbert, something in the brows and the carriage of the head. -</p> -<p> -‘Come away,’ she said at last, ‘I must go home now. I shall always -thank you for showing me Whanland.’ -</p> -<p> -They went downstairs and she stood on the doorstep while Granny went to -the stable for her horse; the light was beginning to change; she would -have to ride fast to reach Fullarton before it went. To-morrow she was -to leave for Edinburgh and her return would only take place a few days -before the wedding. A page in her life was<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-233">[233]</a></span> turning down. She was to go -to London with her husband, and, in a few months, they were to come -back to settle in a place in Roxburghshire belonging to Sir Thomas -Fordyce. The east coast would soon fade away from her like one of its -own mists; the voice of the North Sea, which came faintly from the -shore, was booming a farewell, for the tide was coming in beyond the -bents. -</p> -<p> -Before she turned away she leaned down from her saddle. -</p> -<p> -‘Someday,’ she said, ‘when—if—Mr. Speid comes back, tell him that I -came here and that——’ -</p> -<p> -But she could not go on and rode down the short approach without ending -her sentence. ‘Good-bye!’ she called at the gate, waving her hand. -</p> -<p> -Cecilia had reached Fullarton by the time Granny Stirk had finished her -cleaning, for her visit had taken a good piece out of the afternoon. -Though she generally was a steady worker, the old woman paused many -times and laid down her duster. She took particular care of the room in -which Gilbert slept, but, as she shook and beat the heavy curtains of -his bed, her mind was not in her task. She was willing to admit that -his passion was not altogether indefensible. As women went, Cecilia was -more than very well, and, like nearly everyone who had once spoken to -her, she did not deny her beauty. She pitied her too; though, it is to -be feared, had her dead body been of any use to Speid, she would have -stood by and seen her murdered. But, as he preferred her living, he -should have her, if she, Joann Stirk, could get him home in time. Once -let him come back and she would tell him what to do. -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’ll hae to drive me to Kaims i’ the cairt the morn’s morn,’ she -observed to her grandson, as they bowled homewards. -</p> -<p> -‘I’m for Blackport,’ said Jimmy, laconically. -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’ll do as ye’re bid,’ replied the Queen of the Cadgers. -</p> - -<hr class="fnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a id="ftnttxt23-1" href="#ftntanc23-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>Blackbeetle. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_24"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-234">[234]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_24_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_24_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXIV</span><br /> -<br /> -A ROYAL VISIT</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -W<small>HILE</small> Granny had shaken the curtains in Gilbert’s bedroom her mind had -worked as hard as her hands; there was no doubt in it of one thing; -namely, that, by hook or by crook, he must be brought home. It was a -large idea for her to have conceived, because she scarcely knew where -he was and had no idea how he might be reached. She understood that -Barclay had means of communication with him, but, since the visit he -had paid her, ostensibly to examine her mended roof, and, really to pry -into Speid’s affairs, she had distrusted him fundamentally. The matter -was intimate and needed the intervention of someone upon whom she could -depend. As the Laird of Fullarton was uncle to the person she wished to -circumvent, he also was an impossible adviser. The Miss Robertsons, -under any aspect but that of being Gilbert’s relations, she looked upon -as futile. ‘Twa doited auld bodies wha’s lives is nae object to them,’ -as she had described them, were not worth consideration in such a case. -In her strait she suddenly bethought herself of Captain Somerville. He -had three special advantages; he was her idol’s friend, he was -exceedingly civil to herself, and she had once seen him in uniform. -This last qualification gave him something of the weight and security -of a public character. Also, a person who had fought the French—all -foreigners were French to her—in every quarter of the world, must -surely<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-235">[235]</a></span> be able to put his hand on any part of it at a moment’s notice. -</p> -<p> -As a matter of fact, she could hardly have made a better choice. The -sailor, who bore a most human love to his kind, had appraised many men -and women in his time, and he had a vast admiration for Granny. Gallant -himself, to the core of his simple soul, he loved the quality in -others, and the story of her fight with circumstances and final mastery -of them had struck him in a sensitive place. On that memorable day on -which she had seen him in uniform he was returning from Aberdeen, where -he had gone to meet an official person, and his chaise passed her -cottage. As he drove by, he saw the little upright figure standing on -the doorstep, and, remembering her history, with a sudden impulse, he -raised his hand and saluted her. -</p> -<p> -Though he was not, perhaps, so renowned a warrior as the Queen of the -Cadgers supposed, Captain Somerville had seen a good deal of service, -and had lost his leg, not in the doing of any melodramatic act, but in -the ordinary course of a very steadily and efficiently performed duty. -As a boy, he had gone to sea when the sea was a harder profession than -it is now and when parents had had to think, not twice but many times, -before committing their sons to it. He had run away and smuggled -himself upon a merchantman lying in the harbour near his home, and -before she sailed, he had been discovered by the first mate. His irate -father, to whom he was returned, thinking to cure him of an infatuation -he could not, himself, understand, arranged with the captain that he -should be taken on the voyage—which was a short one—and made to work -hard. ‘It would show the young fool,’ he said, ‘that the Church’—for -which he was destined—‘was a more comfortable place than a ship.’ But -the treatment produced an exactly contrary result. Finally, the family -three-decker received the person of a younger brother, and, after much -discussion, His Majesty’s Navy that of a new midshipman. More than -fifteen years afterwards he got into a young<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-236">[236]</a></span> man’s scrape in an -obscure seaport, and emerged from it with Mrs. Somerville in tow. It -was one from which a less honourable man would have escaped more -fortunately. The lady was accustomed to say, in after times, that she -had been ‘married from the schoolroom,’ but many who heard her -suspected that there had never been a schoolroom in the matter. He had -now been Coastguard Inspector at Kaims for over seven years. -</p> -<p> -The sailor was sitting at the breakfast-table next morning opposite to -his wife, portions of whose figure were visible behind the urn; Miss -Lucilla was away on a visit. The house stood a little back from the -High Street, and, though the room was quiet, a cart which had stopped -at the foot of the strip of garden was unnoticed by the pair. -</p> -<p> -‘If ye please,’ said the parlour-maid, looking in, ‘there’s a fishwife -wad like to speak wi’ you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘We require nothing to-day,’ said Mrs. Somerville. -</p> -<p> -‘She’s no sellin’. She’s just needing a word wi’ the Captain. It’s Mrs. -Stirk—her that bides out by Garviekirk.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It’s Her Majesty of the Cadgers, my dear,’ said the Inspector; ‘we -must ask her to come in.’ -</p> -<p> -The parlour-maid smiled. -</p> -<p> -‘She says she wad like to see ye alone, sir. “It’ll no keep,” she -says.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Impertinent woman!’ exclaimed Mrs. Somerville, ‘what can she have to -say that I am not supposed to hear?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I would do a good deal to oblige her,’ said Somerville, dragging -himself up. ‘Show her into the next room.’ -</p> -<p> -Granny Stirk had put on her pebble brooch; the little woollen shawl, -crossed over her chest with its long ends tied behind the waist, was of -a bright red and black check; her head was bare and her thick iron-gray -hair held by a black net; her gold earrings shone. An indefinable rush -of fresh air, brine, and tar came in with her. -</p> -<p> -‘Sit down, Mrs. Stirk,’ said Somerville, as he stumped in. ‘What can I -do for you?’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-237">[237]</a></span> -‘Sir,’ said she, ‘could ye tell me what’s come of the Laird o’ -Whanland?’ -</p> -<p> -‘God bless me!’ exclaimed the astonished sailor, ‘I think he’s in -Spain.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Does he no write ye? A’ mind he was aye billies<a id="ftntanc24-1" href="#ftnttxt24-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> wi’ you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I have heard nothing of him since he left.’ -</p> -<p> -She made a gesture of dismay. -</p> -<p> -‘Mr. Barclay must know where he is,’ said he. ‘I could get his -direction for you, I dare say, if it was anything urgent.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Fie, na!’ she exclaimed. ‘Lord’s sake! dinna say a word to the like o’ -him!’ -</p> -<p> -‘But what is the trouble, my good woman?’ -</p> -<p> -Before replying, Granny drew her chair close to his, throwing a -searching look round the room and at the door; unfortunately, she could -not see through the latter, but had she been able to do so, she would -have noticed Mrs. Somerville standing on the door-mat. -</p> -<p> -She plunged into her tale. -</p> -<p> -‘Did ye no ken that the Laird was just deein’ for yon lassie o’ her -ladyship’s? A’ ken’t it fine, but he tell’t me no to speak a word, and, -dod! a’ didna. Well, he cam’ in-by to me and tell’t me he was gangin’ -awa’ for she wadna tak’ him. That was the way o’t; that was what gar’d -the puir lad gang. Did ye ken that, sir?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I guessed it,’ said the Inspector, enormously surprised at this -beginning. -</p> -<p> -‘Well,’ continued the Queen of the Cadgers, leaning forward and -solemnly shaking his knee to compel attention, ‘well, she’s to be -married in April month an’ she’s greetin’ hersel’ to death for the -Laird.’ -</p> -<p> -‘How do you know that?’ asked Somerville. -</p> -<p> -‘A’ was puttin’ on a bittie fire at Whanland yesterday—a’ do that, -whiles—an’ she cam’ ridin’ up. “Oh, Granny, let me come in-by!” says -she. “What way are ye no<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-238">[238]</a></span> here?” says I. “What way did ye let the Laird -gang?” An’ she just began greetin’ till I was near feared at her; it -was aye the Laird—the Laird. I wager she canna thole yon lad she’s to -get. Says I, “Wad ye tak’ him if he was to come back i’ the now?” “Oh!” -says she, “div ye think I wadna? Oh! if he was hame! If he was hame!” -A’ could hae greetit mysel’, Captain.’ -</p> -<p> -‘But why did she not marry him at the beginning?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I askit her that. “Granny,” says she, “a’ canna tell ye; a’ couldna -help mysel’. There’s things a’ canna speak o’. A’ wish a’ was dead,” -she says.—An’ there’s Whanland that doesna ken it!’ continued the old -woman. ‘Sir, we’ll need to get him hame afore it’s ower late.’ -</p> -<p> -Somerville was silent, feeling as though he were being invited to -plunge into a torrent. He was certain that every word Granny said was -true, for, though he had only seen Cecilia once since the news of her -engagement was public, that once had been enough to show him that she -was wretched. Some miserable tragedy was certainly brewing. -</p> -<p> -‘Suppose Mr. Speid has forgotten her?’ he hazarded. -</p> -<p> -‘<i>Him</i> forget?’ cried Granny, rising with a movement which made her -earrings swing. ‘By Jarvit, Captain, a’ didna think ye was sic a fule!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Perhaps I’m not,’ said he, rather nettled; ‘but what made you come to -me?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Was a’ to gang to the Laird o’ Fullarton that’s uncle to yon red-faced -loon? Was a’ to gang to yon tod Barclay that’s aye wi’ him an’ that -doesna like the Laird—a’ ken fine he doesna. Was a’ to gang to they twa -auld maidies i’ the Close that doesna understand naething? Not me!’ -said Granny, tossing her earrings again. -</p> -<p> -Captain Somerville put his hand on the back of his neck and ran it up -over the top of his head till his nose got in the way; his hair looked -like a field of oats after a rain-shower. Things did seem bad. -</p> -<p> -‘Ye’ll need to write him—that’s what ye’ll need to do.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-239">[239]</a></span> Tell him if he -doesna come hame, it’ll be ower late,’ continued Granny. -</p> -<p> -‘But he may not want to come, Mrs. Stirk—he may have changed his mind. -Remember, it is more than a year and a half since he left.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Have a’ no tell’t ye?’ cried she. ‘There’s naebody kens the Laird as -a’ ken him. Gang yer ain gait, sir, but, when Whanland kens the truth, -an’ when yon lassie’s awa’ wi’ the wrang lad, you an’ me’ll need to -think shame o’ oursels!’ -</p> -<p> -There was scarcely anyone who could more fitly appreciate the horror of -Cecilia’s position than the sailor. Long years of a companionship, -whose naked uncongenialness he had decently draped with loyalty, were -behind him to give point to Granny’s words; also, he thought of her -face as he had last seen it; and he had that highest and rarest -courage, the courage that is not afraid of responsibility. The rock on -which second-rate characters go to pieces had no terrors for him. -</p> -<p> -The silence now was so deep that Mrs. Somerville, on the mat outside, -began to fear a move and made as quiet a retreat as she could to the -breakfast-room. She had heard enough to interest her considerably. -Though the talk was resumed before she was out of earshot, she did not -dare to return, for she saw, looking at the clock, that the maid might -come up at any moment to clear the breakfast-table. -</p> -<p> -‘I will find out where to write to him,’ said the sailor. ‘We must lose -no time, for the letter may take weeks to reach him. I am afraid it is -a forlorn hope, Mrs. Stirk, but we’ll do our best. I shall write very -urgently to Miss Raeburn and tell her what I have done.’ -</p> -<p> -‘That’s you!’ exclaimed the old woman. -</p> -<p> -‘I must send the letter out to Fullarton to be addressed,’ continued -he, ‘I have not heard where she is lodging in Edinburgh.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Dinna hae ony steer wi’ that Barclay,’ said Granny.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-240">[240]</a></span> ‘He’s aye keekin’ -an’ speerin’ about what doesna concern him, an’ makin’ work wi’ Mr. -Fordyce.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I will go to the Miss Robertsons this afternoon,’ said he, half to -himself. ‘I know Miss Hersey writes to Speid. I suppose that, when I -send my letter to him, I may say you have been here, Mrs. Stirk, and -speak of your meeting with Miss Raeburn?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Ye can that,’ replied she, preparing to go, ‘for a’m terrible pleased -a’ did it. A’ll awa’ now, sir, an’ thank ye.’ -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Somerville, looking out of the window, watched the Queen of the -Cadgers walk down to her cart. A sneer touched the lady’s face as the -old woman got in beside her grandson and was driven away. -</p> -<p> -‘Well,’ said she, as her husband entered, ‘what did that impudent old -creature want? You were a long time listening to her.’ -</p> -<p> -‘She was consulting me about private matters, my dear; and I don’t -consider Mrs. Stirk an impudent person.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You are so fond of being mixed up with common people,’ rejoined his -wife, ‘I am sure I never could understand your tastes.’ -</p> -<p> -Had the sailor never been mixed up with common people Mrs. Somerville -would not have been sitting where she was. -</p> -<p> -His feelings were stirred a good deal and he was in a mood in which -pettinesses were peculiarly offensive to him. Besides that, he was -inclined to think Granny’s acquaintance something of an honour. -</p> -<p> -‘If there were more people in the world like Mrs. Stirk, it would be a -good thing for it,’ he said shortly. ‘You are an uncommon silly woman -sometimes, Matilda.’ -</p> -<hr class="fnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a id="ftnttxt24-1" href="#ftntanc24-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>Friends. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_25"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-241">[241]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_25_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_25_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXV</span><br /> -<br /> -MRS. SOMERVILLE HAS SCRUPLES</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -M<small>RS</small>. S<small>OMERVILLE</small> retired from the breakfast-room in the height of -ill-humour: it was not often that her husband spoke to her in so plain -a manner and she was full of resentment. She was conscious that she had -behaved badly in listening at the door, and, though the act did not -seem to her such a heinous offence as it might have done to many -others, her conscience aggravated her discomfort. -</p> -<p> -But curiosity was a tough element in her, and she was stayed up through -its faint attacks by the interesting things she had overheard. Though -her ears were not sharp, and the pair on the other side of the door had -been sometimes indistinct, she had learned enough to gather what was -afoot. Evidently, Cecilia Raeburn was now breaking her heart for -Gilbert Speid, whom she had refused, and the Inspector and Mrs. Stirk -had agreed that he should be told of it; so that, if he were still -wearing the willow for the young woman, he might return in time to -snatch her from her lawful bridegroom. -</p> -<p> -She had heard a good deal from Barclay of the checkered progress of -Fordyce’s wooing and she saw Speid through the lawyer’s spectacles; -also, the drastic rebuke she had suffered from Miss Hersey Robertson on -his account had not modified her view. To add to this, he was extremely -friendly with Captain Somerville, and she was of a class which is -liable to resent its husband’s friends. She was jealous with the -dreadful jealousy of women of her breeding;<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-242">[242]</a></span> not from love of the -person who is its object, but from an unsleeping fear for personal -prerogative. She determined to tell Barclay of her discoveries, though -she had no intention of telling him how she had come by them; and the -thought of this little secret revenge on the Inspector was sweet to her. -</p> -<p> -Throughout the morning she maintained an injured silence which he was -too much preoccupied to observe, and when, in the afternoon, he took -his hat and the stick he used for such journeys as were short enough -for him to attempt on foot, she watched him with a sour smile. He had -not told her where he was going, but she knew and felt superior in -consequence. She wondered when Barclay would come to see her; if he did -not arrive in the course of a day or two she must send him a note. He -was accustomed to pay her a visit at least once every week, and it was -now ten days since he had been inside her doors. -</p> -<p> -Captain Somerville, though he returned with his object attained, had -not found that attainment easy. The Miss Robertsons had always looked -favourably on him as an individual, but Miss Hersey could not forget -that he was the husband of his wife; and, since the moment when she had -risen in wrath and left the party at his house, there had been a change -in her feelings towards him. Well did she know that such a speech as -the one which had offended her could never have been uttered by the -sailor; the knowledge made no difference; Miss Hersey was strictly and -fundamentally illogical. -</p> -<p> -Gilbert had given his address to his cousins with the request that it -should not be passed on to anyone. He wanted to have as little -communication as possible with the life he had left behind, and the -news of Cecilia, for which he had begged, was the only news he cared to -receive; business letters passing between himself and Barclay were -written and read from necessity. He wished to give himself every chance -of forgetting, though, in his attempts to do so, he was nearly as -illogical as Miss Hersey. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-243">[243]</a></span> -The Inspector’s request for his direction was, therefore, in the old -ladies’ eyes, almost part and parcel of his wife’s effrontery, and it -was met by a stiff refusal and a silence which made it hard for him to -go further. The red chintz sofa bristled. It was only his emphatic -assurance that what he wished to tell Gilbert would affect him very -nearly which gained his point. Even then he could not get the address -and had to content himself with Miss Hersey’s promise, that, if he -would write his letter, seal it and deliver it to her, she would direct -and send it with all despatch. He returned, conscious of having -strained relations almost to breaking point, but he did not care; his -object was gained and that was what concerned him. He had become almost -as earnest as Granny. The florid lady who watched his return from -behind her drawing-room window-curtains observed the satisfaction in -his look. -</p> -<p> -He was a slow scribe, as a rule, and it took him some time to put the -whole sum of what Granny had told him before Speid; it was only when he -came to the end of his letter that his pen warmed to the work and he -gave him a plain slice from his opinion. ‘If your feelings are the -same,’ he wrote, ‘then your place is here; for, if you stay away a day -longer than you need, you are leaving a woman in the lurch. I do not -understand this matter but I understand that much.’ Then he added the -date of the wedding, underlined it, and assured Gilbert that he was -‘his sincere friend, Wm. Somerville.’ A few minutes later, his lady, -still at the window, saw the individual who was at once coachman, -errand-boy, and gardener disappear in the direction of Miss Robertson’s -house with a sealed packet in his hand. -</p> -<p> -It was not until evening that he sat down to think what he should say -to Cecilia. The need for haste was not so great in this case, but every -hour was of value with respect to the letter Miss Hersey was forwarding -to Gilbert. There was no knowing where he might be, nor how long it -might take in reaching him, nor how many obstacles might rise<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-244">[244]</a></span> upon the -road home, even should he start the very day he received it. But, here, -it was different. The sailor bit the top of his pen as he mused; many -things had puzzled him and many things puzzled him still. He had -received a shock on hearing of Cecilia’s intended marriage. In his own -mind he had never doubted that she loved Speid, and this new placing of -her affections was the last thing he expected; if there were no -question of affection, then, so much the worse, in his eyes. He thought -little of Fordyce and imagined that she thought little of him too. He -had never supposed that money would so influence her, and his -conclusion—a reluctant one—was that the extreme poverty which must be -her portion, now Lady Eliza was gone, had driven her to the step. -</p> -<p> -Granny Stirk’s news had opened his eyes to the probability that there -were influences at work of which he knew nothing, and he was uncommon -enough to admit such a possibility. When most people know how easily -they could manage everybody else’s business, the astonishing thing is -that they should ever be in straits on their own account. But it never -astonishes them. Captain Somerville had the capacity for being -astonished, both at himself and at other people; the world, social and -geographical, had taught him that there is no royal road to the -solution of anyone’s difficulties. The man who walks about with little -contemptuous panaceas in his pocket for his friends’ troubles is -generally the man whose hair turns prematurely gray with his own. What -had Cecilia meant when she told the old woman, weeping, that she could -not help herself? He would, at least, give her the chance of helping -herself now, and she could take it or leave it as she chose. He was not -going to advise her nor to make suggestions; he would merely tell her -what he had done. He had no difficulty in justifying his act to his -conscience; he justified it to his prudence by reflecting on what she -had given the Queen of the Cadgers to understand; namely, that, if the -exile should return, she would throw all to the winds for him. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-245">[245]</a></span> -‘My writing-table is to be dusted to-day, and I shall leave this here,’ -he said to his wife on the following afternoon, as he put the letter he -had written on the drawing-room mantelpiece; ‘if you can hear of anyone -going in the direction of Fullarton, I should be glad to have it -carried. It is to Miss Raeburn, in Edinburgh, so Mr. Fullarton must -address it for me.’ -</p> -<p> -The Inspector was muffled in his plaid and Mrs. Somerville knew that -his duty was taking him south of Kaims; Fullarton lay north of it. As -he left the house he hesitated a moment. What if Barclay should call, -as he often did, on his way to Fullarton and his wife should entrust -him with the letter? Granny had been urgent in telling him to keep -clear of the lawyer. But he laughed at his own doubt; for, with the -worst intentions, how should Barclay know what it contained? What had -he to do with it? The old woman’s dislike of him made her take absurd -ideas into her head. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Somerville placed the letter where it could lean against the -clock, and, when the front-door had shut behind him, she settled -herself to a comfortable afternoon by the fire; beside her lay the -materials for trimming a bonnet, and, within hand-stretch, a small -table-cover under which she might hide them at the approach of company. -As she had said to Lucilla, she ‘did not wish to get the name of -trimming her own bonnets.’ Her mind was so full of the object on the -mantelpiece that she did not hear a step on the stairs, and, greatly as -she desired Barclay’s visit, when he was ushered in, she had -temporarily forgotten his existence. The bonnet disappeared with a -scuffle. -</p> -<p> -‘You are quite a stranger, I declare!’ she exclaimed when the lawyer -had seated himself. -</p> -<p> -‘Of necessity, Mrs. Somerville—never of inclination. My time has been -scarcely my own this week past.’ -</p> -<p> -‘And upon whom have you bestowed it, pray?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Have no fear, ma’am. My own sex is entirely responsible. And I have -been making a slight alteration in my<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-246">[246]</a></span> house; a trifle, but necessary. -I am to lodge my friend Fordyce for the wedding and his best man is -coming too—at least so he tells me. They are feather-brained, these -young fellows.’ -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Somerville’s knowledge was hot within her, and she turned over in -her mind how she might begin to unfold it without committing herself. -</p> -<p> -‘It will not be a large affair,’ continued he, ‘no one but myself and -Mr. Fullarton and a handful of Fordyce’s relatives; the bride makes as -much pother about her bereavement as if it had happened yesterday. Lady -Fordyce is not to be present. I think she has taken such a poor match -very much to heart.’ -</p> -<p> -‘We were invited specially by Miss Raeburn,’ interposed the lady, who -was not averse to playing a trump card when she had one. -</p> -<p> -Cecilia had personally asked the Inspector to the kirk, and had, -perforce, made up her mind to the natural consequence in the shape of -his wife; he had been Gilbert’s friend and she felt that his presence -would help her through the ordeal. -</p> -<p> -‘Then you will be of the bride’s party,’ observed Barclay, looking -superior. -</p> -<p> -‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. Somerville, settling herself snugly against the -back of her chair, ‘we shall—if there is any bride at all.’ -</p> -<p> -He looked at her interrogatively. -</p> -<p> -‘I said, <i>if there is any bride at all</i>, Mr. Barclay; and for that -matter, I may add, <i>if there is any wedding either.</i>’ -</p> -<p> -‘What is to hinder the wedding? My dear Mrs. Somerville, you puzzle -me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Ah,’ she said, nodding her head slowly up and down, ‘you are right to -ask, and I can tell you that <i>Mr. Speid</i> may hinder the wedding.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You are speaking in riddles,’ said the lawyer, ‘I may be dull, but I -cannot follow you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘If I tell what I know, you will get me into trouble,’<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-247">[247]</a></span> she said, -shaking her forefinger at him; ‘there is no trusting you men.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Surely you will make an exception in my case! What have I done to -merit your distrust?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Many shocking things, I have no doubt,’ she replied, archly. -</p> -<p> -‘Ma’am, you are cruel!’ he exclaimed, with a languishing look. He could -have beaten her, for he was writhing with internal curiosity. -</p> -<p> -‘Well, well; do not take it so to heart,’ said she, ‘and promise that -you will not betray me. Yesterday, after breakfast, a disreputable -person, a Mrs. Stirk, who seems to be known about here—<i>I</i> know nothing -about her—asked to speak to the Captain. I was sitting at the -breakfast-table, but the door was open, so what they said was forced -upon me; really <i>forced upon me</i>, Mr. Barclay. Mrs. Stirk said that she -had seen Miss Raeburn and that she was crying—it was a very improbable -story—and that she was breaking her heart for Mr. Speid; she had the -impudence to tell the Captain that he should write and bring him home.’ -</p> -<p> -Barclay’s eyes were almost starting out of his head. -</p> -<p> -‘You may well look surprised,’ said Mrs. Somerville, ‘but what will you -say when I tell you he has done it? And because a fishwife told him, -too! I let him know what an impudent old baggage I thought her, and I -got no thanks for my pains, I assure you!’ -</p> -<p> -The lady’s voice had risen with each word. -</p> -<p> -‘Written to Speid? Impossible! How does he know where to find him?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Miss Robertson is to send the letter. There will be no wedding yet, as -I tell you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘He cannot get home; at any rate, it is very doubtful,’ said the -lawyer, counting on his fingers, ‘for, by the time he reaches here, -Fordyce will be a married man. And he will not stop the marriage, if he -comes. Miss Raeburn would never dare to give Fordyce the slip now, for -all her high-and-mighty ways.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-248">[248]</a></span> -‘But the Captain has written to her too, so she will have plenty of -time to make up her mind. Look at the letter on the mantelpiece, -waiting to be taken to Fullarton. He put it there when he went out.’ -</p> -<p> -Barclay sat staring at the missive and arranging his ideas. He wondered -how soon he could escape and send news of what he had heard to Fordyce; -he hesitated to hurry away at once, for he had not been to see Mrs. -Somerville for a long time, and he knew he was expected to sit with -her, as he generally did, for at least an hour. One thing was certain; -that letter on the mantelpiece should not reach Cecilia if he could -help it. The other had gone beyond recall, but he doubted it getting -into Speid’s hands in time to do much harm. Meantime, there was nothing -like prompt action. -</p> -<p> -‘It is rather curious that I should be going to Fullarton to-day; I am -on my way there at this moment. I had meant to make you a long visit -to-morrow but I could not resist the temptation of turning in as I -passed this door just now. Suppose I were to carry the letter? No good -will come of it, I am sure, but, if the Captain wishes it to go, go it -must. Can you not persuade him to think better of it?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Indeed, if he heard you had been here on your way to Fullarton and I -had not sent it, he would be annoyed. But how am I to forgive you for -such a niggardly visit? You have hardly been here five minutes.’ -</p> -<p> -‘By allowing me to pay you a liberal one to-morrow,’ replied the astute -Barclay. ‘I can then assure you of the safety of the letter. What am I -to do? Give me all directions.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You are to hand it to Mr. Fullarton and ask him to address it and send -it to Miss Raeburn. It is a very queer business, is it not?’ -</p> -<p> -‘It will smooth down. I attach no importance at all to it,’ replied he. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-249">[249]</a></span> -‘You are mighty cool about it, seeing that Mr. Fordyce is such a -friend.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It can come to nothing,’ said he. -</p> -<p> -He was determined she should not suspect his feelings, which were, in -reality, tinged with dismay. If Speid should baffle them still! The -letter might reach him in time and he might easily act upon it. A -torrent of silent abuse was let loose in his heart against Granny -Stirk. He had hated her roundly for some time, and now he would have -given anything to be able to turn her off the Whanland estate -altogether. He promised himself that he would see what could be done -when this affair of Fordyce’s marriage was off his mind. -</p> -<p> -‘Mr. Fordyce should thank me for warning you,’ said Mrs. Somerville, -‘if he has any sense he will hurry on the wedding-day after this. -Whatever happens, do not betray me!’ -</p> -<p> -A look in her face suggested to him that she might, in her heart, -suspect what he had in his mind. He would make sure. -</p> -<p> -‘I suppose I dare not delay this for a day or two?’ he said, -tentatively, looking from her to the letter. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, no! no!’ she cried, in alarm. ‘Oh! what would happen if anyone -found out that I had told you?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I am only joking,’ he laughed, much relieved, ‘pray, pray don’t upset -yourself, ma’am.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I really do not know whether I have not done sadly wrong in speaking,’ -said she, turning her eyes down. ‘I have many scruples. My name must -never, <i>never</i> be mentioned.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You insult me, Mrs. Somerville, when you talk in that way. Your name -is sacred to me, as it has ever been, and your action is most timely, -most obliging. I only regret that your own wishes forbid my telling -Fordyce of your kind interest in him—in us, I should say, for I -identify myself with my friends. I am nothing if not true. You, surely, -of all people can give me that character.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-250">[250]</a></span> -Playfulness returned to her. -</p> -<p> -‘Come, come,’ she said, ‘you may go away. I shall not tell you what I -think for fear of making you vain!’ -</p> -<p> -Barclay left the house with the precious letter in his pocket; he had -come out that afternoon, with no intention of going anywhere near -Fullarton. On reaching his own front-door he banged it so heartily with -the knocker that his maidservant felt her heart thump too. She came -running to answer the summons. -</p> -<p> -‘Order round the chaise immediately,’ he cried, ‘and see that the fire -is kept in till I come back!’ -</p> -<p> -As he stood at the door, waiting for his conveyance to be brought, he -saw the strange one belonging to Captain Somerville enter the street on -its homeward way. He ran to the gate which opened on the yard behind -his house. -</p> -<p> -‘Be quick, can’t you!’ he roared to the man harnessing the horse. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -What he feared he knew not, but the sight of the Inspector’s plaided -body sitting under the retrograde hood of his carriage, like an owl in -a hollow tree, made him long to be clear of the town. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_26"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-251">[251]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_26_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_26_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXVI</span><br /> -<br /> -ALEXANDER BARCLAY DOES HIS BEST</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -T<small>HOUGH</small> Barclay had no intention of allowing the letter he carried to -reach its final destination, he could not venture to stop its course -till it had passed Fullarton’s hands. He was too much afraid that -Somerville and Fullarton might meet within the next few days. The mail -office should be responsible for its loss, if that loss were ever -discovered; a contingency which he doubted strongly. He found it -exceedingly annoying to be obliged to take this farcical drive on such -a chilly afternoon, but Prudence demanded the sacrifice and he humoured -her, like a wise man. Fordyce’s obligations to him were becoming -colossal. -</p> -<p> -He found Fullarton in his library and explained that he was on his way -home. He had looked in in passing, he said, to ask him to address a -letter which Captain Somerville had given him for Miss Raeburn. He was -rather hurried, and would not send his carriage to the stables; if the -letter were directed at once, he would take it with him and leave it at -the mail office, should it still be open. Robert was not in the humour -either for gossip or business and he was glad to be rid of Barclay so -easily. He took up his pen at once. In five minutes the lawyer was on -his return road to Kaims. -</p> -<p> -The mail office was closed, as he knew it would be at that time in the -evening, and he brought his prize home; to-morrow, though he would take -several letters there in person, it would not be among their number. In -its place<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-252">[252]</a></span> would be one addressed by himself to the bride-elect and -containing a formal congratulation on her marriage. Should inquiry -arise, it would be found that he had despatched a letter bearing her -name on that day. It was best that the track should lose itself on the -further side of the mail office; the rest was in the hands of -Providence. It was a badly-patched business, but it was the neatest -work he could put together at such short notice. -</p> -<p> -When the servants had gone to bed and the house was quiet, the lawyer -locked himself into his dining-room, where a snug little mahogany table -with a suggestive load of comforts stood ready by the arm of his -easy-chair. He sat down and took from his pocket the letter he had -carried about all the afternoon, reading it through carefully. As he -refreshed himself with the port he had poured out he counted again on -his fingers. But there was no use in counting; he could come to no -conclusion, for it rested purely with accident to decide how soon -Captain Somerville’s communication should reach Gilbert. If there were -no delays, if he were at Madrid or at some place within reach of it, if -he made up his mind on the spot, if he could find means to start -immediately and met no obstacle on the way—it was possible he might -arrive within a few days of the wedding. Then, everything would depend -upon Cecilia; and it would need almost superhuman courage for a woman -to draw back in such circumstances. He had done a great thing in -possessing himself of the paper he held. Little as he knew her, he -suspected her to be a person of some character, and there was no -guessing what step she might take, were she given time to think. ‘Hope -for the best and prepare for the worst.’ He was doing this throughly. -</p> -<p> -He emptied his glass, and, with the gold pencil on his fob-chain, made -a rough note in his pocket-book of the contents of Somerville’s letter; -then he crushed the epistle into a ball and stuffed it into the red -heart of the coals with the poker, holding it down till it was no more -than a flutter<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-253">[253]</a></span> of black ash. This over, he wrote Fordyce an account -of what he had done. ‘I am not really apprehensive,’ he concluded, -‘but, hurry the wedding, if you can do so on any pretext, and never say -that Alexander Barclay did not do his best for you.’ -</p> -<p> -Crauford was at Fordyce Castle when the news reached him and it gave -him a shock. His ally seemed to be outrunning all discretion in his -zeal; to stop a letter was such a definitely improper thing to do that -it took his breath away. Not that it was his fault, he assured himself -as he pondered on it, and it was too late to make any remonstrance; -besides which, as he had not personally committed the act, he had -nothing with which to blame himself. Things looked serious. In a few -days Speid might be on his way home. He would write to Cecilia on the -spot; nay, he would go to Edinburgh himself and persuade her to hasten -the wedding. He would invent a pretext. It was curious that, while -Barclay’s act struck him as a breach of gentlemanlike behaviour, it -never struck him from Cecilia’s point of view, though it was clear she -did not want to marry him and that she did want to marry Speid. If it -had struck him he would scarcely have understood. She was behaving most -foolishly and against her own interests; she did not seem to realize -that he had the warmest feelings for her, that he was prepared to make -her happy and give her everything she could desire. So great was the -complacency—personal and hereditary—in which he had been enveloped -since his birth, that he could not see another obvious truth which -stared him in the face: namely, that he whose wife has married one man -and loves another stands in a place which ought to terrify a demi-god. -If he hated Speid now, he might have to hate him still more in time. In -his reply to Barclay he did not remonstrate with him; what was the use -of doing so now that the thing was over? -</p> -<p> -Heartily did he wish the wedding hurried on for many reasons; one of -them was that his mother, who had taken<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-254">[254]</a></span> to her bed on hearing of his -engagement, had now arisen, though her health, she said, would not -admit of her leaving Fordyce Castle or being present at the ceremony. -Nor were the protests of her family very sincere. Agneta and Mary, who -were to go to their uncle, were looking forward feverishly to their -first taste of emancipation, and Sir Thomas, having had experience of -his wife when in contact with the outer world, thought with small gusto -of repeating it. He had insisted that his daughters should go to -Fullarton and no one but himself knew what he had undergone, Lady -Fordyce being furious with her brother for having, as she said, -arranged the marriage. Everyone agreed that her decision was a merciful -one for all concerned, and, while Sir Thomas again ‘found it -convenient’ to sit up in his study till the cocks crew, the two girls -were supported by the prospect of the coming excitement. -</p> -<p> -Agneta and Crauford kept much together; but, though she was the only -person to whom he could speak with any freedom, he did not tell her -what he had heard from Barclay. He was a hero to his sister; and a -hero’s bride is conventionally supposed to have eyes for no one but -himself. Existing conventions were quite good enough for him. -</p> -<p> -His engagement was scarcely a blow to Lady Maria Milwright; for though, -as has been said, he was a hero in her eyes also, she was so simple in -character and so diffident that she had never even speculated on his -notice. Ideas of the sort were foreign to her. But, as her fingers -embroidered the handkerchief-case which she sent him as a wedding-gift, -she was overwhelmed with Miss Cecilia Raeburn’s good fortune. Agneta -was with him in his room when he unpacked the little parcel and read -the letter it contained. -</p> -<p> -‘I consider that very kind of Lady Maria; very kind indeed,’ he said. -He did not only consider it kind, he considered it forgiving and -magnanimous. -</p> -<p> -‘I wonder if you will be as happy as if you had married<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-255">[255]</a></span> her?’ said -his sister, suddenly. ‘Is Miss Raeburn devoted to you, Crauford?’ -</p> -<p> -The question took him rather unawares. -</p> -<p> -‘Why do you ask?’ inquired he. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, I don’t know. Only she refused you twice, you know, brother.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Not twice,’ said he. ‘She gave me great encouragement the second -time.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I am sorry it is not to be a grand wedding with lots of fine company. -I should have enjoyed that. But, all the same, it will be a great -change for me and Mary. Miss Raeburn said we were to choose our own -dresses. Do you know, we have never chosen anything for ourselves -before?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I am going to Edinburgh to-morrow or the next day to order my own -clothes,’ said he. ‘I have chosen stuffs already. I shall wear -claret-coloured cloth with a buff waistcoat and a satin stock. That -ought to look well, I think.’ -</p> -<p> -‘We are to wear white, and white fur tippets and Leghorn bonnets with -pink rosettes. Papa gave Mary the money to pay for what we chose, for -mamma would have nothing to do with it. It is a good thing, for she -would not have given us nearly so much. Will there really be no one but -ourselves and Uncle Fullarton at the wedding, Crauford?’ -</p> -<p> -‘There will be our cousin Frederick Bumfield, who is to be best man, -and my friend Mr. Barclay of Kaims. He is the Fullarton man of business -and a mighty pleasant fellow. Frederick and I are to stay at his house -for the wedding. Then there are a Captain and Mrs. Somerville whom Miss -Raeburn’—he always spoke of Cecilia as ‘Miss Raeburn,’ even to his -family—‘has invited, I cannot understand why; they are dull people and -the lady is not over genteel in her connections, I believe. Morphie -Kirk is a very small place for a wedding but Miss Raeburn has made a -particular point of being married there. I often accompanied her to it -when Lady Eliza was alive and I can guess<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-256">[256]</a></span> (though she has not told -me) that she feels the suitability of our being married there for that -reason. It is a pretty feeling on her part,’ said Crauford. -</p> -<p> -Her fancy for Speid could not really go very deep, he reflected, as -this little sentiment of hers came into his mind. The meddlesome old -woman who had brought such a story to Captain Somerville might have -known how hysterical women were when there was a question of weddings. -Cecilia simply did not know her own mind. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -He would see her in Edinburgh and do his best to persuade her to settle -a new date for their marriage, even should it be only a few days -earlier than the old one. And he would buy her some jewels—they would -help on his request. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_27"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-257">[257]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_27_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_27_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXVII</span><br /> -<br /> -THE SKY FALLS ON GILBERT</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -G<small>ILBERT</small> S<small>PEID</small> sat in the house just outside Madrid, which had -represented home to him for most of the eighteen months of his sojourn -in Spain; he was newly returned from Granada. It had been Mr. Speid’s -custom to pass a part of each year there, and it was there that he had, -according to his wish, been buried. Gilbert had gone to look at the -grave, for the decent keeping of which he paid a man a small yearly -sum, and had found his money honestly earned; then, having satisfied -himself on that point, he had wandered about in haunts familiar to him -in his youth and early manhood. It was not three years since he had set -foot in them last and he was not much more than thirty-two years old, -but it seemed to him that he looked at them across a gulf filled with -age and time. He returned to Madrid wondering why he had left it, and -finding a certain feeling of home-coming in his pleasure at seeing his -horses. -</p> -<p> -He made no pretence of avoiding his fellow-creatures and no efforts to -meet them; and as, though he spoke perfect Spanish, he had always been -a silent man, there was little difference in his demeanour. But it was -universally admitted among old acquaintances that his Scottish life had -spoiled him. He rode a great deal and frequented the same company; and -he would often stroll down to the fencing-school where he had learned -so much to practise with his old master, or with any new light which<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-258">[258]</a></span> -had risen among the foils since he left Spain. He felt the pressing -need of settling to some definite aim in life, but he put off the -trouble of considering it from week to week and from month to month. -</p> -<p> -Miss Hersey wrote only occasionally, for her sight was not good, and -the world did not then fly to pens and paper on the smallest pretext as -it does now. A letter was still something of a solemnity, even to the -educated. Also, Miss Hersey thought that the sooner he forgot Cecilia -the better it would be, and the sooner he would return. She hoped he -would bring back a wife with him—always provided she were not a Roman -Catholic. She had told him of Lady Eliza’s accident and death and of -Cecilia’s removal to Fullarton, adding that she understood Miss Raeburn -was to remain there until some arrangement could be made for her -future; Mr. Fullarton was said to have promised Lady Eliza, on her -deathbed, that he would act as guardian. -</p> -<p> -It took nearly a month for a letter from Scotland to reach Madrid, and -Gilbert had asked a friend who lived near to take charge of such -correspondence as might come for him within a fortnight of his return -from Granada. He had only reached home late on the previous night, and -he was now expecting the packet to be brought to him. -</p> -<p> -He had slept long, being tired, and when he emerged from his room the -sun was brilliant. He walked out on the whitewashed veranda which ran -round the upper story of the house, and looked out on the March -landscape which the almond-blossom was already decorating. The ground -sloped away before him, and, on the north-west, the Sierra de -Guardarama cut into the sky. The pomegranates had not yet begun to -flower, but a bush which stood near the walls cast the shadow of its -leaves and stems against the glaring white. In Scotland, the buds would -scarcely yet be formed on the trees; but the air would be full of the -fresh smell of earth and that stir of life, that first invisible -undercurrent of which the body is conscious through a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-259">[259]</a></span> certain sixth -sense, would be vibrating. The Lour would be running hard and the -spring tides setting up the coast. He stood looking, with fixed eyes, -across the almond-blossom to a far-off country that he saw lying, wide -and gray, in the north, with its sea-voice calling, calling. His -servant’s footstep behind him on the stones made him turn; he was -holding out a little packet of letters. -</p> -<p> -‘These have been sent from Don Balthazar’s house,’ said the man, in -Spanish, indicating a few tied together with string. ‘The others were -at the mail-office this morning.’ -</p> -<p> -Gilbert sat down on the parapet of the veranda and turned over the -letters; those that had come from his friend’s house must have been -awaiting him a week, possibly longer. There were two which interested -him, one from Miss Hersey and one directed in a hand he had seen before -but could not now identify; it was writing that he connected with -Scotland. Miss Robertson’s letter was among those which Don Balthazar -had kept and he opened it first. The old lady generally reserved any -tidings of Cecilia for the last paragraph and he forced himself to read -steadily from the beginning; for, like many high-strung people, he -found an odd attraction in such little bits of self-torture. -</p> -<p> -Half-way down the last sheet he dropped the paper as though he were -shot and the blood ran to his face in a wave. It contained the news of -Cecilia Raeburn’s engagement; she was to marry Crauford Fordyce, and -the wedding was fixed for the middle of April. -</p> -<p> -He seized the letter again and glutted his eyes with the hateful words. -</p> -<p> -‘You will cease to fret about her now,’ concluded Miss Hersey simply, -‘and that will be a good thing. I hear they are to live on a property -which belongs to Sir Thomas Fordyce in Roxburghshire. See and get you a -wife somewhere else, dear Gilbert, but not a Papist. Caroline and I -would think very ill of that.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-260">[260]</a></span> -It was some time before he strung up his mind to read the rest of the -correspondence strewn about his feet, but, when he broke the seal of -the other Scottish letter, he looked first at the end. It was signed -‘Wm. Somerville,’ and consisted of four closely-written pages. Before -he came to the last line he sprang up, feeling as though the sky had -fallen on him. He ran through his room into the passage, shouting at -the top of his voice for his servant; the Spaniard came flying up three -steps at a time, his dark face pale. He found Gilbert standing in the -middle of the veranda; the scattered letters were blowing about, for a -sudden puff of wind had risen. -</p> -<p> -‘Pack up!’ he shouted, ‘get my things ready! I am going to England!’ -</p> -<p> -‘But Señor——’ -</p> -<p> -‘Go on! Begin! I tell you I am going to England to-night—sooner, if -possible! Bring me my purse. Send to Don Balthazar and tell him that I -am going in a few hours.’ -</p> -<p> -He took the purse from the astonished man, and in another minute was in -the stable and slipping a bridle over one of the horse’s heads, while -the groom put on the saddle and buckled the girths. He threw himself -into it and galloped straight to the nearest inn and posting-house in -the town, for the carriage which had brought him back on the previous -night belonged to a small post-master in Toledo and could be taken no -further than Madrid. -</p> -<p> -Here he had a piece of disguised good fortune, for, though he could get -neither cattle nor conveyance that day, a Spanish Government official -was starting for France early on the morrow, and was anxious to hear of -some gentleman who might occupy the vacant seat in the carriage he had -hired and share the expenses of the road. In those days, when people -travelled armed, any addition to a party was to be welcomed. It only -remained for him to seek his friend Don Balthazar, and, through him, to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-261">[261]</a></span> -procure an introduction to the traveller. Their ways would lie together -as far as Tours. -</p> -<p> -Don Balthazar was a friend of his youth; a lean, serious-looking young -man who had turned from a luxuriant crop of wild oats and married a -woman with whom he was in love at this moment, a year after Gilbert had -gone to Scotland. He had never seen Speid so much excited and he -succeeded in calming him as the two talked over the details of the -journey. They made out that it would take ten days to reach Tours, -allowing three extra ones for any mishaps or delays which the crossing -of the Pyrenees might occasion. In France, the roads would be better -and travelling would improve. Twenty-three days would see him in -Scotland; setting out on the morrow, the fourteenth of March, he could -reasonably expect to get out of the Edinburgh coach at Blackport on the -sixth of April. The wedding was not to take place until the tenth. He -did not confide in Don Balthazar; he merely spoke of ‘urgent business.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Of course it is a woman,’ said Doña Mercedes to her husband that -night. -</p> -<p> -‘But he never used to care about women,’ replied he, stroking his long -chin; ‘at least——’ -</p> -<p> -‘Is there <i>any</i> man who does not care about women?’ exclaimed the -lady, twirling the laced handkerchief she held; ‘bring me one and I -will give you whatever you like!’ -</p> -<p> -‘That would be useless, if he had seen you,’ replied Don Balthazar -gallantly. -</p> -<p> -Doña Mercedes threw the handkerchief at him and both immediately forgot -Gilbert Speid. -</p> -<p> -It was as if Gilbert lived, moved, and breathed in the centre of a -whirlwind until he found himself sitting in the carriage by the Spanish -official, with Madrid dropping behind him in the haze of morning. -Inaction was restful while he could see the road rolling by under the -wheels; every furlong was a step nearer his goal. His whole mind<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-262">[262]</a></span> had -been, so to speak, turned upside down by Captain Somerville’s pen. He -was no longer the lover who had divided himself from his mistress -because honour demanded it, but a man, who, as the sailor said, was -leaving a woman in the lurch; that woman being the one for whom he -would cheerfully have died four times a day any time these last two -years. -</p> -<p> -The possibility of arriving too late made him shudder; he turned cold -as he remembered how nearly he had stayed another ten days in Granada -while this unforeseen news lay waiting for him at Don Balthazar’s -house. He had a margin of some days to his credit, should anything -check his journey, and, once beyond the Pyrenees, progress would be -quicker. If delay should occur on this side of Toulouse, he could there -separate himself from his companion and drive by night as well as by -day, for he would be on the main posting-road through France. -</p> -<p> -He had not written to Cecilia. He would travel nearly as fast as the -mail and a letter would precede his arrival only by a very short space. -There had been no time, in the hurried moments of yesterday, to write -anything to her which could have the weight of his spoken words; and, -were his arrival expected, he feared the pressure that Fordyce, and -possibly Fullarton, would bring to bear upon her before she had the -support of his presence. He did not know what influences might be -surrounding her, what difficulties hedging her about; his best course -was simply to appear without warning, take her away and marry her. He -might even bring her back to Spain. But that was a detail to be -considered afterwards. -</p> -<p> -He remembered the sudden admission he had made to Granny Stirk in her -cottage and told himself that some unseen divinity must have stood by, -prompting him. How little did he suspect of the sequel to that day on -which he had caught Lady Eliza’s mare; how unconscious he was of the -friend standing before him in the person of the little old woman who -offered him her apron to dry his hands<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-263">[263]</a></span> and said ‘haste ye back’ as he -left her door. He had written her a few lines, directing her to go to -Whanland and get his room ready, and adding that he wished his return -kept secret from everyone but Jimmy, who was to meet the Edinburgh -coach at Blackport on the sixth of April. He had no horses in Scotland -which could take him from Blackport to Whanland, but he would be able -to hire some sort of conveyance from the inn, and, on the road home, he -could learn as much as possible of what was happening from the lad. His -letter would, in all probability, arrive a day or so in advance of -himself, and Granny Stirk would have time to send her grandson to meet -him and make her own preparations. Though the Queen of the Cadgers -could not read, Jimmy, who had received some elementary schooling, was -capable of deciphering his simple directions. -</p> -<p> -It was eight days after leaving Madrid that the fellow-travellers -parted at Tours, having met with no delay, beyond the repairing of a -wheel which had kept them standing in a wayside village for a couple of -hours, and the almost impracticable nature of the roads in the -Pyrenees. The official had called in the help of his Government in the -matter of post-horses to the frontier, and these, though often -miserable-looking brutes, were forthcoming at every stage. Owing to the -same influence, a small mounted escort awaited them as they approached -the mountains; and the Spaniard’s servants, who occupied a second -carriage and had surfeited themselves with tales—only too well -founded—of murders and robberies committed in that part of the country, -breathed more freely. -</p> -<p> -It was with rising spirits that Speid bade his companion farewell, and, -from the window of the inn at which they had passed the night, watched -his carriage roll away on the Paris road; he had hired a decent chaise, -which was being harnessed in the courtyard below to start on the first -stage of its route to Havre, and he hoped to embark from that seaport -in three days. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-264">[264]</a></span> -Of the future which lay beyond his arrival at Whanland he scarcely -allowed himself to think, nor did he arrange any definite plan of -action. Circumstances should guide him completely and what information -he could get from Jimmy Stirk. He had no doubt at all of Cecilia’s -courage, once they should meet, and he felt that in him which must -sweep away every opposition which anyone could bring. He would force -her to come with him. There were only two people in the world—himself -and the woman he loved—and he was ready, if need be, to go to the very -altar and take her from it. She had cried out and the echo of her voice -had reached him in far-away Spain. Now, there was no power on earth -which should stand before him. -</p> -<p> -So he went on, intent on nothing but the end of his journey; looking no -further; and holding back from his brain, lest it should overwhelm him, -the too-intoxicating thought that, in a couple of weeks, she might be -his. -</p> -<p> -When, at last, from a point of rising ground a few miles from the -seaboard, he saw the waters of the English Channel, his heart leaped. -He drove into Havre just at sunset on the evening of the twenty-fifth -of March. Six days later he was in London. -</p> -<p> -He had hoped to reach it earlier, but it was with the greatest -difficulty that he was able to get a passage to Portsmouth; he had -crossed to England in a wretched fishing-boat and that bad weather, -predicted on the French shore and only risked by the boat’s owner for a -large sum of money, met and delayed him. -</p> -<p> -He saw the dark mass of Edinburgh Castle rising from the lights of the -town on the second evening after his departure from London; the speech -which surrounded the coach, as it drew up, made him realize, with a -thrill, that now, only two divisions of his journey lay between him and -Blackport—Blackport where he would meet Jimmy, perhaps hear from him -that he had seen Cecilia. Next morning found him on the road to Perth, -where he was to sleep that night. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-265">[265]</a></span> -The weather was cold and gusty on the last day of his travels, and the -Tay, as they crossed it after leaving Perth, yellow and swollen; but -the familiar wide fields and the distant wall of the Grampians stirred -his heart with their promise. The road ran up the Vale of Strathmore, -north-east of the Sidlaws; as their undulations fell away they would -stretch to Kaims and the sea, and he would once more be in that -enchanted spot of land where the North Lour ran and the woods of -Morphie unrolled themselves across its seaward course. -</p> -<p> -The last change of horses was at Forfar; from there, they were to run -through the great moor of Monrummon into Blackport, where they would be -due at eight o’clock. If he could secure anything which had wheels from -one of the posting-houses, he would sleep that night at Whanland. -</p> -<p> -The passengers buttoned their coats tightly as they went forward, for -the weather was growing worse and the wind came tearing in their faces. -Before darkness fell, fringes of rain-cloud, which had hung all day -over the Grampians, began to sweep over them. The horses laid back -their ears as heavy drops, mixed with hail, struck them in sensitive -places and the coachman’s hands were stiff on the reins from the chill -water running off his gloves. Now and again the gale raised its voice -like an angry woman, and the road reflected the lamps as though it had -been a pond. They had left Forfar some time when the coachman, in the -darkness, turned a hard, dripping face to Gilbert, who was on the -box-seat. -</p> -<p> -‘D’ye hear yon?’ he said, lifting his whip. -</p> -<p> -Speid leaned his head sideways and was conscious of a roar above the -voice of the blast; a tossing and rolling sea of noise in the air which -he thought must be like the sound of waves closing above the head of a -drowning man. It was the roar of the trees in Monrummon. -</p> -<p> -As the coach plunged in, the dark ocean of wood swallowed it up, and it -began to rock and sway on one of the bad roads intersecting the moor. -The smell of raw earth<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-266">[266]</a></span> and wet heather was mixed with the strong scent -of the firs that laboured, surged, buffeted overhead in the frenzy of -the wind. The burns that, in places, crossed their road had now become -turgid torrents, dragging away soil and stones in their rush. -</p> -<p> -‘It’ll na’ do to loss oursel’s here,’ observed the coachman. ‘Haud up, -man!’ -</p> -<p> -The last exclamation was addressed to the off wheeler, who had almost -slipped on a round stone laid bare by the water flaying the track. The -only inside passenger, a West-country merchant on his way north, let -down the window and put out his head, to draw it in promptly, outraged -by finding himself in such surroundings and by the behaviour of the -elements outside. Such things did not happen in Glasgow. -</p> -<p> -It was when they were on the middle of the moor that the bed of a burn, -steeper than any they had yet encountered, crossed their way. It was -not much wider than an ordinary ditch, but the force of the water -driven through it had scored the bottom deep, for the soil was soft in -its course. The coachman had his team well together as they went down -the slope to it, and Gilbert watched him, roused from his abstraction -by the fascinating knowledge that a man of parts was handling the -reins. The feet of the leaders were clear of the water and those of the -wheelers washed by the red swirl in the burn’s bed, when the air seemed -to rush more quickly a few yards to their left, and, with a crack like -that of the sky splitting, the heavy head of a fir-tree came tearing -downwards through its fellows. -</p> -<p> -The terrified horses sprang forward up the steep ground; the coach -staggered like a drunkard; the pole dipped, rocking upwards, and the -pole-chains flashed in the light of the swinging lamps as it snapped in -two. -</p> -<p> -The traces held, for they reached the further side almost by their own -impetus, and the guard was at the leaders’ heads before the Glasgow -merchant had time to let down his window, and, with all the righteous -violence of the armchair<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-267">[267]</a></span> man, to launch his reproaches at the driver; -Gilbert climbed down and began to help the guard to take out the -leaders. The coachman sat quietly in his place. -</p> -<p> -‘Well, well; we’ll just need to bide whaur we are,’ he said, as the -swingle-trees were unhooked. -</p> -<p> -By the light of the lamps, the pole was found to be broken, slantwise, -across the middle and there was nothing for the passengers to do but -make the best of their position and await the morning. The gale -continued to rage; and, though the guard declared it possible to lash -the breakage together and proceed carefully by daylight, such an -attempt would be out of the question in the state of the roads, while -the storm and darkness lasted. The two other outside passengers, one of -whom was a minister, were an honest pair of fellows, and they accepted -their situation as befitted men of sense. -</p> -<p> -The window of the coach went down and the Glasgow man’s head appeared. -He had tied up his face in a woollen handkerchief with large red spots. -The ends rose above his head like rabbit’s ears. -</p> -<p> -‘You’ll take me to the end of my journey or I’ll ken the reason!’ he -shouted to the little group. ‘I’ve paid my money to get to Aberdeen and -it’s there I’m to go!’ -</p> -<p> -Guard and coachman smiled, the former broadly and the latter at the -side of his mouth. Neither said anything. -</p> -<p> -‘My name’s George Anderson, and I’m very well acquaint wi’ you!’ roared -the inside passenger in the voice of one who has discovered a -conspiracy. -</p> -<p> -He had never seen any of the party till that morning, but he did not -seem to mind that. -</p> -<p> -‘The pole is broken, sir. You can see it for yourself if you will come -out,’ said Gilbert, going up to the coach. -</p> -<p> -‘Na, thank ye. I’m best whaur I am,’ said the man. -</p> -<p> -The smile now extended to the minister and his companion, and, at sight -of this, the merchant burst into fresh wrath. -</p> -<p> -‘Am I to be kept a’ the night in this place?’ he cried.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-268">[268]</a></span> ‘I warrant ye, -I’ll have the lot o’ ye sorted for this when I get to Aberdeen!’ -</p> -<p> -‘If you like to ride one of the leaders into Blackport, you can,’ -suggested Gilbert, with a sting in his voice; ‘the guard is going with -the mails on the other.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Aye, ye’d best do that. Ye’d look bonnie riding into the town wi’ yon -thing on your head,’ said the minister, who had a short temper. -</p> -<p> -The window went up. -</p> -<p> -The united efforts of Speid and his four companions succeeded in -getting the coach to one side of the way, and three of the horses were -tied up, its shelter between them and the weather; the Glasgow merchant -remained inside while they moved it. The rain was abating and there -were a few clear patches in the sky, as, with the mail-bags slung round -him, the guard mounted the fourth horse and prepared to ride forward. -</p> -<p> -‘If you can find a boy called Stirk at the inn,’ said Gilbert, ‘tell -him to wait for me in Blackport till morning.’ And he put some money in -the man’s hand. -</p> -<p> -The guard touched his cap and disappeared. -</p> -<p> -It was a long night to Speid. The three passengers built themselves a -shelter with luggage and rolled themselves in what wraps and rugs they -had; not one of them had any desire to share the inside of the coach -with its occupant. The ground was too damp to allow a fire to burn and -what wood lay at the roadside was dripping. In a few hours the guard -returned with such tools as he could collect; the road improved further -on, he said, and the remaining six miles of the stage could be done at -a walk after the sun rose. He had seen nothing of Jimmy Stirk. He and -the coachman joined the party in the shelter. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -Gilbert, unsleeping, lay with his eyes on the sky; though he had been -much tempted to go on with the guard, he would have gained little by -doing so; his choice of a night’s lodging must be between Blackport or -Monrummon, and, under the circumstances, one place was intolerable as -the other. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_28"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-269">[269]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_28_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_28_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXVIII</span><br /> -<br /> -AGNETA ON THE UNEXPECTED</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -G<small>ILBERT</small> was wrong in supposing he would arrive in Scotland on the very -heels of his letter, for it reached Granny Stirk’s hands three days -before the night which ended, for him, on Monrummon Moor. Jimmy, who -had brought it from Kaims in the evening, spelt it out successfully by -the firelight. -</p> -<p> -The old woman sat, drowned in thought, her fiery eyes on the flame; she -could not understand why Cecilia had made no response to what Captain -Somerville had written, for she had seen him on the previous day and -was aware that no word had come from Edinburgh. Though she knew that -Barclay had carried the letter to Fullarton she had no suspicion that -he had tampered with it, imagining her action and that of the sailor -unknown to anyone. How should Barclay guess its contents? Also, she had -no notion to what extent he was in Fordyce’s confidence, or what a -leading part he had played in the arrangement of the marriage. Instinct -and the remembrance of his visit to her were the only grounds for the -distrust with which she looked upon him. -</p> -<p> -She had not doubted Cecilia’s sincerity and she did not doubt it now; -but, unlike Gilbert, she was beginning to doubt her courage. She was in -this state of mind when she heard that the wedding day was changed from -the tenth to the seventh of the month; Speid would only arrive on the -evening before the ceremony. The matter had gone<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-270">[270]</a></span> beyond her help and -she could not imagine what the upshot would be. But, whatever might -come of it, she was determined to play her own part to the end. Early -to-morrow morning she would send Jimmy to Kaims to tell the sailor of -the news she had received and Macquean should go, later, to get a few -provisions for Whanland; she, herself, would have a field-day in the -laird’s bedroom with mops and dusters and see that his sheets were ‘put -to the fire.’ -</p> -<p> -Meanwhile, at Fordyce Castle, events, almost equal to a revolutionary -movement in significance, had taken place. Like many another tyrant, -Lady Fordyce, once bearded, began to lose the hold which custom had -given her over the souls and bodies of her family. Sir Thomas had, for -the first time, established another point of view in the house, and its -inmates were now pleased and astonished to learn that they survived. -That kind of knowledge is rarely wasted. One result of the new light -was that Agneta was allowed to accompany Crauford to Edinburgh, where -she was to try on her bridesmaid’s costume, report upon Mary’s, and -make acquaintance with her future sister-in-law. -</p> -<p> -The sight of Cecilia was a revelation to Agneta. The hide-bound -standards of home had not prepared her to meet such a person on equal -terms and she knew herself unable to do so creditably; the remembrance -of Mary’s suggestion that they might ‘give her hints’ on the doing of -her hair, and such-like details, made her feel inclined to gasp. -Cecilia suggested something selected, complicated, altogether beyond -her experience of life and outside her conception of it. Crauford, to -whom this was evident, looked on triumphantly. -</p> -<p> -‘Well?’ he began, as they returned together to their lodging in George -Street. -</p> -<p> -‘She is <i>quite</i> different from what I expected, brother—quite -different.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Did I not tell you so?’ he exclaimed. -</p> -<p> -‘You did—you did; but I did not understand. No<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-271">[271]</a></span> more will Mary till she -has seen her. I am afraid she will astonish Mama dreadfully.’ -</p> -<p> -Fordyce chuckled. The thought of his mother had never made him chuckle -before. But times were changing. -</p> -<p> -‘I shall write to Mary to-morrow,’ continued Agneta. ‘Crauford, I can -quite understand about the gentleman who went to Spain.’ -</p> -<p> -At this her brother’s smile faded, for the words made him think of the -gentleman who might be returning from Spain. As soon as possible he -must address himself to the task before him, namely, that of persuading -Cecilia to make the wedding-day a fortnight earlier. -</p> -<p> -At the risk of wearying the reader, who has followed this history -through letters, fragments of letters, receipts of letters, and even -suppression of letters, Agneta’s somewhat ungrammatical sentiments must -be given. -</p> -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -‘M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAR</small> M<small>ARY</small>’ (she wrote), -</p> -<p class="first_para nobottom"> -‘I do not know what Mama will say. We have arrived safe and waited upon -Cousin Maitland where Miss Raeburn is staying. She is <i>not at all</i> like -what we imagined. You said we could perhaps teach her to do her hair, -but it is most <i>beautifully done</i>, and she has a lovely tortoiseshell -comb handsomer than Lady Maria’s. She is not at all shy, even with -Crauford, but she was most obliging and polite to him and to me too. -Cousin Maitland says she thinks she likes her better than any young -lady she ever saw. I don’t know what Mama will say because I am quite -sure Miss Raeburn will not be afraid of her, for she looks as if she -were not afraid of anybody or cared for anybody very much, not even -Crauford. He told me she was very fond of flowers, but I think he must -be mistaken, for he brought her some roses that were <i>ever so -expensive</i> at this time of year and she thanked him nicely but she -never looked at them after she had put them down. Cousin Maitland is a -very odd person; her chin and nose nearly meet and she wears long -earrings and said a lot of clever things I did not understand. She has -an enamel<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-272"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[272]</span></a></span> snuff-box with rather a shocking picture on it. It is very -nice being on a journey alone and ringing the bell when I want -anything, but Jane forgot to bring my best slippers which is tiresome, -as we are to dine with Cousin Maitland to-morrow. Give my love and -respects to our father and mother and also from Crauford. I send my -love to you. -</p> -<p class="closing4"> -‘Your affectionate sister, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -‘A<small>GNETA</small> F<small>ORDYCE</small>. -</p> -<p> -‘P.S.—She has the <i>loveliest</i> feet.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p class="pad_top"> -All the arguments and persuasions which Crauford could bring to bear on -his bride did not avail to shorten the time before the marriage by a -fortnight, for the dressmakers at work upon her very modest trousseau -declared themselves unable to finish it by that date, and Cecilia was -thankful for their objections. He had dressed up some bogey of family -convenience which he held up before her, but, by aid of its -ministrations, he was only able to knock off three days from the -interval and fix the occasion for the seventh instead of the tenth of -April. He wrote to Barclay, apprising him of the change. -</p> -<p> -When the time arrived by which some result of Somerville’s letter might -reasonably be expected, the lawyer was constant in his inquiries at the -mail office. As no sign came, he determined to drive out to Whanland -and question Macquean, for he thought that if Gilbert contemplated a -sudden return, the man in charge of the house would scarcely be -ignorant of it. -</p> -<p> -It was on the second day preceding Speid’s intended arrival that he set -out for this purpose, and, at the outskirts of the town, observed the -person he wished to see approaching with the vacillating but -self-satisfied gait peculiar to him. Rather to his surprise, Macquean -made a sign to the coachman to stop. -</p> -<p> -‘Have ye heard the news?’ he asked abruptly, his large mouth widening. -</p> -<p> -‘What news?’ cried the lawyer, leaning far out of his chaise. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-273">[273]</a></span> -‘The Laird’s to be hame, no the morn’s morn, but the morn ahint it.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Has he written?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Granny got a letter a day syne. She bad’ me no tell, but a’ didna mind -the auld witch. A’ kent fine the Laird wad need to tell ye.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Quite right!’ exclaimed Barclay, with fervour. ‘That old she-devil is -beyond endurance.’ -</p> -<p> -A descriptive epithet that cannot be written down broke from Macquean. -</p> -<p> -‘What time do you expect Mr. Speid, late or early?’ -</p> -<p> -‘He’ll no be at Blackport or aicht o’clock Friday first, an’ gin the -coach is late, it’ll be nine. A’m thinking he’ll likely bide a’ night -i’ the toon an’ come awa’ hame i’ the morn. A’m awa’ now to see and get -proveesions.’ -</p> -<p> -The lawyer had other business on hand, so, after a few more words with -Macquean, he drove on; the servant continued his way into Kaims. -</p> -<p> -This was ill news. Barclay had played Crauford’s game for so long that -it had almost become his own, and he felt like a child who sees signs -of imminent collapse in the sand-castle which has stood almost to the -turn of the tide. Only three more days and baffled, probably, by an old -woman’s pestilent interference! If Speid had left Spain in such a hurry -it was not likely that he meant to have all his trouble for nothing, -and, if no delay should occur on his road, he would arrive just fifteen -hours too early. It was a close business. -</p> -<p> -For all his oiled and curled appearance, his fat hands and his -servility, there was something of the man of action about Barclay. -Also, he was endlessly vindictive. The idea of Gilbert, triumphing at -the eleventh hour, was as bitter as gall, and he resolved, while he sat -looking like a hairdresser’s image in the chaise, that no strong -measure he could invent should be lacking to frustrate him. As far as -Crauford was concerned he had a free hand and he would use it freely. -Suggestions boiled in his brain. To<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-274">[274]</a></span> delay Speid in Blackport on the -night he arrived would be advantageous, and, if he could only delay him -till the following noon, all would be well. -</p> -<p> -He ran mentally over every possibility. Suppose, as Macquean had said, -the coach should not be up to time and the traveller should come no -further that night, he would scarcely start for home before nine on the -next day. At ten, or thereabouts, he would reach Whanland, and, by a -few minutes past eleven, Fordyce would be married to Cecilia. -Everything fitted in so nearly that, assuming that it should arrive -late—as it usually did—the slightest delay would settle the matter. -</p> -<p> -By the time he had alighted at his own door he had made up his mind to -send a mounted messenger at once to Blackport, and, in Fordyce’s name, -to secure every post-horse to be had at the two posting-houses in the -town. The pretext should be the conveyance of wedding spectators to -Morphie; the animals should be brought to Kaims early next morning. In -the afternoon, the bridegroom was to arrive as his guest, with his best -man, and he would tell him what he had done. His approval was a -foregone conclusion. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -Should the coach come in punctually, or should Gilbert hear, in -Blackport, that the wedding was to take place at once, his plan might -yet miscarry. The chances were almost even, he told himself; there were -other horses, no doubt, which could be begged, borrowed, or stolen by a -man determined to get forward, but there would be a delay in finding -them and that delay might be the turning-point. Macquean had not -informed Barclay that Jimmy Stirk was to meet Gilbert for the simple -reason that he did not know it himself; Speid had asked Granny to say -nothing to any person of his coming, so, though obliged to tell him to -make preparations at Whanland, she had entered into no details. She had -mentioned the day and hour he was expected at Blackport and that was -all. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_29"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-275">[275]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_29_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_29_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXIX</span><br /> -<br /> -THE QUEEN OF THE CADGERS TAKES THE ROAD</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -T<small>HE</small> next day broke cold and stormy and driving rain sped past the -windows of the Stirks’ cottage. In the morning Jimmy set out, having -decided to go afoot and to return with Gilbert in whatever vehicle he -should accomplish the last stage of his way home. As the day went on -the old woman’s restlessness grew, and, by afternoon, her inaction, -while so much was pending, grew intolerable to her. She opened the back -door and looked out seawards to where a patch of ragged light broke the -flying clouds. This deceitful suggestion of mending weather decided her -on the action for which she was hankering. To Kaims she would go. -Captain Somerville might, even now, have received some word from -Cecilia, and in any case, the sight of his face would soothe her -agitated mind. Her heart was so deep in what was going on that she was -at the mercy of her own nerves so long as she was unable to act; and -to-day, there was not even her grandson to distract her mind. The man’s -more enviable part was his. -</p> -<p> -It was seldom, now, that she drove herself, and it was years since she -had harnessed a horse. She wrapped her body in her thick, gray plaid, -pinning it tightly round head and shoulders, and went out to the shed -where Rob Roy was dozing peacefully in the straw, in false expectation -of a holiday. Almost before he had time to realize what she wanted, she -got him on his legs, pushed the collar over his astonished face, and -led him out across the windy yard, to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-276">[276]</a></span> where the cart stood in a -sheltered corner. In a few minutes she was turning his head towards -Kaims. -</p> -<p> -The rain held off as she splashed down the road, and, at the bridge, -the North Lour ran hard and heavy under her; the beeches round Whanland -House were swaying their upper branches when she passed, as seaweeds -sway in a pool at the in-running tide. She drove straight to the Black -Horse in the High Street, for, behind the inn-yard, was a tumbledown -shanty, where carriers, cadgers, and such of the lower classes as went -on wheels, might stable their carts when they came to the town. The -grander accommodation, which had the honour of harbouring the chaises -and phaetons of the gentry, was on the inner side of the wall. When she -had left Rob Roy she walked to the Inspector’s house and was admitted. -She was ushered straight into the Captain’s presence; he sat in his -study, dressed for the road, for he had duty near Garviekirk. The -expression he wore was one unusual to him. -</p> -<p> -‘I have made a discovery, Mrs. Stirk,’ he said, abruptly. ‘The letter I -wrote to Miss Raeburn never reached her. She has not received it.’ -</p> -<p> -Her eyes seemed to pierce him through; he turned his face away. -</p> -<p> -‘I am a good deal distressed,’ he continued—‘I did not suppose -that—those one associated with—did such things.’ -</p> -<p> -‘It’s Barclay!’ exclaimed Granny. -</p> -<p> -‘We cannot be quite certain,’ he went on, ‘so the less we say about it -the better. He was asked to carry it to Fullarton and I have reason to -know that it never reached Miss Raeburn. I have spoken quite freely to -you; as you have identified yourself with this affair, I felt I should -not keep anything back from you. I am sick at heart, Mrs. Stirk—sick at -heart.’ -</p> -<p> -His expression was blurred by a dull suffering. -</p> -<p> -‘Fegs! ye needna fash about the likes o’ him, sir! I warrant ye it’s no -the first clortie<a id="ftntanc29-1" href="#ftnttxt29-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> job he’s done!’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-277">[277]</a></span> -‘It is painful,’ said he. -</p> -<p> -There was more than the Queen of the Cadgers could fathom in the honest -man’s trouble; more lying on his heart, as he drove away down the -street, than she, looking after him, could guess. The sordid knowledge -of his wife’s nature had been with him for years, shut behind bars -through which he would not glance, like some ignoble Caliban. That -morning he had been forced to look the hateful thing in the face. -</p> -<p> -A letter had come to Mrs. Somerville from Cecilia, directing her to the -private entrance at Morphie Kirk. ‘I hope Captain Somerville is well,’ -was its conclusion; ‘with the exception of a note of congratulation -from Mr. Barclay I have heard nothing of anyone at Kaims since I left -Fullarton.’ -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Somerville had read it aloud, stopping suddenly in the middle of -the last sentence, remembering Barclay’s semi-jocular suggestion of -delaying the letter, and turned scarlet. She was apt, in difficulties, -to lose her head. -</p> -<p> -‘I’m sure it is no fault of Mr. Barclay’s!’ she exclaimed. ‘I told him -how urgent it was.’ -</p> -<p> -‘<i>What?</i>’ exclaimed the Inspector, turning in his chair. -</p> -<p> -Then, seeing how she had incriminated herself, she had plunged into -explanations. The door had been ajar—she had been unable to help -hearing what Mrs. Stirk had said on the day when he had written to Miss -Raeburn—the words had <i>forced</i> themselves on her. It was not her fault. -She had never moved from where he had left her sitting at the -breakfast-table. -</p> -<p> -Somerville looked squarely at his wife. The door had not been ajar, for -he had fastened it carefully, as he always did before hearing private -business. He remembered doing so, perfectly. -</p> -<p> -‘It was not ajar,’ he said, in a voice she had rarely heard; ‘it was -shut. And it is impossible to hear between the two rooms.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I always did hate that old woman!’ cried Mrs. Somerville,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-278">[278]</a></span> her face in -a flame, ‘and why you ever let her into the house I never did know! I’m -sure if Lucilla were here she would take my part. And now to be accused -of——’ -</p> -<p> -‘What have I accused you of?’ asked her husband. ‘I have not accused -you yet. But I will. I accuse you of telling that hound, Barclay, what -you heard, and, if I sit here till to-morrow, I will have every word -you have betrayed.’ -</p> -<p> -Piece by piece he dragged from her her treachery; evasions, tears, -lies, he waded through them all. Furious and frightened, what -confidences of Barclay’s she had, she divulged also. At the end he had -risen painfully and left the room. -</p> -<p> -The sailor was a hot-headed, hot-hearted man. He had no proof against -the lawyer and he knew it; but he believed him capable of anything and -was prepared to maintain his belief. -</p> -<p> -‘You may tell Barclay,’ he said, as he paused at the door, ‘that I have -no proof against him but my own conviction. If he can prove me wrong I -will apologize humbly—publicly, if he pleases. But, until that day, if -he ventures to enter my house while I can stand, I will turn him out of -it with my cane.’ -</p> -<p> -When Granny Stirk had done a few matters of business in Kaims, she went -down the side-street to the back premises of the Black Horse. Before -her, a figure battled with the wind that rushed down the tunnel of -houses, and, as he turned into the yard gate, she saw that this person -was none other than Barclay. He went in without observing her, and -called to a man who was idling among the few vehicles which stood empty -about the place. She continued her way round the outside wall to the -spot where she had left Rob Roy, and untied the rope by which he was -tethered. Above, a large hole in the stonework let out a strong stable -smell from the row of dark stalls built against its inner face. The -occasional movement of horses mixed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-279">[279]</a></span> with the voices of two people who -were walking along the line of animals together. -</p> -<p> -‘Yon’s them,’ said one of the unseen individuals, as a scraping of -boots on the flags suggested that the pair had come to a standstill -under the aperture. -</p> -<p> -‘Now, how many are there exactly?’ inquired the voice of Barclay. -</p> -<p> -‘That’ll be sax frae the Crown an’ four frae the Boniton Arms—they’ve -just got the four in now. Them’s the twa grays at the end; an’ other -twa’s up yonder, the brown, an’ yon brute wi’ the rat-tail.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Are you quite certain that these are all that can be had? Mind you, I -want every single beast secured that is for hire in Blackport.’ -</p> -<p> -His companion made a small, semi-contemptuous sound. -</p> -<p> -‘That michtna be sae easy,’ he replied. ‘Whiles there may be a naig I -dinna ken i’ the toun—what are ye wantin’ wi’ sic a lot, sir?’ -</p> -<p> -His tone implied more of the practical than the inquisitive, but the -lawyer cut him short. -</p> -<p> -‘That’s my affair,’ he replied. ‘My order is plain enough, surely. I -want every horse that is for hire in the town secured and brought -here—<i>every horse</i>, mind you. And by eight o’clock to-night they must -be out of Blackport—here, that is.’ -</p> -<p> -The trace which Granny was hooking slipped through her fingers, and she -stood, open-mouthed, while the footsteps of the speakers died away. It -did not take her a moment to draw the right inference; if the lawyer -had mentioned Fordyce’s name she might not have understood so easily -what was going forward; but he had spoken as though the order had -emanated from himself, and Granny, on the other side of the wall, had a -burning lamp of wrath in her soul which illuminated his deed. -</p> -<p> -It was almost half-past five, and, in less than three hours, Gilbert -would arrive at Blackport to find that there was no available means of -getting further. She knew him well<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-280">[280]</a></span> enough to be sure he would start on -foot, if need be, so soon as he should learn from Jimmy of what was to -happen on the morrow; but, meanwhile, here was Rob Roy, at the end of -the reins she held, and what belonged to the Stirk family belonged also -to the Laird of Whanland so long as she had breath to say so. She got -into her place and drove carefully out of the narrow gate into the -street. It was scarcely time for the light to fail, but the sky was -dark with rain-cloud and the weather rolling in from a wild sea that -was booming up the coast. She cared for none of these things; inland, -eight miles off, lay Blackport, and, in less than an hour, she would be -there with a horse. -</p> -<p> -Where the side-street met the High Street, an archway joined the inn -buildings to the opposite houses, and, under it, she observed Barclay -taking shelter from the sudden squall of rain which had come up in the -last few minutes. Beneath its further end, across the way, stood two -loafers, one of whom she recognised as a cadger whose cart was now -unharnessed in the yard. Though his days in the trade had begun long -after her own had ended she knew something about him; principally, that -rumour connected him with a Blackport poaching gang which had been -active in the preceding year. He looked at her as she approached and -sent an obscene word to meet her, but she neither heard nor heeded, for -her attention was set on the lawyer whom she was about to pass. -</p> -<p> -‘Where are you bound for?’ called Barclay. -</p> -<p> -Her eyes flamed. -</p> -<p> -‘Ah! ye deevil!’ she cried, ‘a’ heard ye! Look! Here’s a horse that’ll -be in Blackport the nicht!’ -</p> -<p> -Before she was through the arch Barclay realized that she must have -been near him in the yard. By what chance she had understood his -business there he knew not—had not time to guess. He turned livid. -</p> -<p> -‘Stop her!’ he shouted to the two men as he made a futile dash after -the cart. -</p> -<p> -The cadger on the opposite pavement sprang forward. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-281">[281]</a></span> -‘Go on!’ roared the lawyer, ‘go on, man! Stop her! Stop her!’ -</p> -<p> -Granny struck Rob Roy sharply and he plunged into his collar. The -cadger sprang at his head, but the horse swerved, and his hand fell on -the rein just behind the rings of the pad. There was a curse and a -rattle; like a snake the whip-thong curled in the air and came down -across his face, with a hissing cut that Barclay could hear where he -stood, and, as the man fell back, his hands to his eyes, the gallant -old woman swung out into the middle of the street. -</p> -<p> -‘Go on! Go after her! Five pounds if you can stop her! Ten!’ yelled -Barclay. -</p> -<p> -‘Awa’ ye go and get yer cairt!’ cried the friend who had been standing -with the cadger. -</p> -<p> -At the mention of money the man took his hands from his face; a red -wale lay across it and the water poured from his eyes. -</p> -<p> -‘He’s got a cairt yonder i’ the yaird!’ cried the friend again. -</p> -<p> -‘Quick then!’ shouted Barclay, seizing him. ‘If you stop that hell-cat -getting to Blackport to-night you shall get ten pounds and I’ll see you -come to no harm. Run!’ -</p> -<p> -At this moment Granny, going at a smart trot, turned to look back, for -she was not yet out of sight; she saw the cadger pushed towards the inn -by Barclay, she saw him run back under the arch, and she understood. -She sat down in her place, her heel against the footboard, and let the -lash float out on Rob Roy’s shoulder. She knew the value of a good -start. -</p> -<p> -Showers of mud flew behind her as the little horse’s hoofs smote the -earth in the fast, steady trot to which she kept him. The east wind -almost hurled her out of her seat as she passed the fringe of the town, -for she was going north, and it came in from the sea, not half a mile -off, with a violence that blew Rob Roy’s mane stiffly out from his -neck. At the further side of Kaims flowed the South Lour, making a -large tidal lake west of it; along the north side<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-282">[282]</a></span> of this estuary the -Blackport road ran, straight, but for certain indecisive bends; -practically level for eight miles. As she turned along it and found the -blast at her back she increased her pace. Not far in front the way -dipped, and a sluggish stream which drained the fields on her right -hand ran under a low, stone bridge into the marsh which edged the -‘Basin of Kaims,’ as the semi-salt lake was called. The wind had -whipped the water into small waves, for it was high tide and the swirl -almost invaded her path; a couple of gulls, tilted sideways on -outspread wings, were driven over her head. The sound of the crawling -water was drowned in the gale which was growing steadily. She pressed -on, the horse well in hand, till she reached the summit of the rise -half a mile ahead and pulled up for a moment in the shelter of a broken -wall. Turning, she strained her eyes into the dusk, and, remote from -the undercurrent of the water’s voice, on the following wind there came -to her the distant beat of hoofs. -</p> -<p> -She was old, her body’s strength was on the wane, but the fire of her -spirit was untouched, as it would be until Death’s hand, which alone -could destroy it, should find her out. Though she knew herself face to -face with a task which needed more than the force she could bring to -it, though her body was cold in the rain and the hands which steered -her were aching, her heart leaped in her as she pulled Rob Roy together -and cried to him in the wind. The Queen of the Cadgers was on the road -again. -</p> -<p> -O faithful hands that have wrought here; that have held sword, or -plough or helm! O fighters, with souls rising to the heavy odds, nerves -steadying to the shock whose force you dare, unrecking of its weight! -What will you do in the Eternity when there will be no cause to fight -for, no Goliath of Gath, twice your size, to sally forth against with -sling and stone? In that Paradise that we are promised, where will be -your place? We cannot tell. But, if there be a just God who made your -high hearts, He will answer the question whose solution is not for us. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-283">[283]</a></span> -The next three miles were almost level and she drove on steadily; she -had seen her pursuer’s nag in the Black Horse yard, a hairy-heeled bay -with a white nose who looked as if he had already travelled some -distance. Rob Roy had been little out of late and the cart was empty; -indeed, it was light enough to be a precarious seat for a woman of her -age. By the time she had done half her journey it had become dark -enough to make caution necessary, for few country travellers carried -lights in those days, and she was on the highroad which took an -eastward sweep to the coast between Perth and Aberdeen. She stopped -once more to listen and give Rob Roy his wind; for the last half mile -they had come up a gradual ascent whose length made up for its gentle -slope. He did not seem distressed and the gale had helped him, for it -was almost strong enough behind him to blow the cart forward without -his efforts. -</p> -<p> -On again, this time a little faster; the solid blackness of the fields -slid by and she passed a clump of trees, creaking and swaying over a -patch of light which she knew to be a mill-pond. Three miles more, and -she might climb down from her place to rest her stiffened limbs, before -the Laird should be due and she should go to the door of the Crown to -wait for his coming. She almost wondered whether it were her -imagination which had seen the cadger run back at Barclay’s -instigation, whether she had dreamed of the horse’s feet pursuing her -near the Basin of Kaims. She let Rob Roy walk. -</p> -<p> -Her hair was blowing over her face and she pushed back her soaking -plaid to twist it behind her ears. In a momentary lull, a clatter of -hoofs broke upon her and voices answered each other, shouting. Either -her enemy was behind with some companion of his own kidney, or there -were others abroad to-night with whom time was precious; she could hear -the wheels grind on a newly-mended piece of road she had crossed. A -cottage, passed in blind darkness, suddenly showed a lamp across the -way, and, as the driver behind her crossed the glaring stream which it -laid<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-284">[284]</a></span> over his path, she saw the hairy-heeled bay’s white nose swing -into the strong light to be swallowed again by the dark. She took up -her whip. -</p> -<p> -Hitherto, she had saved her horse, but, now that there were only three -miles to be covered, she would not spare for pace. How the white-nosed -beast had crept so close she could not imagine, until it occurred to -her that the evil short-cut taken by herself on a memorable occasion, -years ago, must have served his driver too. She laid the whip -remorselessly on Rob Roy. -</p> -<p> -Fortunately for her aching bones, the road improved with its proximity -to the town, or she could scarce have kept her seat. As it was, she -could not see the stones and irregularities in her way and it might -well be that some sudden jerk would hurl her headlong into the gaping -dark. But she dared not slacken speed; she must elude her pursuer -before reaching the first outlying houses, for, were her haven in -Blackport discovered, she knew not what foul play he might set afoot. -She resolved that she would not leave Rob Roy until he was in Gilbert’s -hands, could she but get the cart into the tumbledown premises of the -friend whom she trusted, and for whose little backyard behind River -Street she determined to make. Blackport was a low place, and her -friend, who kept a small provision-shop, was a widow living alone. -Suppose she should be discovered! Suppose, after all, she should fail! -What Barclay had said to the cadger whose wheels she could now hear -racing behind she did not know, but his action in securing the -post-horses and in sending such a character after her showed that he -was prepared to go to most lengths to frustrate Speid. She had known of -men who lamed horses when it suited them; the thought of what might -happen made her set her teeth. She remembered that there was a long -knife inside the cart, used by her grandson for cleaning and cutting up -fish; if she could reach her destination it should not leave her hand; -and, while Rob Roy had a rest and a mouthful in the hour or<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-285">[285]</a></span> two she -might have to wait for Gilbert, her friend should run to the Crown and -tell Jimmy where she was to be found. With a pang she renounced the joy -of meeting the Laird; her place would be behind the locked door with -her horse. -</p> -<p> -Past hedge and field they went, by gates and stone-heaps. Her head was -whirling and she was growing exhausted. She could no more hear the -wheels behind for the roaring of the wind and the rattle of her own -cart. She had never driven behind Rob Roy on any errand but a slow one -and it was long years since she had been supreme on the road; but old -practice told her that it would take a better than the hairy-heeled bay -to have lived with them for the last two miles. A crooked tree that -stood over the first milestone out of Blackport was far behind them and -the gable end of the turnpike cottage cut the sky not twenty yards -ahead. -</p> -<p> -She had forgotten the toll, and, for one moment, her stout heart -failed. But for one moment only; for the gate stood open. She could -faintly distinguish the white bars thrust back. A lantern was moving -slowly towards them; probably some vehicle had just gone by, and the -toll-keeper was about to close them. With a frantic effort, she leaned -forward and brought the whip down with all her strength on Rob Roy’s -straining back. Their rush carried them between the posts, just before -the lantern-bearer, from whom the wind’s noise had concealed their -approach, had time to slam the gate, shouting, behind them. -</p> -<p> -In a couple of minutes her pursuer drove up, to find the swearing -toll-keeper threatening him and all his kind from behind the closed -bars. In half an hour Rob Roy stood in a rough shed, while the owner of -it was hurrying through the wet streets to the Crown with a message to -Jimmy. Inside its locked door, leaning her aching back against the -wall, sat the Queen of the Cadgers, fierce, worn, vigilant; with a long -knife across her knee. -</p> -<p> -And Gilbert, his eyes on the wind-tormented sky, lay fuming in the -shelter of the disabled coach in the heart of Monrummon Moor. -</p> - -<hr class="fnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a id="ftnttxt29-1" href="#ftntanc29-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>Dirty. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_30"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-286">[286]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_30_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_30_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXX</span><br /> -<br /> -MORPHIE KIRK</a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -W<small>HEN</small> the morning of the seventh of April broke over Speid and his -companions, they lashed the damaged pole together with a coil of rope -and harnessed the wheelers. Progress was possible, though at a very -slow pace, and they started again, the guard and outside passengers -walking; from the coach’s interior, which cradled the slumbers of the -Glasgow merchant, there came no sound. -</p> -<p> -It was past eight when they crossed the South Lour where the river -curls round Blackport before plunging into the Basin of Kaims on its -seaward course; it was almost nine when Gilbert saw Jimmy Stirk’s -anxious face at the door of the Crown. -</p> -<p> -‘Eh, Laird! but a’m feared ye’re ower late!’ was the boy’s exclamation, -as they clasped hands. -</p> -<p> -‘Come! Come in here,’ said Gilbert, dragging him into a room near the -doorway. -</p> -<p> -There, in a voice lowered by reason of the slattern who was on her -knees with soap and pail, Jimmy gave him the history of the last three -days, from his grandmother’s receipt of his letter to her hurried -message of last night. -</p> -<p> -‘She’s waitin’ ye now in River Street,’ he concluded. -</p> -<p> -Without further ado they went out of the house together. -</p> -<p> -What would be the upshot of the next two hours Speid did not know and -did not dare to think. Cecilia’s freedom would pass with their passing. -Captain Somerville had said in his letter that he was writing to tell -her he had summoned<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-287">[287]</a></span> him, and his heart stood still as he reflected -that, in the face of this, she had hastened her marriage by three days. -He was puzzled, dismayed, for he could not guess the full depth of -Barclay’s guilt, and the boy beside him knew no more from his -grandmother’s message than that the lawyer had cleared Blackport of all -available horses. To appear before a woman who had forgotten him on her -wedding morning, only to see her give her willing hand to another -man—was that what he had come across Europe to do? His proud heart -sickened. -</p> -<p> -Seeing that the night had passed unmolested, Granny Stirk had fallen at -daylight into an exhausted sleep; it needed Jimmy’s thunder upon the -door to awake her to the fact that Gilbert stood without. She turned -the key quickly. -</p> -<p> -‘Whanland! Whanland!’ was all that she could say as he entered. -</p> -<p> -Her face was haggard with watching and exertion. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, Granny!’ he cried. ‘You have almost killed yourself for me!’ -</p> -<p> -‘Aye, but a’m no deid yet!’ exclaimed the old woman. ‘Eh, Laird! but -it’s fine to see ye. A’m sweer to let ye gang, but ye canna loss a -minute.’ -</p> -<p> -Jimmy was harnessing Rob Roy. -</p> -<p> -‘But, Granny, what does this mean? She has hurried her wedding, though -Captain Somerville told her I would come. What can I do, knowing that?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Do? Ye’ll just hae to rin. Laird, she doesna ken onything. Yon tod—yon -damned, leein’ Barclay—he got a haud o’ the letter. The Captain tell’t -me that himsel’. Ye’ll need to drive.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Good God!’ cried Speid. -</p> -<p> -The sight of her worn face and the knowledge of what she had done for -him smote Gilbert hard. Though time pressed he would not consent to -start till he had taken her to the Crown and left her in the landlady’s -care, with an order for fire, food and dry clothing. Then he tore out -of the door<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-288">[288]</a></span> and down the street to the spot where Jimmy awaited him -with the cart. The boy’s brown, hard face cheered him, for it seemed -the very incarnation of the country he loved. -</p> -<p> -The world which lay round them as they drove out of Blackport was a new -one, fresh, chastened by the scourging of the storm. The sky was high, -blue and pale, and there was a scent of spring; underfoot, the wet -ground glistened and the young finger of morning light touched trees -and buildings as they rose from an under-world of mist. -</p> -<p> -When we look on the dying glory of evening, and again, on the spectacle -of coming day, do we not regard these sights, so alike in colour and in -mystery, with an indefinable difference of feeling? The reason is that -sunset reminds us of Time and sunrise of Eternity. -</p> -<p> -Though sunrise was long past, the remembrance of it was still abroad, -and a sense of conflict ended breathed over the ground strewn with -broken boughs, wreckage of the night. Gilbert, as he sat by his -companion and felt his heart outrunning their progress, could find no -share in this suggestion. All cried to him of peace when there was no -peace; effort was before him, possibly failure. -</p> -<p> -He knew that, though Cecilia was to be married from Fullarton, the -actual wedding would take place at Morphie, according to her own -desire. Somerville had told him so. It was now half-past nine and Jimmy -was pressing Rob Roy to his utmost, for Fullarton was the further of -the two places, some seven miles north of Kaims, and the horse would -have to put his best work into the collar were Speid to arrive in time -to see the bride before she started for the kirk. -</p> -<p> -The high hope and determination in which Gilbert had left Spain had -changed to a foreboding that, after all, he might find fate too strong; -but, though this fear lay, like a shadow, over him, he would not turn -from his wild errand. Till the ring was on Cecilia’s finger and she had -agreed in the face of minister and congregation to take Crauford -Fordyce as her husband, he meant to persevere. He smiled<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-289">[289]</a></span> gloomily at -himself, sitting travel-stained and muddy, on the front of a springless -cart, with what was more to him than his life depending on the speed of -a cadger’s horse. -</p> -<p> -Among the crowd of relations, acquaintances, and companions alongside -of which a man begins life, Time and Trouble, like a pair of -witch-doctors, are busy with their rites and dances and magic sticks -selecting his friends; and often the identity of the little handful -they drag from the throng is a surprise. For Gilbert they had secured a -wooden-legged naval captain, a sullen young cadger, and a retired -fishwife with gold earrings. As he watched the ground fly past the -wheels, he recognised that the dreadful functionaries had gone far to -justify their existence by the choice they had made. -</p> -<p> -There were dark marks under pad and breeching, for the sun was growing -strong, and, though Jimmy held his horse together and used such -persuasive address as he had never been known to waste upon a human -being, he was now beginning to have recourse to the whip. Speid -realized that their pace was gradually flagging. By the time they had -done half the journey and could see, from a swelling rise, down over -the Morphie woods, it was borne in on him that Rob Roy’s step was -growing short. He made brave efforts to answer to the lash, but they -did not last, and the sweat had begun to run round his drooping ears. -The two friends looked at each other. -</p> -<p> -‘Ma’ grannie had a sair drive last nicht,’ said Jimmy. -</p> -<p> -‘Pull up for a moment and face him to the wind,’ cried Speid, jumping -down. -</p> -<p> -With handfuls of rush torn from a ditch they rubbed him down, neck, -loins, and legs, and turned his head to what breeze was moving. His -eyes stared, and, though he was close to the green fringe of grass -which bordered the roadside, he made no attempt to pick at it. -</p> -<p> -The hands of Gilbert’s watch had put ten o’clock behind them as he -looked over the far stretch to Morphie and Fullarton. Jimmy, whose -light eyes rested in dogged concern<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-290">[290]</a></span> on the horse’s heaving sides, put -his shoulder under the shaft to ease off the weight of the cart. Away -beyond, on the further edge of the wood, was the kirk; even now, the -doors were probably being opened and the seats dusted for the coming -marriage. -</p> -<p> -Speid stood summing up his chances, his eyes on the spreading -landscape; he was attempting an impossibility in trying to reach -Fullarton. -</p> -<p> -‘There is no use in pushing on to Fullarton,’ he said, laying his hand -on Rob Roy’s mane, ‘we shall only break his heart, poor little brute. I -am going to leave you here and get across country to the kirk on my own -feet. Here is some money—go to the nearest farm and rest him; feed him -when he’ll eat, and come on to Whanland when you can. Whatever may -happen this morning, I shall be there in the afternoon.’ -</p> -<p> -The boy nodded, measuring the miles silently that lay between them and -the distant kirk. It would be a race, he considered, but it would take -a deal to beat the Laird of Whanland. -</p> -<p> -‘Brides is aye late,’ he remarked briefly. -</p> -<p> -‘Who told you that?’ asked Gilbert, as he pulled off his overcoat and -threw it into the cart. -</p> -<p> -‘Ma’ Grannie.’ -</p> -<p> -Speid vaulted over the low wall beside them and began to descend the -slope. Half-way down it he heard Jimmy’s voice crying luck to him and -saw his cap lifted in the air. -</p> -<p> -The rain of the previous day and night had made the ground heavy, and -he soon found that the remaining time would just serve him and no more. -He ran on at a steady pace, taking a straight line to the edge of the -woods; most of the fields were divided by stone dykes and those -obstacles gave him no trouble. Sometimes he slipped in wet places; once -or twice he was hailed by a labourer who stopped in his work to watch -the gentleman original enough to race over the open landscape for no -apparent reason. But he took no heed, plodding on. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-291">[291]</a></span> -When he came to where the corner of the woods protruded, a dark -triangle, into the pasture land, he struck across it. The rain had made -the pines aromatic, and the strong, clean smell refreshed him as he -went over the elastic bed of pine-needles strewn underfoot. The -undignified white bobtails of rabbits disappeared, right and left, -among the stems at his approach, and once, a roe-deer fled in leaps -into the labyrinth of trunks. -</p> -<p> -Before emerging again into the open he paused to rest and look at his -watch; walking and running, he had come well and more quickly than he -had supposed; he thanked heaven for the sound body which he had never -allowed idleness to make inactive. It wanted twenty-five minutes of -eleven, and he had covered a couple of miles in the quarter of an hour -since he had left Jimmy. He judged himself a little under two more from -Morphie kirk. The boy’s unexpected knowledge of the habits of brides -had amused him, even in his hurry, and he devoutly hoped it might prove -true. -</p> -<p> -Standing under the firs and pines, he realized the demand he was about -to make of this particular bride. He wondered if there were a woman in -the world bold enough to do what he was going to ask Cecilia to do for -him. He was going to stand up before her friends, before the bridegroom -and his relations, the guests and the onlookers, and ask her to leave -the man to whom she had promised herself for a lover she had not seen -for nearly two years; one who had not so much as an honest name to give -her. Would she do it? He reflected, with a sigh, that Jimmy’s knowledge -would scarce tell him that. But, at the same time, loving her as he -loved her, and knowing her as he knew her, he hoped. -</p> -<p> -He was off again, leaping out over a ditch circling the skirts of the -wood; he meant to follow the outline of the trees till he should come -to a track which he knew would lead him down to where the kirk stood -under a sloping bank. Many a time he had looked, from the further side -of the Lour, at the homely building with its stone belfry. It had no<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-292">[292]</a></span> -beauty but that of plainness and would not have attracted anyone whose -motives in regarding it were quite simple. But, for him, it had been -enchanted, as common places are enchanted but a few times in our lives; -and now, he was to face the turning-point of his existence in its -shadow. -</p> -<p> -This run across country was the last stage of a journey begun in Spain -nearly a month since. It had come down to such a fine measurement of -time as would have made him wonder, had he been capable of any -sensation but the breathless desire to get forward. His hair was damp -upon his forehead and his clothes splashed with mud as he struck into -the foot-track leading from the higher ground to the kirk. The way went -through a thicket of brier and whin, and, from its further side, came -the voices and the rough East-coast accent of men and women; he -supposed that a certain crowd had gathered to see the bride arrive and -he knew that he was in time. -</p> -<p> -It was less than ten minutes to eleven when the assembled spectators -saw a tall man emerge from the scrub and take up his position by the -kirk door. Many recognised him and wondered, but no Whanland people -were present, and no one accosted him. He leaned a few minutes against -the wall; then, when he had recovered breath, he walked round the -building and looked in at a window. Inside, the few guests were seated, -among them Barclay, his frilled shirt making a violent spot of white in -the gloom of the kirk. Not far from him, his back to the light, was -Crauford Fordyce, stiff and immaculate in his satin stock and claret -colour; unconscious of the man who stood, not ten yards from him, at -the other side of the wall. It was evident from their bearing that, by -this hour, the minds of the allies were at rest. Gilbert returned to -the door and stood quietly by the threshold; there was an irony in the -situation which appealed to him. -</p> -<p> -While he had raced across the country, Cecilia, in her room at -Fullarton, was putting on her wedding-gown. Agneta, who looked upon her -future sister-in-law as a kind<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-293">[293]</a></span> of illustrated hand-book to life, had -come to help her to fasten her veil. One of the housemaids, a -scarlet-headed wench who loved Cecilia dearly and whose face was -swollen with tears shed for her departure, stood by with a tray full of -pins. -</p> -<p> -‘You had better not wait, really, Jessie,’ said the bride in front of -the glass, ‘I am so afraid the rest of the servants will start without -you. Miss Fordyce will help me, I am sure. Give me my wreath and go -quickly.’ -</p> -<p> -The servant took up her hand and kissed it loudly; then set the wreath -askew on her hair and went out, a blubbering whirl of emotion. -</p> -<p> -‘She has been a kind, good girl to me,’ said Cecilia. -</p> -<p> -‘Your hand is all wet!’ exclaimed Agneta, to whom such a scene was -astonishing. -</p> -<p> -Mary and Agneta inhabited a room together and many midnight -conversations had flowed from their bed-curtains in the last few -nights. Agneta had gone completely over to the enemy, but her sister, -who, though gentler in character, was less able to free herself from -the traditions in which she had been brought up, hung back, terrified, -from an opinion formed alone. Outwardly, she was abrupt, and Cecilia -and she had made small progress in their acquaintance. -</p> -<p> -Robert Fullarton and his brother-in-law were ready and waiting -downstairs and two carriages stood outside on the gravel sweep. Sir -Thomas and his daughters were to go in one of these, and Robert, who -was to give Cecilia away, would accompany her in the other. -</p> -<p> -Agneta and Mary had started when Cecilia stood alone in front of her -image in the glass; she held up her veil and looked into the reflected -face. It was the last time she would see Cecilia Raeburn, and, with a -kind of curiosity, she regarded the outer shell of the woman, who, it -seemed to her, had no identity left. The Cecilia who had grown up at -Morphie was dead; as dead as that companion with whom she had shared -the old house. Between the parted<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-294">[294]</a></span> friends there was this momentous -difference: while one was at rest, the other had still to carry that -picture in the mirror as bravely as she could through the world, till -the long day’s work should roll by and the two should meet. She thought -of that dark morning at Morphie and of her aunt’s dying face against -Fullarton’s shoulder, and told herself that, were the moment to return, -she would not do differently. She was glad to remember that, had -Gilbert Speid come back, he would have cast no shadow between them; the -knowledge seemed to consecrate the gleam of happiness she had known -with him so briefly. But it was hard that, when the path by which they -might have reached each other had been smoothed at so terrible a cost, -the way had been empty. She was thinking of the time when two pairs of -eyes had met in a looking-glass and she had plastered his cut cheek in -the candlelight. After to-day, she must put such remembrances from her. -She dropped her veil and turned away, for Fullarton’s voice was calling -to her to come down. -</p> -<p> -While she sat beside him in the carriage, looking out, her hands were -pressed together in her lap. The rain-washed world was so beautiful, -and, between the woods touched with spring, the North Lour ran full. -The lights lying on field and hill seemed to smile. As they passed -Morphie House she kept her face turned from it; she could not trifle -with her strength. She was thankful that they would not be near the -coast where she could hear the sea-sound. -</p> -<p> -As the carriage turned from the highroad into a smaller one leading up -to the kirk, Captain Somerville’s hooded phaeton approached from Kaims -and dropped behind, following. The sailor, who sat in the front seat by -the driver, was alone, and Cecilia’s eyes met his as they drew near. -She leaned forward, smiling; it did her good to see him. Mrs. -Somerville had declined to appear; she was not well enough to go out, -she said, and it seemed, to look at her face, as though this reason -were a good one. She had scarcely slept and her eyes were red with -angry weeping.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-295">[295]</a></span> Since the preceding morning, when the Inspector had -discovered what part she had played, the two had not spoken and she -felt herself unable to face Barclay in his presence. After the wedding -the men must inevitably meet; she could not imagine what her husband -might do or say, or what would happen when the lawyer should discover -that she had betrayed him. She retired to the sanctuary of her bedroom -and sent a message downstairs at the last moment, desiring the Captain -to make her excuses to Miss Raeburn and tell her that she had too bad a -cold to be able to leave the house. -</p> -<p> -The sailor’s heart was heavy as he went and the glimpse of Cecilia -which he had caught made it no lighter. He had tried to save her and -failed. All yesterday, since his dreadful discovery, he had debated -whether or no he ought to go to Fullarton, see her, and tell her that -he had tried to bring Gilbert home; that he would, in all probability, -arrive a few hours before her marriage. He turned the question over and -over in his mind. The conclusion he came to was that, things having -gone so far, he had better hold his peace. She <i>could</i> not draw back -now, and, being forced to go on, the knowledge that her lover would -have been in time, had she not hastened her marriage, might haunt her -all her life. If Speid arrived at the hour he was expected he would -hear from Jimmy Stirk of the wedding. Should he be determined to act, -he would do so without his—Somerville’s—intervention; and, should he -see fit to accept what now seemed the inevitable, he would, no doubt, -have the sense to leave Whanland quietly. He would go there himself, on -his return from Morphie Kirk, in the hope of finding him and inducing -him to start before anyone should see him, and before Cecilia should -learn how near to her he had been. It might well be that she would -never know it, for she was to leave Fullarton, with her husband, at two -o’clock, for Perth. They were to go south immediately. -</p> -<p> -The sailor was not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-296">[296]</a></span> to -find that, apparently, Speid had made no sign. Cecilia was there to -play her part; no doubt, like many another, she would come to play it -contentedly. With all his heart he pitied Gilbert. Meanwhile, as the -carriages neared their destination, he could see the evergreen arch -which some Morphie labourers had put up over the entrance at which the -bride would alight. -</p> -<p> -The kirk could not be seen from the gate of the enclosure in which it -stood, for the path took a turn round some thick bushes. A low dyke of -unpointed stone girdled it and kept at bay the broom and whins clothing -the hillock. When his phaeton stopped, Somerville got out, and was in -time to greet the bride as Fullarton handed her out of the carriage; he -did not fail to notice the tremor of the fingers he touched. He went on -and slipped into a group of bystanders surrounding the door without -observing the figure which stood near the kirk wall, a little apart. -</p> -<p> -A movement went through the group as Fullarton appeared by the tall -bushes leading Cecilia. While they advanced a man walked forward and -stood in the way; a man with splashed clothes and high boots, brown -with the soil; the wet hair was dark upon his forehead and his eyes -looked straight before him to where the bride came, brave and pale, -under her green wreath. She saw him and stopped. Her hand slipped from -Fullarton’s arm. -</p> -<p> -Unheeding Robert’s exclamation, he sprang towards her, his eyes -burning. -</p> -<p> -‘Cecilia,’ he said, almost under his breath, ‘am I too late?’ -</p> -<p> -The slight commotion caused by this unexpected incident had brought -Barclay to the doorway; Crauford’s face could be seen behind his -shoulder. -</p> -<p> -‘Great Heavens! Here’s Speid!’ exclaimed the lawyer, seizing his -friend. -</p> -<p> -Fordyce moved irresolutely, longing to rush forward, but aware that -custom decreed he should await his bride’s entrance in the kirk; he -scarcely realized the import of what had happened outside its walls -while he stood, unconscious,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-297">[297]</a></span> between them. Barclay ran out to the -little group round which the onlookers were collecting, and he -followed, unable to sacrifice his annoyance to his sense of what was -expected. Not for a moment did he believe that decency could be -outraged by anything more than an interruption. In the background stood -Mary and Agneta, aghast under their pink-rosetted bonnets. -</p> -<p> -‘May I ask what you have come here for, sir?’ he inquired, approaching -Gilbert. -</p> -<p> -But Speid’s back was turned, for he was looking at Cecilia. -</p> -<p> -‘Come!’ cried Fullarton, sternly, ‘come, Cecilia! I cannot permit this. -Stand aside, Mr. Speid, if you please.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Cecilia, what are you going to do?’ urged Gilbert, standing before -her, as though he would bar her progress to the kirk door. ‘I have come -back for you.’ -</p> -<p> -She looked round and saw the steady eyes of Captain Somerville fixed -upon her. He had come close and was at her side, his stout figure drawn -up, his wooden leg planted firmly on the gravel; there was in his -countenance a mighty loyalty. -</p> -<p> -‘Gilbert,’ she exclaimed, with a sob in her voice, ‘thank God you have -come.’ Then she faced the bridegroom. ‘I cannot go on with this, Mr. -Fordyce,’ she said. -</p> -<p> -‘But it is too late!’ cried Robert. ‘There shall be no more of this -trifling. You are engaged to my nephew and you must fulfil your -engagement. I am here to see that you do.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I will not,’ she replied.—‘Forgive me, sir—forgive me, I beg of you! -I know that I have no right to ask you to stand by me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I shall not do so, certainly,’ exclaimed Robert, angrily. -</p> -<p> -She glanced round, desperate. Captain Somerville was holding out his -arm. -</p> -<p> -‘My phaeton is outside, Miss Raeburn,’ he said, ‘and you will do me the -favour to come home with me. Speid,’ he added, ‘am I doing right?’ -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -But Gilbert could scarcely answer. A great glory had dawned in his -face. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="epilogue"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-298">[298]</a></span></p> - -<h4 id="Chapter_epi_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_epi_toc"><span class="large spaced2">EPILOGUE</span></a> -</h4> -<p class="noindent notop"> -H<small>ERE</small>, so far as the author’s choice is concerned, this history closes. -The man and woman, forced apart by powers greater than themselves, have -come to their own again and stand at the portal of a new life, at the -door of a structure built from the wreck of bygone things. Those who -have watched them may augur for themselves what the future is like to -be for them, and shut the book, assured that the record of these two, -for whom life held so much more than they could see with their eyes and -touch with their hands, will not fall below its mark. -</p> -<p> -But, to that vast and ingenuous multitude which has taste for the -dotted ‘i’ and the crossed ‘t,’ there remains yet a word to be added. -</p> -<p> -Cecilia stayed under Captain Somerville’s roof while the disturbing -events round her quieted themselves, and while Gilbert, who received a -challenge from Fordyce, settled the score. Even she scarcely felt -anxious, as she awaited the result of their meeting, for Speid chose -the sword as a weapon and had assured her he would deal as tenderly -with Crauford as though he were a new-born babe. This he proceeded to -do, so long as it amused him, after which he scratched him deftly on -the inside of the wrist and the seconds, who could scarce restrain -their smiles, agreed that honour was satisfied. -</p> -<p> -And so the jasmine-trees were planted at Whanland, the ideal horse -bought; the necklace with the emerald drop found the resting-place -Gilbert had desired for it. Granny Stirk, accompanied by Jimmy, went to -the second wedding<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-299">[299]</a></span> which was attempted in Morphie Kirk, and which, -this time, was celebrated without interruption; she drove there in a -carriage, and the bridegroom, who was standing by the pulpit as she -arrived, left his place and conducted her on his arm to a seat near the -Miss Robertsons. -</p> -<p> -Crauford married Lady Maria Milwright, who therefore thought herself -exalted among women, and was, in reality, much too good for him. -Barclay constantly frequented his roof, making Lady Maria very happy by -his expressed admiration of her husband; he might have boasted of the -intimacy to the end of his life had he not covertly courted Agneta and -been taken in the act by Lady Fordyce. Family dignity expelled the -offender and the only person who was sorry for him was kind Lady Maria, -who rose at an unconscionable hour to preside over his breakfast before -he departed, forever, amid shame and luggage. -</p> -<p> -Agneta eloped with an English clergyman and ended her days as a -bishop’s wife, too much occupied with her position to have a thought -for that palpitating world of romance and desperation upon which she -had once cast such covetous eyes. -</p> -<p> -On the death of Captain Somerville, a few years later, the lawyer took -to himself his widow, who had contrived, by much lying and some luck, -to conceal from him her part in the betrayal of his schemes. She looked -as much out of the window and dispensed as much hospitality under her -new name and never failed to disparage Mrs. Speid of Whanland, whenever -that much-admired lady appeared either in the street or the -conversation. These were the only places in which she met her, for her -husband had long ceased to be connected, either by business or -acquaintance, with the family. -</p> -<p class="end"> -THE END -</p> -</div> - -<hr class="printer" /> - -<p class="printer"> -BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD -</p> - -<div class="chapter" id="Advertisement2"> -<h3 class="x-ebookmaker-important advert2" id="advert2"> -BY THE SAME AUTHOR -</h3> -<p class="large center"> -THE SHEEP-STEALERS -</p> -<p class="italics center smallish"> -In one Vol. <span class="lftspc_ad3">C</span>rown 8vo. <span class="lftspc_ad3">P</span>rice 6s. -</p> -<p class="italics center pad_top"> -Some Press Opinions -</p> -<p class="smallish"><b> -The Times:</b> ‘Every taster of fiction knows that the most probable of the -possibilities hidden between the covers of a first novel is -disappointment. Hence the danger of hailing the occasional exception as -the achievement of genius. And yet it is possible to be grateful for a -piece of good work without comparing its creator to the giants of the -past, or prating about the finest novel of the century. Of “The -Sheep-stealers” it will be sufficient to say that it is a good piece of -work. The book is so well planned that every incident fits naturally -into its place, and helps to form a harmonious and inevitable whole. -Miss Jacob possesses a strong power of realistic description; her pen -has a life-giving knack of rendering sounds as well as scenes, and she -is not without touches of dry humour.’ -</p> -<p class="smallish"><b> -Punch:</b> ‘<span class="lftspc">“</span>The Sheep-stealers” breaks fresh ground, and Violet Jacob -tills it with exceeding vigour and success. The work is admirably done, -adding fresh zest to the palled appetite of the wayworn novel reader.’ -</p> -<p class="smallish"><b> -The Spectator:</b> ‘The emergence of a book so fresh, so original, and so -wholesome as “The Sheep-stealers” is peculiarly welcome at a time when -we are bidden to believe that all normal and native themes are -exhausted. We have been surfeited of late with the novel of “smart” -society. As an alternative to these lavishly upholstered chronicles of -corruption in high life we can cordially recommend Miss Jacob’s -powerful and engrossing romance of Herefordshire and Brecknock in the -early “forties.” It deserves to rank along with “The House with the -Green Shutters” in the limited category of those tales of the -countryside in which there is nothing provincial, particularist, or -parochial. Like all stories that deal faithfully with rural life in a -remote and unfrequented neighbourhood, it is somewhat sombre in tone; -but it is free from the crushing pessimism of the novels of Mr. Hardy, -the writer to whom on his best and most poetic side Miss Jacob is most -closely related. The portraiture of the principal characters is quite -in keeping with the remote, unsophisticated surroundings. All are -intensely and primitively human in their passions and virtues. We have -seldom read a book in which a lowly theme was treated with a happier -mixture of romance and realism. Indeed, few novelists of recent years -have set themselves so high a standard in their initial effort as Miss -Jacob, whose work is singularly free from the faults of a novice. Her -style is excellent—lucid, natural, unaffected—her energy is under -control; she understands the art of self-effacement, of omission, of -reticence, and she is as successful in dealing with her gentle as with -her simple characters. So remarkable an achievement indicates patient -preparation, and affords an excellent guarantee that the author will -not be beguiled by her immediate success into the adoption of those -methods which degrade creation into manufacture.’ -</p> -<p class="smallish"><b> -The Scotsman:</b> Miss Jacob has infused into her story some of that rare -topographical and atmospheric charm which is to be found in such books -as Stevenson’s “Catriona” or Hardy’s “Far from the Madding Crowd.” “The -Sheep-stealers” is a delightful book, a story interesting throughout, -well conceived, admirably sustained, and in parts very finely written.’ -</p> -<p class="smallish"><b> -The St. James’s Gazette:</b> ‘Good work, careful and delicate, with touches -of passion and of humour.’ -</p> -<p class="smallish"><b> -The Daily Telegraph:</b> ‘The name of the authoress of “The Sheep-stealers” -is unfamiliar, but it will unquestionably be heard of again. If this is -Miss Violet Jacob’s first essay in fiction, she is to be congratulated -most warmly upon a very powerful piece of work. Her characters stand -out clearly and sharply, and the local colour is as vivid as it is in -“Lorna Doone” or “The Return of the Native.” Her originality of theme -and treatment is unmistakable. “The Sheep-stealers” is a very good -novel: it only just misses being a great novel.’ -</p> -<p class="smallish"><b> -The Field:</b> ‘A close, sympathetic, and thoroughly sensible study of -rural life in the early nineteenth-century days. It is an admirably -constructed story.’ -</p> -<p class="smallish"><b> -The Morning Post:</b> ‘The author knows her country and its inhabitants by -heart. Neither she nor Mr. Hardy need blush because their relationship -in letters cannot be overlooked. Both the people of the valley and the -hill people who live and love and die in the fascination of the -gigantic hill are creatures of reasonable flesh and blood—creatures as -real as any to be found in the shadow-haunted granges of Wessex.’ -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="center small nobottom"> -L<small>ONDON</small>: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, 21 B<small>EDFORD</small> S<small>TREET</small>, W.C. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter tnote" id="Transcriber_Note"> -<h3 class="tnote" id="tnote">Transcriber’s Note</h3> - -<p class="tnote"> -This transcription is based on scans of the Heinemann edition, which -are available through the National Library of Scotland: -</p> - -<p class="link"> -<a href="https://digital.nls.uk/128693605"> -digital.nls.uk/128693605</a> -</p> - -<p class="tnote"> -The following changes were made to the printed text: -</p> -<ul> -<li> -The advertisement for <i>The Sheep-Stealers</i> has been moved from the -front of the text to the end. -</li> -<li> -The footnotes have been moved from the bottom of a page to right after -the paragraph to which they refer for the plain text version of this -transcription or to the end of the chapter for the HTML-based versions. -</li> -<li> -p. 26: The expensive taste was hers table—Changed “hers table” to -“her stable”. -</li> -<li> -p. 63: continued Jimmy; ’twas i’ the airm, too.—Inserted an opening -single quotation mark before “’twas”. -</li> -<li> -p. 78: laid it deftly across his cheekbone.—Changed “cheekbone” to -“cheek-bone” for consistency. -</li> -<li> -p. 115: ‘How glad I am that I spoke to you about it—Inserted a period -and a closing single quotation mark after “about it”. -</li> -<li> -p. 133: I am sorry,’ said Lady Eliza, too much cast down—Inserted an -opening single quotation mark at the beginning of the sentence. -</li> -</ul> -<p class="tnote noindent"> -Inconsistencies of spelling and hyphenation were not changed, except -where otherwise noted. -</p> -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INTERLOPER ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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